by Tom Birdseye
“Give me that!”
Pellinore barked, then licked at Celina’s face.
“Yuck! I mean, Yay! Sir Patrick the Great! He’s so cool!”
Patrick let Celina keep the tape player away from him, let her keep saying those wonderful things about him. The more she talked, the more distant the pain of only an hour before seemed to be. He let her go on, and on, and on. She could talk like that forever. It made him feel so good, so glad, so full of hope … until Paulette came home.
Chapter 16
Fever
She walked in the door three hours early, and Patrick knew right away that his mother was sick. From across the room at the kitchen table, where he sat eating leftover pizza with his left hand and drawing with his right, he could see the heat in her cheeks and the dull pain in her eyes.
Paulette didn’t put up much of a fight when Patrick took over, taking her temperature—102 degrees—and giving her aspirin. She protested a little bit. “I’m all right. I’m your mother. I’m supposed to take care of you, not the other way around.” But they both knew that this was the way it was sometimes in families like theirs. Kids became adults. They had to.
So Patrick ignored his mother’s objections, got her into bed, and then rummaged around in the cupboards until he found a can of soup. It turned out to be cream of potato, which Paulette said was fine. Patrick heated it up on the stove, poured it into a bowl, and served it on a tray with a drawing he’d done of the Questing Beast for a place mat.
“I’m sorry I’m sick,” Paulette said, reaching for Patrick’s hand.
He squeezed back. “Don’t worry. Just rest.” She worked too hard. She was always so tired. Her whole life seemed to be spent doing things for someone else, including him. Well, now she could relax and let him do things for her. “Don’t worry,” Patrick said again. “Go to sleep. I’ll take care of you.”
The next morning, Paulette woke up feeling even worse—a pounding headache, a deep chest cough, a nose that just wouldn’t stop running, and the continuing fever. She didn’t object when Patrick announced he was staying home from school. “You’ve missed work before to take care of me. That cost money!”
Paulette blew her nose and smiled weakly. “OK. One day wouldn’t hurt, I guess. I really do feel yucky, and it would be nice to talk.”
But she slept all morning, even when the phone rang and it took Patrick three rings to answer. “Just wanted to be sure everything’s OK,” the school secretary said. “We check on everyone who’s absent. Are you all right?”
Patrick could imagine the secretary—that big lady who always wore dangly earrings—sitting behind her desk in the school office, surrounded by the smell of the copy machine. She made it sound like she really cared how he was. Did she? She was new on the job this year. He didn’t even know her name.
He was almost glad to tell her that it was his mom who was sick, not him, and that he was staying home to take care of her. He wasn’t skipping school, like he knew some kids did. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was doing something right.
True, he didn’t want to be at school. He’d had enough of Andy to last him a lifetime. He was sorry Andy was having such a rough time with his dad, but Patrick could feel sorrier for him from home, where Andy couldn’t reach him. And if he never had to go to the Reading Resource Room again, that would be great. Forget Mrs. Nagle! She could take her worksheets, and her drills, and her lying pats on the back and … “My mom’s pretty sick,” Patrick told the secretary. “I may not be in for a couple of days, or even longer.”
Celina came by after school, but had to leave almost as soon as she got there. “My dad’s taking me to an archaeology lecture at the university, then out for dinner—Mexican food, of course. Some guy that has done a bunch of research on the Aztecs is talking. He’s gonna show slides. Should be neat. I’ll come by tomorrow. See ya.”
Celina shut the front door too hard when she left. Paulette woke up. Patrick got her some water and cold medicine, and held her hand until she went back to sleep.
Minutes later another knock at the door sent him running. He ran to answer because he didn’t want the knocking to wake Paulette again. He flung the door open, ready for a salesman, or some of those people who come around every now and then to tell you what religion you should believe in. He flung open the door, ready to be rude.
It was Mrs. Romero.
