by Peter Hedges
Carole Staley had covered her paper—a sun that blazed, her ocean blue and bright. She had painted the boldest mountains, violet and indigo with streaks of dark purple. And while she’d never seen a mountain, she’d seen National Geographic magazines and specials on public television, and, finally, she was Carole who could imagine anything.
Miss Jude looked at the painting. She turned to the class and said with a smile, “Who painted this one?”
Carole raised her hand. The class turned to look at her. Scotty looked down at his hands. He noticed traces of paint on his fingers, under his nails. He thought of how he had scrubbed and scrubbed that afternoon. Paint doesn’t come off me, he thought. It just doesn’t come off.
When Miss Jude turned back to the painting, the class followed. Carole looked at Scotty, who smiled his congratulations.
Miss Jude said, “Carole, mountains aren’t this color.”
The room became still.
“They’re never purple. Isn’t that right, class?”
“Yes, Miss Jude.”
“But should we give Carole a gold star anyway?” And before the class could answer, Miss Jude said, “I think we should.” Then she licked the star.
Scotty looked to his painting partner. He noticed rapid movement in her stomach muscles; her face turned a bright, flush red. The tears didn’t roll out or drip down—they shot out like bullets, splattering the table. When Carole Staley folded her arms and put her head down on the desk, a sound broke out of her, a scream.
Scotty couldn’t help but wish he was sitting elsewhere.
Miss Jude stopped. She looked at Mrs. Boyden, who waited patiently for a time, then spoke: “Part of being an artist is learning to accept constructive criticism. That’s part of making art.” Mrs. Boyden meant those words to be helpful but they only caused Carole to sob louder.
Scotty’s stomach began to hurt.
As she led Carole from the classroom, Mrs. Boyden signaled Miss Jude to continue.
She critiqued with great care now—gentle, always encouraging. (One student in tears and it could be explained as an overly sensitive child; two or more devastated students and she’d be held accountable.)
So Miss Jude praised Bobette Daley’s barn with barnyard animals. The proportions were all wrong, the animals were all pink, but Miss Jude praised her all the same and gave the gold star.
“No cows are pink,” Scotty wanted to say.
Patrick O’Meara’s painting of a fireman was next. Miss Jude heaped praise on Patrick even though he painted the fireman with a blue face.
“No firemen got blue faces,” Scotty wanted to say.
Ruth Rethman’s green pizza got a gold star because, “I look at this and I know exactly what it is and that’s good.”
Gold stars for everyone.
When Miss Jude got to Scotty’s black-and-white painting, she looked at it long. And Scotty had this thought: If she liked those other paintings, then she surely has to love me.
Miss Jude looked at his painting for what felt like hours. He knew he’d impressed her for she had no words. As Miss Jude moved closer to his painting, Scotty prepared for praise.
Miss Jude thought about abstract art and how she hated it. Suddenly worried about the length of her silence and knowing she had to say something, Miss Jude turned around and asked, “Who painted this one?”
“Scotty Ocean painted it,” Mrs. Boyden said as she returned to the classroom.
“Isn’t your mother a painter?”
Scotty nodded proudly.
Miss Jude looked back at the painting, and not knowing what to say, blurted out, “What is it?”
Scotty smiled but didn’t answer. He remembered his mother had told him that paintings have many meanings, that it was up to each individual to interpret.
“Scotty,” Mrs. Boyden said, “Miss Jude asked you a question.”
“I know.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a real thing.”
Miss Jude began to make out the shape of a face. “Is it a painting of you?”
“Yes.”
Miss Jude looked back at the painting; she looked at Scotty. “Well, then what is that part right there?”
Scotty stood and pointed below his belt.
The painting suddenly came into focus for Miss Jude. At the top of the paper, painted in a squiggly fashion, was a face. Below the face, a boy’s chest with circles for nipples. And below that…
The children had begun to move about, whisper, and squirm, after Scotty pointed to his penis. Before chaos could break out, Mrs. Boyden said, “Okay, class, let’s thank Miss Jude for her kind gift of time and talent.”
