by Jenny Goebel
I stepped off the stone-paver path and opened up the front door. I sighed as I looked around inside. There was the window with a cream-colored valance, a narrow bed covered with a faded tulip-printed comforter, a small worktable, a sink, and, in the corner, a toilet with an off-white curtain pulled around it.
Everything was rather dusty, and it smelled like swamp — even more than usual due to the combination of heat and humidity we’d had lately. The smell brought back memories of when I’d come out here during Mama’s crying spells. Lying on the tulip comforter. Closing my eyes to shut it all out. It had been a while since I’d been in the carriage house. Not because Mama was crying any less, though. I suppose it was ’cause I was getting too old to hide.
I walked over to the worktable and ran my finger across it, parting a sea of dust. By then, Mr. Stein had snuck up behind me and was standing so close, I could hear that weird noise coming from his mouth, like he was grinding his teeth again.
“You can store your tools in the drawer here, if you like,” I said as I turned to face him.
“I’d rather keep them with me.”
“Okay, then. Welcome home,” I said.
He nodded and I noticed his jawbones were indeed horribly tight.
“Uh, one more thing, if you don’t mind …” I took a deep breath, thinking how my sketch of the deer really was embarrassingly bad. Still, I’d rather be wasting this stranger’s time with it than my father’s. “I’d like to show you my drawing,” I blurted out as I quickly unrolled my sketch before Mr. Stein could say anything. I laid it flat on the worktable and smoothed out the curled up edges as best I could.
“It’s a buck. See the antlers?” I said. “I thought Dad could make a stencil of it and sandblast it on Mr. Thompson’s headstone. You know, the one he’s working on … Mr. Thompson was a hunter. But maybe you could help me make it better first, or give me a few drawing lessons or something.” Really, I was hoping he’d show me how to do some hand-etching, too, but I didn’t want to push my luck that far … yet.
“I don’t draw.”
“Oh, so you go straight to the chiseling? Then … can I see the woman’s portrait again?”
“Maybe some other time,” Mr. Stein said, and raised an arm toward the door. I guess his pleasure with the carriage house did not include me in it. Disappointed, but not wanting to ruin my chances of seeing the portrait later, I snatched my sketch off the table. I didn’t even bother rolling it before I backed myself through the open entryway and out into the yard.
“Let me know if you need anything,” I said, and as I did, Mr. Stein shut the door in my face.
Huh? I wasn’t used to adults acting so rudely. Michael Romano, sure, but then again, thirteen-year-old boys aren’t exactly known for their manners. Adults are supposed to behave better.
Maybe Mr. Stein just needed some time to settle in, or maybe he really was a creep. Either way, I’m not one to give up easily. When I had my sketch rolled up and more or less shoved into my back pocket, I crept behind the carriage house to the far side with the only window and climbed atop a forgotten granite tile box.
The box was made of cardboard. It was rumpled and broken apart at the edges from all the snowy winters and hot, drying summers it’d sat there. But the stone inside could weather any storm, and it therefore made a strong and stable foot stand.
I slowly rose up on the box — quite thankful Mr. Stein didn’t have his eyes aimed at the window. He happened to be sitting on the bed with his back turned to me, looking awfully out of place in the dainty room. This backside view of Mr. Stein, with his unkempt salt-and-pepper hair, reminded me of a wire brush Dad used for cleaning up paint.
Mr. Stein sat still and stiff as a corpse looking at something in his hands. I kept watching, waiting for him to move, but after a while my calf muscle got a cramp in it from all that standing. I finally had to reach down to rub it. I gave it a good kneading, and when I lifted back up, Mr. Stein was on his feet again and standing beside the worktable. I ducked my head and watched as he jiggled out the old drawer that always catches. Then he slipped something black inside it before ramming the drawer shut. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it might’ve been the granite piece with the woman’s portrait. Humph! I was gonna need a much better look than that.
Mr. Stein returned to the bed. He lay down and closed his eyes — just like I’d done a million times. He still wore his heavy black overcoat, and I didn’t know how he could stand the heat. However, it didn’t appear he was going anywhere anytime soon.