“Hi,” she said, “I heard about your mom, and came by to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Patrick just stared. When he was little he had thought that teachers stayed at school all the time, even at night. He had been shocked when he turned the corner at the grocery store one day and saw his kindergarten teacher picking out cereal. She was shopping just like a normal person. He had turned and run. As a fifth grader he knew how silly that had been. Of course teachers bought groceries and had husbands and homes and kids and all that. But still, no teacher had ever knocked on his door before.
“Uh … we’re OK. Mom’s sleeping a lot now,” he finally mumbled, wondering when Mrs. Romero would bring up the problem with Andy at the chess club. That was really why she was here, right?
Mrs. Romero smiled. “Well, good. Rest usually does the trick.” She paused, then held out a cardboard box. “If you’re not too busy, then, I have a favor to ask.”
Patrick had been so startled by Mrs. Romero’s presence that he hadn’t even noticed the box. He automatically reached for it.
“These books came in the mail today,” Mrs. Romero said.
Patrick jerked his hands back at the word books.
Mrs. Romero acted as though she didn’t notice. “There’s a cassette tape that goes with each book. The story is read aloud on the tape. A chime tells you when to turn the page. I haven’t had a chance to go through them yet. None of the kids have either. I’m not sure if they’re any good, but I was wondering if—since you’re home—you’d mind listening to the tapes and following along in the books, then telling me what you think.”
Patrick looked from the box, to Mrs. Romero, and back at the box. Books. The box was full of books!
“I’d appreciate your opinion, Patrick,” Mrs. Romero continued, “especially on the illustrations.”
Patrick looked up again. “The illustrations?”
Mrs. Romero nodded. “There are illustrations on each page. You’re so good at drawing. I value your opinion, especially when it comes to art. I think of you as my class expert.”
Patrick could only stare. Her expert? Really?
“I was also wondering,” Mrs. Romero said, “if you would draw a knight on horseback for me, like the ones you do in your notebook, except bigger. We’ll be starting a study of Europe soon, and I thought we’d begin with a bit of history. I’d like to have a knight riding above the chalkboard, for the whole class to see.” She smiled. “I could bring a big piece of paper by. You’re great at that sort of thing. Would you draw one?”
Draw a knight on horseback for the whole class? A big one? Give his opinion on the illustrations in the books? Patrick’s mind was reeling. Class “expert”? First she shows up at the door, and then all this? No teacher had ever asked him to do this kind of stuff before.
“I know it’s a lot to ask when your mother is sick,” Mrs. Romero said. “But since she’s sleeping so much … if you have time …” She held the box of books out toward him again. “I’ve got so much to do, I need help. And you’re so good. I’d really appreciate it.”
“OK,” Patrick said. The word slipped right out of his mouth. It was as if it were coaxed to the tip of his tongue by all of the nice things Mrs. Romero kept saying, and then decided on its own to jump into the air. And his hands. They seemed to glide right out and take the box as if it were full of chocolate cake, not … not books!
Mrs. Romero beamed. “Wonderful! I knew I could count on you, Patrick.” Then she reached out and gave him a hug. Patrick stood there helpless, with his hands full of a box of books, and got hugged before he knew wha
t hit him.
Chapter 17
The Mural
Mrs. Romero came back an hour later with a big roll of paper under her arm. “I got halfway home and started thinking about how wonderful it would be if you would draw a whole medieval scene, not just a knight on horseback. A whole medieval scene. A mural. So I went back to school and got this for you to draw on.” She held up the paper. “What do you think?”
Patrick stood in the front doorway and muttered, “Um … well …” He had put the box of books out of sight behind the green armchair in the corner as soon as Mrs. Romero had left earlier. Out of sight, out of mind, like people said. Well, almost out of mind. He’d tried to put the drawing out of mind, too. The idea of doing it for the entire class made him nervous. Why had he agreed to that? And now here was Mrs. Romero in his doorway twice in the same day, wanting him to do more, and do it even bigger.