The kids applauded meekly. It was time for recess. They knew it. Mrs. Boyden excused them and they giggled and tittered about Scotty’s nude portrait as they gathered up their coats and mittens and ran outside. Scotty waited until the others had left. While Miss Jude spoke in a whisper to Mrs. Boyden, Scotty walked slowly down the aisle, his hands lightly touching the tops of the other desks. I’ve dazzled her, he thought. She can hardly look me in the eye. Before he left the classroom, Miss Jude stopped him.
“Scotty, may I keep this for a while?”
He hesitated.
“May I? It’s a most… uhm… interesting piece of work. May I… uhm… borrow it?”
“You can borrow it.”
“Thank you.”
“I get it back, right?”
“Of course.”
“And I get the gold star, right?”
***
Scotty described the painting as he helped Claire set the table for Thanksgiving dinner. It had been two days since he’d painted it, and he knew, deep down, it was his best painting.
“It sounds like a masterpiece,” she said as she folded napkins.
“Oh yes.”
“Maybe it could be framed.”
“Oh, yes.”
Scotty decided he would send it to his mother.
***
When Carole Staley returned to class the Monday after Thanksgiving, she ate her usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich out of her Barbie lunch pail, and she seemed to have recovered nicely from the art class the week before.
Scotty, too, resumed his old patterns, pulling her pigtails and avoiding her kisses. All seemed fine; all had been forgotten.
But at the end of the day, Scotty approached Mrs. Boyden and said, “Did Miss Jude bring back my picture?”
Mrs. Boyden smiled and said, “Not yet.”
The boy will forget eventually, she thought, in that beautiful way all children forget.
For days, though, Scotty persisted, always asking politely, and always accepting the news of “Not yet” with a hopeful grin.
At night when the phone rang, he wanted it to be Miss Jude calling. “Scotty is the best artist ever,” he imagined she would say.
But she never called.
***
Days passed; soon it was December, and Scotty began to wonder if he’d ever see his painting again. He asked at the end of each day and Mrs. Boyden kept repeating “Any day now.” Once, during Art time, he tried to re-create the painting, but as hard as he tried, it was not to be recaptured.
***
On the last day before Christmas break, Scotty stood in front of Mrs. Boyden.
“Have a nice Christmas, Scotty,” Mrs. Boyden said. She looked down and when she looked back up, Scotty was still standing there. “How can I help you?”
“My painting.”
“Miss Jude really must have liked it. Everybody got the gold star. But yours is the only one she kept.”
“But…”
“Next year, Scotty.”
“But…”
“Next year.” Then she smiled. “I hope you and your family have a wonderful holiday.”
(17)
On the way home, Scotty came upon Tom Conway, who was waiting for him at the top of Woodland Avenue.
Earlier that day, at lunch, when everyone showed everyone els
e what they were eating, Tom Conway refused to open his Rat Patrol lunch pail. Throughout the day he carried it with him, even into the bathroom, which made Scotty curious.
But now Tom Conway was gesturing for Scotty to approach, which he did. Tom unlatched the lunch box and showed Scotty the contents: a Baggie full of crushed Oreo cookies, three butterscotch candies, and a hand grenade.
Seeing the grenade, Scotty took off running. He heard the high-pitched sound of the grenade in the air; he felt it coming close. Diving like a soldier in the movies, he covered his imaginary helmet with his hands, shut his eyes, held his breath, prayed.
Then he heard laughing.
Tom Conway stepped on Scotty’s rear end as he walked over him, his lunch pail swinging, the sound of the grenade rolling around inside.
“Ho, ho, ho,” Tom said, as if Santa Claus.
***
That night at dinner the Judge told his children that he had good news. “I spoke to your mother.” The Judge paused. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “She called me at the courthouse. I have some news you might be interested in.”
All eyes were on him.
“She’ll be home for Christmas.”