I hopped down from my perch, more determined than ever to make Mr. Stein’s arrival work to my advantage. Now that he’d moved into the carriage house with all his artistic talent, it wouldn’t matter whether or not he wanted to share his secrets with me. One way or another, I was gonna figure out how he did those etchings. Then, even if he split (and I was betting he would), things would be okay because I’d know how to make the portraits. And me knowing how to do more things meant Dad and Mimi could focus on Mama for once instead of all the other grievers in town.
I’d been trying to help Mama myself, but all I seemed capable of doing was reminding her why was she was so sad.
I thought everything would at least get a little better after Mr. Stein arrived. Regretfully, I truly did.
MIMI ALWAYS SAYS YOU CAN’T TRUST AN OLD PERSON WITH A smooth face any more than you can trust a skinny chef. She’s proud of every wrinkle earned by way of smile or tear. If what she says is true, the creases on her face are a road map of a life well spent.
As Mimi leaned over our kitchen table and her eyes narrowed in folds behind her wire-rimmed glasses, I described Mr. Stein’s portrait of the dead woman as best I could. I left out the part about how the woman looked like Mama. Mimi knew how much I kept pining for Mama to come out of her room. She’d think that was the only reason I’d said it, and not because it was the truth.
When I’d finished, Mimi turned her attention outside the window. The kitchen sat directly below my bedroom and across from the carriage house. Mimi had placed a flower box on the window ledge (probably trying to pretty up the view), but beyond the purple and pink pansies, you could still see most of the headstones and the entire path leading up to what was now Mr. Stein’s front door.
My grandmother breathed in deeply through her long, narrow nose. I could tell she didn’t like the fact that Dad had opened the carriage house up to a stranger, but was struggling with feeling so. “Well, I suppose feeding him is the right thing to do …” she said as she glanced up at the crucifix hanging above the kitchen table.
Due to Mimi loving God first and roosters second, our home holds a scattering of crosses, paintings of the Holy Family, and images of red comb-headed chickens.
As quickly as she’d looked up, Mimi dropped her gaze from the cross and turned it back outside the window. Then she picked up a ceramic bowl — one with hand-painted roosters around the rim, no less — and started giving the hard-boiled eggs inside a good thrashing. I almost mentioned the irony, but decided it wasn’t the time.
“Well. We don’t have to feed him in this kitchen. You can carry his trays — three times a day, just like your mother’s. That way our family mealtimes won’t be disturbed by him being at our table.”
Our family mealtimes hadn’t been the same since Mama started taking her meals in bed. And Dad rarely sat down to eat anyway. Not much to disturb, really. But — just like with the could’ve-been-roosters Mimi was whipping around to make egg salad — I didn’t mention it.
Instead, I said, “Sure, Mimi,” thinking that delivering meals out to the carriage house would increase my chances of seeing Mr. Stein etch one of his portraits. It couldn’t be that much different from sketching. Both were about taking what you saw in one place and transferring it to another.
I liked the way sketching felt — calming, and like you had control over what you were putting down on paper, even if you were powerless when it came to everything else. I hoped etching would feel the sam
e.
I smiled at the thought and, in turn, Mimi nodded at me and then went back to work smashing and spreading the egg salad between two slices of sourdough bread. Her hair was long and pulled back loosely in a braid. Silvery strands mixed with light blond hair fell in soft wisps around the frames of her glasses. As she stretched on her tiptoes to grab a napkin from a high cupboard, my grandmother reminded me of an aging ballerina.
We really don’t resemble each other much at all. Not only do I have dark hair (which will leave me looking like a skunk someday when the white starts to sprout through), I take after Mama in that I’m short, and I got my thickness from Dad. Nobody would ever mistake me for a dancer.
Having retrieved the napkin, Mimi set it and the egg salad sandwich on a plastic tray along with an apple, a dill pickle, and a glass of whole milk. “There. Now bring this out to our guest. I’ll have another one ready when you return.”
