Always Florence

by Muriel Jensen

  Hands flew up and excited suggestions were shouted. “Messy hair! Ripped up shirts! Scabs and blood all over! Mean faces!”

  Eddy, the lively second grader, made a twisted face that sent his classmates into hysterics.

  Pleased that the children were so responsive, Bobbie suddenly noticed Sheamus in a back corner, staring worriedly into space, while Fernanda distributed fresh sheets of white paper.

  Bobbie wondered what it was he didn’t like—art or monsters. He seemed to have enjoyed the turkey project, so it must be the latter. She was certain he wasn’t the only child here who worried about imaginary creatures that lurked in the dark.

  “All right.” She found herself clapping her hands to claim the children’s attention. How school-marmish was that? “I want each of you to draw a picture of what you think a monster would look like. If you opened your closet in the middle of the night and found one there, what do you think he’d be wearing? How would he have combed his hair that morning? Would he be wearing shoes, or would he have bare feet?”

  One little girl waved her hand.

  “Yes?” Bobbie asked.

  “Can I have a lady monster?”

  “Of course.” It was probably an equal-opportunity profession.

  Eddy looked up from his work to say profoundly, “There have to be lady monsters or there would never be baby monsters to take the place of old monsters when they die.”

  Bobbie was amazed. This was turning into an art and philosophy class. Or was it biology?

  She wandered up and down the aisle while the children worked, and stopped near Sheamus as he hesitantly made a circle, presumably for a face. She squeezed into the small, empty chair beside him. “That’s a good beginning, Sheamus.” She saw the concern in his face and spoke cheerfully. “This is just a picture of a pretend monster, so you can look at it and maybe decide it isn’t very scary, after all.”

  He considered a moment before adding a larger circle with stick arms and legs.

  “Very good,” she praised. “Probably ate too many French fries.”

  Sheamus looked up at her, his expression grave. “I think he ate some of my Halloween candy. And one of the cookies you gave me.”

  “Really? Are you sure you didn’t eat them when you were hungry, and just forgot?”

  “Maybe.”

  Other children were clamoring for Bobbie’s attention. She patted Sheamus’s arm, praised him for doing well, and went to the little girl who was creating a “lady” monster.

  “She gots lots of hair,” the girl said, making yellow crayon curls with great enthusiasm. “And she doesn’t let anybody say, ‘Shut up!’ or, ‘That sucks!’”

  “That’s just a mom,” Eddy said from across the room. “We’re supposed to make monsters!”

  “Sometimes moms are monsters,” another boy commented.

  Sheamus looked up from his drawing. “My mom was nice. And pretty.”

  “She died,” one child said knowingly.

  Bobbie held her breath, wondering how Sheamus would react. But apparently that truth was now a fact of his life.

  “Yeah,” he said, and went back to his work.

  Five minutes before her class was over, Bobbie spread their artwork on two tables at the front to save for next week. Fernanda helped her wash little hands, clean up and pack her supplies away.

  Bobbie was delighted that the children seemed enthusiastic about the work they’d done today. She headed home with a new glow in the center of her being. Emailing her friend Laura, she told her about the class, described Eddy and Sheamus, and passed on Sandy’s greeting.

  The glow remained with her for a long time.

  * * *

  A GOOD DAY’S work behind her, four sheets of paper drying safely inside her closed garage so that no act of nature, boy or dog could set her commission further behind, and dinner dishes finished, Bobbie walked across her backyard toward the Raleighs’ house with leftover Halloween candy and cookies.

  She had to talk to Nate, and the leftover candy would provide an excuse for the visit.

  At the back door, she rapped firmly.

  The door opened and Nate stood there in dark jeans and a soft blue sweater that seemed to imbue his hazel eyes with a hint of the same color. He looked surprised to see her. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not. So she prepared to get right to the point.

  She handed him the bag of leftover candy and the cookies, then folded her arms and fixed him with a firm stare. “This is the conversation I wanted to have with you on Halloween, but I didn’t want to yell at you in front of all those children. I am not fragile, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go around telling people that I am. I’m perfectly capable of finishing my commission, teaching an art class and creating a painting for the food bank fund-raiser.”

  “I meant...” he began.

  She wasn’t finished. “All you know about me,” she went on evenly, determined to keep her tone calm even though her words were testy, “is that I’ve had cancer and I’m an artist. That doesn’t qualify you to determine anything else about me except that I’ve had cancer and I’m an artist.”

  “Sandy...” He tried again.

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t count me out. When you’ve had a life-threatening disease, everyone wants to sit you down somewhere comfortable, cover you with a blanket and go around you, because they don’t know what to do for you. Well, I’ve struggled to get to the point where I can work again, and I will not let you—”

  “You will not let me speak?” he interrupted, his expression caught somewhere between anger and laughter.

  She hesitated, surprised that something about her telling him off amused him. “No, I will not let you—”

  “Explain?”

  “No!”