It took a moment to sink in. Maggie smiled, Claire had questions, and Scotty slid off his chair, crawled to the center of the kitchen where he proceeded to jump up and down. Then he launched into a variation of his seven dance. And as he danced, he thought, See what happens when you’re good.
CHRISTMAS
(1)
The Ocean house had never been so clean: carpets vacuumed, toilets scrubbed, the kitchen floor mopped, the refrigerator defrosted; new outfits for the children, showers for all; a six-foot-tall Christmas tree decorated with blinking lights, stockings hung from oldest to youngest—everything was ready, and they were hours ahead of schedule. The Oceans sat around waiting. Scotty was especially careful not to make a mess.
(2)
Sent in to get the Christmas cookies, Scotty found the platter covered in cellophane on the kitchen counter. The cookies were cut in various shapes: a Christmas wreath, a Christmas tree, a candy cane. Some of the cookies had been colored a seasonal green, some Santa Claus red—the remaining majority were a tannish white, browned at the edges. Claire had baked the day before while Maggie and Scotty decorated. The wreath cookies had green frosting and were peppered with little red-hot candies, the Christmas tree cookies had colored sprinkles, and the candy canes had been given uneven frosting stripes by Maggie, who hadn’t yet mastered the frosting gun.
As Scotty was about to lift the cookie tray, the doorbell rang. He stood frozen. He held his breath as the front door was opened. He heard the muffle of greetings, the happy voices. He checked his clothes. He wore his first suit—blue, like his father’s—a light blue dress shirt, Buster Brown shoes, black socks, and a red clip-on tie, a first, too. His father wore a red tie and Scotty wished they had on different colors.
“Wear a different one, Dad,” he’d whispered earlier that evening.
“No, Scotty. This way we’re the same.”
Scotty had pulled at his out of frustration. Then he ran to the bathroom, climbed on the toilet seat, and checked to see if the tie had remained straight.
Now, he checked the tie again. “It’ll do,” he said. Then he lifted the cookie tray as high as he could. (He was determined not to drop it.) He made his way into the living room where his father, his sisters, his maternal grandparents, and most important, Joan Ocean, who stood in the doorway with sacks of presents at her side, all looked his way.
There was plenty of smiling and Scotty could feel all eyes were on him. He lowered the tray to the coffee table. He made a big sigh like “Whew.”
“Don’t you look nice,” Joan said.
Scotty walked toward her and extended his hand, which Joan shook.
“You look like a little man.”
What Scotty saw before him, he decided, was definitely new and improved—Joan wore a black dress, tight fitting, and bright red lipstick; her cheeks were colored and her hair pulled back simply, revealing ruby drop earrings, which dangled.
Scotty wanted to sit next to his mother. But Maggie had taken the spot, so he waited near the Christmas tree. Surely she’ll look over at the tree, he thought.
Scotty’s clothes itched. Normally he’d make a scene. Wearing clothes such as these, he’d moan and fidget—but not on Christmas Eve 1969. She was in her living room tonight and Scotty would behave his very best, give her no reason to flee again.
His grandfather and the Judge brought in the sacks of gifts. This year Scotty didn’t run to stack his up to see how high they would stand. He gave no indication of caring. He sat, a cookie held daintily in his hand, waiting his turn to speak. Only one part of his hair stuck up.
When Maggie went to the bathroom, Scotty took her place. He leaned toward Joan’s ear, cupped his hand so only she could hear. Her hair smelled of shampoo and cigarettes.
“You back for good?” Scotty asked his mother, in a whisper.
Joan smiled, but didn’t say anything. She squeezed his knee with her available hand.
***
Before going to midnight Mass, everyone opened one present. Scotty went first but only because he was youngest. Joan suggested he open the gift from her parents. So he did. It came in two boxes. In the first, there was an assortment of various wood shapes. In the second, various tools, boy-size.
“To build things,” Scotty said. He hugged his mother.
“They’re from Grandma Dottie and Grandpa Jim.”