I carried the tray slowly at first, careful not to slosh milk over the sides of the glass — the way I always carried my mama’s tray. But next thing I knew, I was thinking about seeing the lady’s portrait again, and I was taking big, sloppy, careless steps in a hurry to get back to the carriage house. By the time I reached it, a third of the milk was splattered across the tray, the sandwich bread was soggy, and I probably should’ve been a tad bit sorry for it. But I wasn’t.
I set the tray down on a flagstone paver and whacked my knuckles sharply on the door.
Mr. Stein opened the door with one hand, chisel and hammer in the other. His face was lax this time, but his eyes seemed oddly out of focus. That was until he slid the tools back inside his overcoat. Then his jaw clenched up again and his eyes began darting quickly around the yard behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder, too. No one was there — only a yard full of headstones like always. “Umm … It’s just me, Bernie. I brought you some lunch,” I said, and pointed to his tray.
Mr. Stein’s focus finally rested on me, and judging by the way his grip tightened on the door handle, I’d say he was ready to slam the door in my face yet again. However, his hunger must’ve gotten the better of him. He bent down to pick the tray up off the ground. As he did, I snuck a peek past his bristly head of hair at the worktable behind him. A fresh granite tile lay resting on top.
“Oh,” I said. “Orders coming in already?” I inched forward, but the tray and Mr. Stein were blocking my way. “Can I see what you’re doing?” I asked, still trying to get a good look over the top of his head.
Mr. Stein straightened up. With the tray in his hands, he took a step back, and this time used his foot to swing the door shut in my face.
Mama’s room was dark due to the heavy wool curtains blocking out all the sunlight. When the fuzzy, multicolored spots in my vision finally gave way to bedroom furniture and gray shadows, I shuffled my feet across the carpet and set Mama’s tray gently on her nightstand. As I turned to leave, Mama crooned, “Bernie?” Her voice was as soft as a budding leaf and I stopped to listen — not sure if she was truly awake or just talking in her sleep.
Most days, my feelings for Mama were tender. But sometimes, when I grew impatient, they turned bitter and downright unkind. Those days landed me in a great, big pile of shame, and I was glad this day wasn’t one of them. I leaned in, waiting to see if Mama would say more.
She did. “Bernie, who were you speaking to? Back by the cottage? I heard a man’s voice.” Mama spoke no louder than she had before. I looked at the heavy curtains now billowing from a steady breeze. Had Mama been standing by the open window? Not likely. She must’ve been able to hear us from her bed.
“Dad hired this man, Abbot Stein, to do etchings for the headstones, and I’m gonna learn to do them, too, and then —” I cut myself short when I saw the pained look on Mama’s face. I knew she’d rather I be out making friends than devoting all my time to Alpine Monuments, and here I was about to confess my plans to a take over the portrait making so Dad could spend more time with her. That would make her feel even worse — she’d think she was to blame — and Mama didn’t need anything else to fret about.
I backed myself up and out of the story altogether. “His portraits are amazing, Mama. He does them with a hammer and a chisel.” I could barely see her reaction in the sparse bit of light managing to fight its way through the curtains, but it seemed to soften. As my eyes adjusted further to the darkness, I took a better look. Mama’s face was thinner than the lady’s in the portrait; longer, too. But there was something in the high cheekbones, the pointed chin, and the wilted way she hung her head that reminded me so much of the woman in Mr. Stein’s etching.
“Oh? I’m sure your father is pleased. I’d like to see them sometime …” Mama said.
“You should come with me. I’ll take you down myself,” I offered, words spilling out of my mouth twice as quickly as my mother’s.
My mama gave me a smile so small, it almost wasn’t there. “Perhaps tomorrow, Bernie. I’m tired now.”
I nodded. “Okay, Mama,” I said, knowing full well Mama wasn’t coming with me to see any etchings. Not the next day, probably not ever.
I left quiet as I came, shuffling my feet right back out of the poorly lit room. Sometimes I thought maybe I could be the one to drag Mama out of the dark place she was stuck in. Then it wouldn’t matter how busy Dad and Mimi were. But I was never able to say or do the right thing. Worse, I usually said the wrong thing, and even just the sight of me seemed to pinch Mama’s heart more than she could bear. But it wasn’t my fault that my brother, Thomas, was also born with dark hair and thin lips. It wasn’t my fault that Mama couldn’t have any more babies and that looking at me always reminded her of what she never had, and of all that she’d lost.
