Artistic License

by Julie Hyzy

  She was dark-haired, early thirties, wearing a bright aqua sleeveless silk blouse, the buttons undone low enough to show the lace of her bra. The sag of her upper arms wobbled as she drew her arms up and out of the way as the boys tried to grab at her. Her movement caused a wave of perfume to assail Annie’s nose. She was wearing that rose-smelling scent that had gained in popularity lately, but always reminded Annie of a funeral.

  “Drew! Kevin! Stop it!” she said, her tone more vehement than Annie had expected, her voice low and raspy. “Don’t touch me with those filthy hands.”

  Her slacks, white and tight-fitting, were secured by a skinny brown leather belt that would have looked much better on a slimmer woman. Olive-complexioned, she had enormous brown eyes, and acknowledged Annie’s presence in a distracted way.

  Both boys were now jockeying for position at the open sink.

  “Let your brother wash first,” she said through clenched teeth, tugging at the fabric of the older boy’s shirt with just the pads of her fingers, keeping her long acrylic nails out of harm’s way.

  Annie moved to the side, to allow the older boy access to the sink, but he’d discovered a new distraction and was pressing his messy hands together, then pulling them apart to hear a sucking sound. He held them up to show the little brown and white lines that formed along the bones of his hands.

  “Look, Mom!”

  The mother held up her own hands in a gesture that said “get away” and locked eyes with Annie. She shrugged. “Boys,” she said. “Can’t control ‘em.” She looked up to the mirror and began rearranging her hair, using her perfect nails to pick at tiny wisps. With a surreptitious glance, Annie decided that she had palm trees painted on each nail. Tiny yellow palm trees on teal-colored nails. She matched the stalls nicely.

  The younger boy turned around and held up his hands, evidently expecting his mother’s approval. Rivers of blue, green and red snaked down his arms and Annie realized, with horror, that the boys’ hands weren’t covered with ice cream, but with paint.

  Giving a little cry, she raced out the door, whispering to herself. They just played with the paintbrushes, she said. The mural is fine. The mural is fine.

  “Annie.” Sam stood, blocking her view of the wall.

  She looked up at him, and knew.

  “Let me see it.”

  Preparing herself to see minor scribbles, telling herself that whatever they’d done was easily rectified, she looked ahead and walked around Sam to the mural. Or what was left of it.

  She stopped short, her mind refusing to accept what her eyes were seeing.

  Her first thought was a rational one, but I wasn’t gone long enough for it to be this bad. As if she could some how lessen the damage by virtue of logic.

  The castle was ruined. The legend obliterated. They’d uncovered her paints and used her paintbrushes and their hands to cover as much of the wall as possible. Had they simply tried to color in the penciled-in area, Annie knew she could have managed around that. There’d be no recourse now, but to start over. They’d smeared orange and green and purple over the section of castle Annie had been so proud to have completed today. The part that she’d improvised, the legend. The one with no sketch to refer to. It was gone.

  Her mind registered that their favorite color must be orange. Thick blotches of it obliterated enough of the day’s work as to render it unsalvageable.

  “Annie,” Sam said again.

  She brought her fingers almost prayer-like up to her pursed lips and drew a deep breath through her nose. Sam moved closer, but she couldn’t look at him.

  “Please,” she said. She blinked her eyes slowly, then swallowed. “Don’t say anything. If you’re nice to me right now, I’ll fall apart.”

  The large man who had corralled the boys earlier stepped up, and looked as if he was about to say something when the two boys and their mother emerged from the washroom. He turned to her.

  “Mrs. DeChristopher, I think I found out what they did with the paint.”

  The woman had both boys by their wrists, pulling them.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “I had no idea.”

  Annie wanted to scream. Had no idea? How could two small children accomplish this much destruction without their mother having any idea? What could she possibly have been doing that kept her from watching her children? Admiring her nails, maybe. Annie felt a tremble work through her body. She forced herself to maintain control, staring at the wall and trying to breathe.