“Imagine it!” Mrs. Romero went on. “A whole medieval scene, like you draw on your notebooks, except on this.” She tapped the big roll of paper with her finger. “You’ve just got to see it to really appreciate what you could do. Here, let me show you.…“
Mrs. Romero bustled past Patrick into the living room. He suddenly found himself worrying about how the room must appear to her. Was it too messy? Did it smell like soup? Would she notice the frayed arm on the couch? Should he ask her if she wanted any tea or something? Aren’t you supposed to do that kind of stuff when someone like her comes to visit?
“Could you help me with this, Patrick?” Mrs. Romero asked. She was struggling to unroll the paper on the floor. There wasn’t enough room.
Patrick forgot about tea and quickly shoved the coffee table and the old rocker out of the way to make room. Still, one end of the paper had to be tucked under the couch.
“There,” Mrs. Romero said when they were done. “Imagine what you could draw on that.”
Patrick looked. It was the largest expanse of paper he had ever seen. He got goose bumps just looking at it, and within seconds was doing just as Mrs. Romero had suggested, imagining the things he could draw there: a jousting tournament with lots of knights and colorful tents like in The Sword in the Stone, a village, a castle, fields and forests. And of course there would have to be a White Knight like in his story, shield and armor brilliant in the sun, locked in battle with a fierce, winged dragon that breathed flames and struck out with horrible claws. The possibilities seemed endless. The paper called out for a mural. Suddenly, Patrick couldn’t wait to get started. His eyes shone with excitement.
Mrs. Romero smiled. “Draw anything you want. Tell a story with your pictures. The class will love it!”
Patrick knew that she was going to hug him again. He could have moved away, acted as if he needed to go get his drawing pencils and markers, or invented something about soup on the stove for Paulette even though she was fast asleep again.
But he didn’t try to escape. He let Mrs. Romero hug him. No one was watching. Mrs. Romero. She was like Celina, like Paulette. She had this way of making him feel good.
And that made him want to make her feel good, too. She said he was great at drawing. If that were true—and maybe it really was—then great was what this mural had to be. He wouldn’t let her down. No way. He’d draw the best drawing of his entire life.
Mrs. Romero said the pictures could be a story, too. Well, he knew just the story he wanted to tell. Celina had liked it when he told it to her. He had been able to see it happening in his mind when he was telling it. Now he’d tell it again, in pictures, on that mural.
As soon as Mrs. Romero left, Patrick sat down and began to sketch, but not on the mural paper at first. He decided right away not to risk messing it up with the first tries. To begin, he drew on smaller paper, then laid each piece where he thought it might look best. The castle to one side, the jousting grounds … let’s see … over in the meadow. And the great White Knight? The fight scene with the dragon had to be in the center. But he also wanted to show him in the Forest of Tuskdor, near death, like in the beginning of his story. Over to the side a little might be good, but where everyone would be sure to notice him, drawn bigger than life, like he’s closer. Hmmm … Yeah, he’d draw the White Knight twice or more. Why not?
Patrick worked for three straight hours, stopping only to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and go to the bathroom. Sometimes he drew a practice picture over five or even six times to get it just right.
Paulette continued to sleep, getting up only once for just a few minutes. Patrick began to wish she’d stay sick. Not really. He felt guilty for letting such a thought even cross his mind. But with her sick he had a good excuse for not going to school. He could draw all day long, instead.
Patrick was feeling so good he even got out the box of books and tapes from behind the green armchair. It might be nice to listen to a story while he worked.
He grabbed the first tape, the one on top, ignoring the books underneath, and put it in the cassette deck by the television. He smiled and thought of Mrs. Romero when the story began. It was about a knight defending a town from a dragon. He’d look at the pictures in the book later … maybe, if he had time, and give his “expert” opinion. But right now there was drawing to do. Should the White Knight be on his horse when fighting the dragon in the center of the mural? Or would it look better if …
On into the night Patrick worked, drawing, redrawing, arranging, rearranging, and listening to the tape, until he couldn’t hold his eyes open any longer. Not wanting to leave the mural, he crawled up on the couch and fell asleep. The next morning when he woke up, the first thing he did was pick up his pencil, put on Mrs. Romero’s tape, get back down on the floor, and begin to draw again.