  “Tell you that I meant to help you, not insult you?” he persisted, “because that was my intention. Maybe you aren’t fragile, but you look fragile, and pardon me for not wanting Sandy to take advantage of you.”

  She heaved a sigh and said defensively, “Sandy meant well.”

  “Okay,” he said reasonably. “So did I. She’s a hardworking woman, but she’s like a runaway tank, and I wasn’t sure you could stand up to that.”

  He certainly understood Sandy. “I can stand up to anything,” Bobbie declared.

  “Hi!” Sheamus shot around his uncle, hair messy, eyes bright and flatteringly happy to see her. Arnold was beside him, wagging his tail. “Come in!” On second thought, the boy looked up at Nate. “Can she come in? I finished my homework.” He took hold of Bobbie’s hand while waiting for the decision from his uncle.

  “Sheamus, I have things to...” She started to demur at the same moment that Nate stepped aside. She suspected he knew she’d rather not stay, and deliberately took the choice from her.

  “Sure,” he said. “Please come in, Bobbie.”

  “Want to see my room?” Sheamus pulled her across the kitchen.

  “Is it presentable?” Nate asked in some concern.

  “Sort of,” Sheamus shouted over his shoulder as he continued to tug on her hand. Arnold tried to follow them, but Nate pointed to his green plaid bed in the corner of the kitchen. Bobbie noticed that it was the size of a single bed.

  Sheamus pulled her down the corridor, through the living room to the stairs, talking a mile a minute. She had a quick impression of large pieces of furniture in beige and dark blue, a fireplace, oak tables and kid things all around.

  Had Bobbie not picked up her pace, she’d have been dragged up the stairs to the middle room on the west side of the house. Small play figures were lined up on the floor. Green rubber soldiers, pink pigs, black-and-white cows and a variety of dogs stood facing a single stuffed animal with large purple ears, a green-and-yellow-striped nose and fuzzy blue protrusions from his
head—antennae, she guessed. Apparently, a diverse community had allied to fight off an alien invasion.

  The bed was half-made, with a Spider-Man bedspread that matched Spider-Man curtains. The room was a little chaotic but clearly kid-friendly.

  Sheamus opened a wooden trunk at the foot of his bed to show her a jumble of toys and a special box that held electronic ones. “You have to be careful with that stuff,” he said, as though quoting an adult, “or it won’t stay in good working order.”

  “That’s very true,” she agreed seriously, wondering what she was doing. She’d come to give Nate a piece of her mind, and here she was, completely immersed in kid territory.

  Sheamus opened dresser drawers so she could see his shirts and pants. He pointed at the top drawer. “That’s underwear and socks. And...” His sunny cheer seemed to dim a little as he turned toward the closet. “That’s where my cold weather stuff is. And my basketball.”

  “I like basketball,” Bobbie wondered at his change of mood and wandered to the closet. She noticed he took a step back from it. She smiled at him and put a hand to the doorknob, then remembered his expression when they’d begun to draw monsters. “There’s a basketball hoop over my garage,” she said, “but I don’t have a ball.”

  “It won’t be winter for a long time,” he said. “We don’t have to open the closet until then.”

  “But what if we want to play basketball?”

  “Then...we’ll ask Uncle Nate to open it.” His eyes were wide pools of concern. “We keep my jacket downstairs so we don’t have to go into the closet.”

  She dropped her hand from the doorknob and went to sit on the edge of his bed. “Is there something else in there?” she asked casually.

  He came to stand beside her, clearly afraid, and embarrassed that he was. He nodded. “It’s...a monster.”

  She put an arm around him and drew him closer. Fear was something she understood. “You know, monsters make good stories and movies, but they’re really not real. They’re just fiction. Make-believe.”

  He looked directly into her eyes. “He’s in there.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “No,” he admitted, “but I know what he looks like. I can tell. And I hear him all the time.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He doesn’t talk, he makes noises.”

  “What kind of noises?”

  “He growls. And sometimes in the middle of the night, he just hums.”

  Bobbie hugged Sheamus a little closer. “It doesn’t seem like we should be afraid of something that hums. That’s like a song, but without words. If he’s singing in there, that doesn’t sound very dangerous.”

  The boy considered that a moment, then sighed and said, “It’s okay if you think it’s stupid. Dylan thinks it is, too, but Uncle Nate says sometimes you just can’t help how you feel, even if it is stupid.”

  “I don’t think it’s stupid at all. Everybody has stuff they’re afraid of. But being afraid stops you from doing all kinds of things. Like, what if it gets really cold and you want to go out and play, but you won’t go into the closet to get your winter coat?”

  “Uncle Nate will get it for me.”

  “What if Uncle Nate’s at work?”

  Sheamus smiled disarmingly. “I’ll come and get you. You’re not afraid of monsters, are you?”

  It wasn’t good to lie to a child, so she compromised and told a half-truth. “I’m only going to be here until January. And that’s when the cold part of winter gets going. Whoever is living in my place then might not want to come over.”