  Sam, called away by the kitchen workers, flashed Annie a look that told him how sorry he was for her, and left.

  “Miss,” the woman said, “I am so sorry for what these two little darlings did to your nice picture.” She yanked them both forward, “Say you’re sorry.”

  The two boys giggled.

  “Drew!” she said. “Say it.”

  “I’m sorry.” More giggling.

  The woman was speaking again, but Annie was doing everything she could to keep from making eye contact. She knew, she just knew, that if the saying “if looks could kill” was true right now, this woman was going to be dead on the floor in a minute.

  “Timothy here will write you a check. Tim?”

  The big man moved forward, pulling a checkbook from an inside pocket. “How much?” he asked.

  Scuffling at her feet, the two boys were again making a nuisance of themselves, so the mother ordered them to sit down back at their table. With a grin they left the group of adults and Annie could only wonder at what mischief they had planned next. All she wanted was for them to leave.

  “Miss?” Timothy was talking to her again. “Mrs. DeChristopher wants to make good on this. You just tell me how much to make the check out for and I’ll take care of it.”

  Annie found her voice. “It’s okay,” she said, quickly. “Don’t worry about it.” She knew that her tone was conveying just the opposite, but she didn’t want their money, she wanted her painting back the way it had been. There was no dollar amount that was going to make her feel good about this, so all she wanted was for them to leave her alone. “Just forget about it. It’s fine.”

  Mrs. DeChristopher laid her well-manicured hand on Annie’s arm and it was all Annie could do not to slap it away. “Honey, I can afford it. Let me make this right.”

  Honey? Annie thought. The woman was barely older than she was, although something about her eyes led Annie to believe that she’d had a tougher go of it. Calm was beginning to take hold. Annie breathed out slowly and spoke with amazing reserve. “No. Thank you anyway. I’ll just look at it as a challenge.” She smiled wanly and moved off, thinking it was the end of the discussion.

  Mrs. DeChristopher wasn’t finished. “Listen. You do good work. I seen what a nice picture this was before the kids messed with it. If you won’t let me give you money for fixing it, then let me have some of your business cards. I know lotsa people who’d like this kinda thing painted in their houses.”

  Annie started to shake her head when it occurred to her that she’d be cutting off her nose to spite her face by refusing to hand out business cards. Wasn’t the whole idea to expand her business? Of course, this wasn’t the method she’d had in mind, but . . . She sighed deeply and managed a cool smile. “I’ll get some. Thank you.”

  When Mrs. DeChristopher, her two children, and the man they called Timothy finally left, Sam locked the front door and came over to the wall, where Annie sat on the floor, her chin in her hands.

  He started to sit next to her and said, “Is there anything I can do?”

  What control Annie had maintained till then was lost. She fought the hot stinging tears and the solid lump in her throat but couldn’t settle herself. Her face dropped into her hands and her shoulders shook as she tried to keep herself quiet. Aware of Sam next to her, she felt acute embarrassment yet couldn’t manage enough strength to keep him from seeing her like this.

  “Come on,” she heard him say from somewhere on her right. Two hands took her by the shoulders, and becaus
e she’d never anticipated a situation like this, because she had no idea how to behave, she allowed herself to be led into Sam’s office.

  * * * * *

  “Have a seat,” Sam said, pulling the door closed behind them until it gave a little click.

  There was more going on than a ruined mural; he would bet on it.

  Annie sat in one of the two vinyl office chairs, and he took the other to wait for her to talk. Taking deep breaths, she seemed to be working hard to settle herself, but the veins in the hands she held over her face stood out, belying her tension.

  “It’s okay,” he said, unable to think of anything more profound.

  She had her head down, more, it seemed, to prevent him from seeing her cry than from dramatic display. Her small shoulders shook in eloquent silence, her crossed ankles were pulled far back under the seat. Her whole body was turned in on itself, as though she wanted to make herself small and crawl away to hide, to turn invisible. And for some reason, Sam knew he needed to prevent that. And not just because he was afraid of having a defaced wall on his hands with no artist to finish it. As her shudders slackened, Sam leaned forward, “Can I get you anything?”