He crossed the room to his grandparents. He shook his grandfather’s hand and kissed near his grandmother’s ear. The grandmother leaned forward to kiss him, her lips bright red with Christmas lipstick, and Scotty turned his head at the last minute. She planted a big smooch on his cheek and his face contracted more the harder she pressed. He saw his father sitting in the corner, watching the festivities with a quiet joy. Their eyes made contact, the men, and they both knew.
She’s back was what they knew.
She’s back.
When Scotty got released from his grandmother’s clutches, Maggie laughed then quickly covered her mouth, remembering it was Christmas and you don’t laugh at someone on Christmas.
“You have lips on your face,” Claire said.
Joan had a handkerchief. She wiped Scotty’s cheek.
“I used to leave my lips all over your grandfather’s face. There was a time when all we did was kiss,” the grandmother said. She smiled. The grandfather smiled but wondered if this was something Scotty needed to know. Then he leaned forward and explained the use of certain tools.
“You know the hammer.”
“Yeah.”
“You know the screwdriver. Now this here is a leveler.”
Scotty held it. Part metal, part wood, the leveler had a thin tube filled with green-yellow liquid. In the tube an air bubble moved from side to side as Scotty tilted it every which way.
“You want the bubble to be in the middle. That way you got everything balanced, everything equal.”
Scotty nodded as if he understood. As Maggie tore off the wrapping of her present, Scotty looked to his mother. Joan smiled as Maggie squealed. She had given Maggie the game Mystery Date. You’re back, Scotty thought.
She’s back, Joan Ocean is back.
***
As they put on their winter coats to go to church, Joan announced suddenly, “I want Scotty to open one more gift.”
She extended a small package.
Scotty carefully tore away the paper. He opened the plastic case. Inside was a boy’s wristwatch with luminous hands.
“Oh boy,” Scotty said.
“So you can see it in the dark,” Joan said as she helped him put it on his wrist.
“I can tell time,” Scotty said.
“Of course you can.”
***
Outside, a thin layer of snow covered the driveway and the stoop. As the family headed to the cars for the ride to chu
rch, Scotty could make out the silhouette of the mailbox. He reminded himself, Be sure not to lick it. Not going through that again, he whispered to himself. Lesson learned.
In the car, Scotty rode in front between the Judge and Joan, but closer to Joan. He pushed in the cigarette lighter. When it clicked, he looked to her and she nodded and he pulled it out and held it up. She leaned forward, her cigarette between her lips, and Scotty heard it begin to sizzle. His mother inhaled and he slid the lighter back into place.
At the church, luminarias lined the sidewalks and the walkways leading to the church.
“Who would think that a grocery sack, a handful of sand, and a cheap candle could make such a light?” the Judge wondered aloud. “Who would think?”
Those attending the service saw Joan enter with the Oceans, and all agreed that she’d never looked better.
Scotty stood next to his mother. He wanted to hold her hand. He forgot about his painting and how she would love it. For the first time in weeks his memory became like an Etch-A-Sketch freshly shaken—he was wiped clean.
During the service, all eyes were on the Ocean family. The Judge wore his best blue suit. Scotty’s sisters each wore a dress made by their other grandmother, a widow, living in Florida. Dresses that neither of the girls would ever wear again. But the picture would be taken and sent south after the New Year. In previous years, when the girls were younger, the dresses were often identical. This year, in honor of the individual, and due to the definite chasm that had grown between the sisters physically, each dress had its own style. The fabrics went well together and while the girls weren’t happy, for a night they would suffer. For a night, for this night even Scotty would not complain. He didn’t fidget. He had no trouble staying awake.
***
That night Scotty lay in his bed, his eyes open. He knew he’d slept some of the time, he didn’t know how long, what with the outside still dark. A whistly wind blew against the storm windows of his bedroom. Scotty held back the curtain with his hand. He saw winter outside. He saw the frozen glass, the glaze of ice on trees, branches standing brittle, waiting for warmer days. Poor trees, Scotty thought. Wish it could be warm out there like it is in here.