Some of those angry feelings started to boil in the pit of my stomach. I squished them out by thinking of the woman’s portrait again and how I’d sketch it later in my pad. If anything could make me feel better, that could. I picked up speed as I raced down the stairs. I still had a boatload of chores to do and was hoping to fit another peek in the carriage house window before Mimi started looking for me to deliver supper trays.
AS IT TURNED OUT, MY SPYING WOULD HAVE TO WAIT. THREE whole days. Three maddeningly frustrating days — for that’s how long the storm lasted. Spindly fingers of lightning tore through the sky. Rain fell in hard sheets instead of drops, and Mimi said she hadn’t seen the angels in heaven spill so many tears over the earth since she was a little girl. Within minutes our backyard had turned into a tangle of mud puddles and headstones, and the neighbor’s jittery dog was barking at his imaginary adversary — THUNDER. All the while, my desire to figure out how Mr. Stein etched that lady’s portrait was growing deeper and stronger. However, I thought the storm did one good thing: Its timely arrival more or less forced Mimi into letting Mr. Stein take up residence in the carriage house.
After I had left Mama’s room, and after I’d swept off the porch and collected the mail from the box out front, my chores had led me back to the den. There I’d found Mimi shaking her head. She was saying, “Jonathan, we have enough weighing on this household without taking in a drifter. What do we even know about him? I just don’t think he can stay.”
In response, my father had stared silently out the back window. It was then that the first boom of thunder had rattled the house and the rain had begun its rat-a-tat-tatting on the rooftop. I watched as a ghost of a smile crept onto Dad’s face. But by the time he’d swiveled his head toward Mimi, it had faded away. “What would you have me do, then? Turn him out in this weather?”
Of course, she wouldn’t. Dad had known that before he’d asked. So Mr. Stein stayed, and the storm and I teamed together to bring him a whole bunch of sopping-wet meals. I was able to balance Mimi’s umbrella in the crook of one arm and keep myself dry when I carried his trays, but Mr. Stein’s food? Not so much. Not that I tried very hard, either.
The first night of the storm, I set the tray down by my rain-splattered flip-flops and beat the door with m
y fist, thinking he’d have to let me in for sure with this weather. When Mr. Stein didn’t answer, I beat it again — harder and louder, leaving no doubt in my mind that my pounding was heavier than the downpour.
I couldn’t imagine he’d gone anywhere. And I hadn’t been that pushy about my sketch and seeing the portrait — had I? Maybe he was still sleeping or else he didn’t feel like having soggy meat loaf. It’s not like I could run around to the window to check. Mimi’s umbrella hanging over my head would hardly go unnoticed if he was awake, what with its brightly colored roosters and all.
Yet, Mr. Stein’s tray was empty (except for the small ocean pooling in the middle) when I picked it up the next morning and placed a new one by his door. I knocked again. But, for a second time, he didn’t open up. Annoyed and more than a little bit angry, I left his French toast behind, floating like a sponge in maple syrup and rainwater. How was I ever gonna learn anything if he refused to even face me?
Right along with the storm, waves of want and longing were rippling through my heart. It reminded me of the time my wanting heart had told me to swipe Missy Princeton’s pencil. Missy had played at my house once (on one of Mama’s good days). And I thought we both had fun as I chased her, swirly-whirly, through the headstones. Looking back, maybe it was just me who was amused. ’Cause from then on she wouldn’t even look my direction, let alone come back to play.
But on the third day of second grade, when Ms. Tennyson called Missy up, roused the class in a chorus of “Happy Birthday” and handed over a sparkly sky-blue pencil, I stared hard at Missy. I knew right then, I would not be spending an entire school year with nothing but boring yellow number-two pencils. Wait an entire school year, until the very last day when Ms. Tennyson celebrated all the summer birthdays? Not me.