  Annie shook her head, her reddish brown hair barely registering the movement. Still looking down, she rubbed her forehead and massaged her eyes. “No, thank you,” she said in a hoarse whisper, then cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let it get to me.”

  “Hey,” he said, repeating himself, feeling lame, “it’s okay.”

  She looked up then, her face flushed, her eyes red. Some mascara had run, black-smudged under her eyes. With a wry expression, she shook her head, “I bet I look really great right now, don’t I?”

  Sam smiled at that, thinking that she did, despite the tears. He chanced a bit of humor. “Never better.”

  She took it well, giving a short laugh.

  He realized, as Annie looked around the tiny room, that she hadn’t been in his office before. They’d managed to conduct all their business out in the main part of the restaurant. What was she thinking, he wondered, about piles of paperwork everywhere, in bins on the floor, and on top of his filing cabinet. Her eyes, he noticed, flicked over the mess, settling instead on the picture on the credenza behind his desk.

  He hoped she wouldn’t ask about it. Not today, at least.

  In a minute, Annie turned her gaze back to Sam. He noticed her eyes had gotten bluer and brighter from crying and her breathing had resumed a more regular rhythm. She wiped at her nose and he got up to grab the box of tissues he kept on the cabinet, offering it to her. He didn’t want to pry, but knew there had to be some way to let her know that he was willing to listen. This woman who’d popped into his life, who’d come across as so strong and resilient, was, all of a sudden, totally vulnerable. Or maybe he was imagining things. But something welled up inside him. A need to protect her, to make things right again. And yet, who was she really? He knew so little about her. She may not want someone butting into her life.

  Taking the tissue box and settling it on her lap, Annie smiled at him. The sadness in it caused a tightness in his heart.

  “I’m sorry,” she began, “I’m behaving unprofessionally and I’m overreacting. I know it.” Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling, unfocused, and he sensed she was fighting tears again. “There’s a lot going on in my life right now,” she said, starting slowly, then rushing her words as she looked at him again, “and I know that’s no excuse. Everyone has problems. Mine are no worse than anyone else’s.”

  He noticed her twisting a tissue in her hands together as she continued. “So, there’s no reason for me to fall apart like this.” She looked at her hands again, and he watched, interested, as she took a deep breath. Her face relaxed, and her composure returned, “It won’t happen again.”

  “Annie?”

  Her eyes flicked up to meet his. Wary, he thought. “Yes?”

  “What else?”

  She bit her lip for a long moment and the look on her face made him want to say something but he didn’t quite know what. She seemed to be asking him with her eyes if he could be trusted. He tried to appear strong and understanding, all the while wondering what he was letting himself in for. When she put the tissue box on his desk and turned to him, he knew she was past crying.

  Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin and started to talk.

  Chapter Four

  Annie hoisted her backpack from the passenger seat to her shoulder, and slammed the Escort’s door shut. She kept most of her supplies for the mural in Sam’s office, so she didn’t have to lug them back and forth every day. He’d suggested she start doing that the same night she’d broken down and told him her sordid life story. Her backpack tonight was light, with only a couple of new paint tubes and a new drop cloth stuffed into it.

  She took a moment to stare up at the moon, looking hazy through the dark clouds of the early August sky. Nearly eleven o’clock; she berated herself again for oversleeping. After dinner, she’d settled in for what should have been a short nap. Who ever invented the snooze alarm? She’d hit it so many times that it had given up and a half hour ago; she’d awakened with a start, realizing she’d missed her nine o’clock goal by a long shot. Tomorrow, hopefully, the doctor would have some suggestions for how to combat the constant fatigue. Good thing she wasn’t expected here at specific hours. And good thing Sam had given her a key.