A few minutes later, Patrick looked up to see Paulette standing by the couch in her robe. “I thought I heard your brain at work out here,” she said.
Patrick had been so involved in his drawing it took him a few seconds to put two and two together. “You’re feeling better,” he said.
She coughed, but said, “Yep,” and moved around to where she could see the mural better. “I love your picture.”
Patrick sat back on his knees and surveyed his work. He had transferred several of his practice drawings onto the big paper. It was looking good. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m doing it for Mrs. Romero. Our class is going to be studying Europe.”
Paulette glanced around at the living room furniture pushed back against the walls. “Well, you’ll have more room if you work on this at school.”
Patrick was up off the floor in an instant. “But I need to stay here and take care of you. You look awful.”
Paulette rolled her eyes. “Thanks a lot!”
“No, I didn’t mean awful, just bad … uh, sick …” Patrick slapped himself on the forehead. “You know what I mean!”
Paulette laughed. “I know, I know.” She headed for the kitchen. “But even if I do look awful, I can take care of myself now. I’ll just rest today and go back into work tomorrow. Two days of work and two nights of classes are all I can afford to miss. We need the money. I have midterms coming up. I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be fine.”
Patrick followed her, continuing to protest—“You need me to fix your soup!”—until Paulette finally raised her eyebrows, looked Patrick straight in the eye, and said, “You’re going back to school … today … and that is that!”
And that, in fact, was that.
Chapter 18
Can I Keep Them?
Mrs. Romero pushed two tables together in the back of the classroom for Patrick to lay out the mural. She let him work on it as much as he wanted. He wanted to all of the time.
Mrs. Nagle had other ideas, though. She had a new reading kit she was very excited about. “It even has a board game where you race little cars around the letter sounds,” she told Patrick. She got out dice with groups of letters on them and rolled them on the board, demonstrating how to play. “OK, now your turn,” she said.
Patrick rolled the dice a
nd ended up with his little race car on a square where he was supposed to put S, Q, and U together with A, V, and E.
“Ssssss …” He felt pressured and couldn’t remember the sound S, Q, and U make together. He’d known before. Why couldn’t he recall now?
Mrs. Nagle said, “It’s a nonsense word, but you can do it. Put the sounds together.”
Patrick couldn’t believe it. A nonsense word? Now she was going to start making him read words that didn’t mean anything? He wanted to yell out, “WHY?” He didn’t, though. He tried again. “Ssss … kkkk … uh …” But he couldn’t seem to make more than noise.
Mrs. Nagle finally got frustrated and said, “Sometimes I wonder if you care at all about how hard I work to help you!” The reading time ended with Patrick doing everything he could just to keep the weight off his chest, the walls from closing in, the closet door from slamming shut in his face. He thought of the mural, imagining himself part of it, not just its creator. He rushed back to the classroom as soon as he could to resume drawing.
Everybody who saw the mural exclaimed over it—even Andy, who had apologized to Patrick as soon as he’d come back to school. Patrick knew that Mrs. Romero had ordered Andy to be nice, but still it felt good to hear him say, “You ought to be an artist when you grow up!”
Depending on the day, Andy could still get plenty mean, though. Usually, it was Celina that he picked on, but not in class or anywhere around Mrs. Romero. There were plenty of other times and places he could dig at her with his harsh words: on the playground, in the hall, in the cafeteria, on the bus.
Patrick continued to tell Celina to ignore Andy. She would … every now and then. But more than likely she’d yell, “Shut up!” which only made Andy laugh and tease her more. “What’s the matter, wetback?” he’d say. “Hey, wetback.”