  It had been a hell of a week, she thought as she made her way toward the restaurant’s front door. She could hear the high-pitched hum of the cheerful neon sign, bright red block letters spelling out the word “Millie’s,” the words “Old Fashioned Ice Cream Parlour and Restaurant” in white, in the kind of script you’d expect to see on the side of old-fashioned coach.

  She wiped her forehead with the back of her left hand, and grimaced at the thought of what the humidity was doing to her hair tonight. All day the temperatures had hovered in the mid-nineties and though she had air-conditioning at home, the compressor in her little Escort had gone out and she didn’t have the funds to have it repaired yet. Grabbing the neckline of her gray T-shirt, she tried to use it as a fan, sending down what little air she could to cool herself, and she looked forward to painting in the chill of the closed restaurant.

  Just as she was about to step up to the sidewalk at the front of the restaurant, Sam was at the door, holding it open for the last remaining patrons to exit. The four adults, laughing and talking, called good-night to him, as he waved and thanked them. Spotting Annie, he smiled and held the door open a little bit longer.

  “Allow me,” he said.

  She stepped around him, “Thank you,” she said, and then, “kind of late for customers, isn’t it?”

  Sam shrugged, “It happens. Most of the crew has gone home, everything’s clean. Just Milissa and Jeff finishing up now.” As they walked into the main dining room, she glanced over toward the kitchen where the two teenagers were cleaning the fixtures. Annie wrinkled her nose as the brisk scent of bleach wafted their way. Laughing, and talking as they worked, the young people appeared oblivious to the rest of the world.

  “Little romance blooming there?” Annie asked.

  Sam clutched at his heart, “Ah . . . to be young again.”

  As she headed toward Sam’s office, she took another look. Milissa’s large brown eyes sparkled, focused on Jeff as she wiped the countertop. They seemed to be discussing a marching band competition, but neither appeared to be as interested in the discussion as they were with keeping each other’s attention. They probably wouldn’t remember details of the conversation later, Annie thought. And it probably won’t matter if they don’t.

  Sam headed to the back to shut off the outside lights as she pulled out her supplies from his office and made her way toward her wall. At first she’d referred to it as “the wall,” then “Sam’s wall.” Now it was “her wall.” Shaping up nicely, she thought, despite some earlier setbacks.

  Over the past week, she’d whitewashed the finge
rpaints and started sketching again. The new castle was bigger, with more windows, and Annie had included a small dungeon area, seen through a lower-level window, where two boys were locked behind bars. She’d resisted the urge to have orange paint dripping from their hands, afraid it would look too much like blood. Drew and Kevin. That’s what that Mrs. DeChristopher had called them. Or maybe she’d name them Gary and Pete.

  Background trees were her focus today, and she climbed her stepladder to finish roughing in the branches. Leaves would come later, when she painted. Her right hand moved above the roof of the castle, her hip leaning against the top of the ladder, and she allowed herself to be immersed in the process of creation. Keeping an eye on perspective, she drew large, supportive branches and then went in to fill with smaller, more delicate ones. Most would be obscured once the leaves were in, but she liked to know that they were there.

  Kind of like the backing she felt she had in both Karla and Uncle Lou, she thought. They weren’t always seen, but she knew they were there and she could feel their unyielding support.

  “Should you be up on a ladder?” Sam asked, breaking into her reverie.

  Annie looked down, pencil in hand, taking a moment to focus. “I’m fine,” she said, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. She’d gotten pretty far in the past hour and was pleased. She looked back toward Sam. “Can I bother you for something to drink?”

  “Sure.” Sam looked skeptical. “But I don’t want you to fall, or hurt yourself.”

  She flashed him a smile as he turned away. Ever since she told him about her pregnancy last week, and about Gary’s incarceration, she’d felt, in a way, as if a load had been lifted from her shoulders. Almost as though Sam was a newly sprouted branch on her tree of support. An unexpected one.

  Not having to keep secrets made it easier. A lot easier.