  “Then I guess I’ll stay inside and play with my Game Boy.”

  Bobbie stood and kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay,” she said. “One day you’ll wake up and feel really brave and you’ll open the closet.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  She heard movement at the bedroom door and looked up to see Dylan standing there, his expression serious. He had one of the pens she’d given him in his hand, and the sketchbook tucked under his arm. He smiled suddenly. “Hi, Bobbie. I thought I heard you. Can you help me? I don’t understand some of the things you gave me.”

  “Which things?”

  “My bag’s downstairs. Can you stay awhile and show me how to use them?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I should...” Again she made an effort to refuse the invitation and go home. But Sheamus already had her hand again and was dragging her back downstairs. “Come on. You can help me with my monster!”

  “Is it okay if Bobbie stays for a while?” Dylan asked Nate as the three of them arrived in the kitchen at a run. Bobbie leaned against the doorjamb to catch her breath.

  Nate looked her over with sudden sympathy. “Do you want to stay?”

  Dylan replied for her. “She’s going to show me what to do with some of the stuff she gave me,” he said, and went to the table where his art bag hung over the back of a chair.

  “And she’s going to help me with my picture.” Sheamus pulled out a chair at the table, then said gravely to his uncle, “Maybe she should have a cup of coffee, Uncle Nate.”

  “You’re right. Coming up.” Nate turned back to the counter as Sheamus pushed Bobbie toward the chair and Dylan sat opposite her.

  “I love all the stuff you gave me.” Dylan frowned suddenly and handed her the square eraser. “But I don’t know how this works.”

  “Here. I’ll show you.”

  Nate got a mug down from the shelf and watched her and the boys.

  “This is no ordinary eraser,” she told Dylan, pulling and tugging on it, warming it with her hands until the rubber was malleable. She rolled it between her palms to form a ball, then pulled out a small section almost into a point.

  “This is almost like having another color,” she went on. “It allows you to take out what you don’t want in a sketch and leave white space. And when you manipulate it to make it skinny like this...” She made a mark on a piece of paper with one of his pencils, then removed a small part with the tip of the eraser. “...you can get the tiniest spot out of a very small space.”

  She rolled the rubber back into a ball, then used it to remove the entire mark.

  Dylan looked on in surprise. “Wow!”

  “Isn’t that cool? You should work it in your hands when you start. I do it while I’m looking at a sketch and planning what I’m going to do next.”

  Dylan looked up at Nate in obvious delight. Then, realizing what he’d done, he glanced away again.

  “Cool,” Nate said simply. He put a cup of steaming coffee in front of Bobbie. “Cream or sugar?” he asked.

  “No, I drink it straight,” she replied. “Thank you.” She took a quick sip and set the cup back down.

  Sheamus sat across the table from Dylan and beckoned her over to look at his project. She saw that a sheet of drawing paper was attached to a board with stationery clips. “This is cool,” she said.

  “Uncle Nate made them for us.” Sheamus reclaimed his art. “I haven’t gotten very far,” he complained, tapping his pencil against the same head and trunk circles he’d drawn in her class.

  “We just have to think about this.” She leaned toward his drawing. “So, we know he should have hair. What do you think his hair looks like? What color is it?”

  “Your color,” he said.

  She found the black pencil in the array spread beside him and handed it to him.

  “Is it curly?”

  “No. It sticks up. Like punk hair.”

  “Okay. Give him some hair.” She peered closer. “Make it just like you see it in your mind.”

  He made large, irregular spikes atop the head circle. “Like that?”

  “What about his nose?”

  With the same penci
l, Sheamus drew a big circle in the middle of the monster’s face. He added dots for nostrils.

  “Very good,” she declared. “Does he have lumpy ears, too?”

  The boy shook his head. “Pointy ears.”

  “Okay. Let’s see what they look like.”

  Sheamus carefully made bat ears, then leaned back to study his work. “Yeah. That’s about right. And he has big shoes with a big buckle on them.” He drew the feet, one considerably larger than the other, then added straps and a lopsided but clearly defined buckle on each.

  “All right. He’s really taking shape.”

  Sheamus turned to her and said gravely, “He needs a tool belt.”

  “Really. Why a tool belt?” she asked.

  “Because I heard him working in there.”

  “I thought he was humming.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, but maybe he’s using power tools.”

  “Is he building stuff? Is there anything new in your closet that wasn’t there before? Like another shelf, or something?”

  He looked at her with a “duh!” expression. “I don’t know. I can’t go in there, remember?”

  Flawless logic. She nodded in apology.

  He handed her the pencil. “I don’t know how to draw a tool belt. Can you do it?”

  “Sure.” She took a long pull on her coffee, then moved the board toward her, considering a minute before she began to draw. She created a belt with dangling pockets around his bulky middle, a power drill sticking out of it, and a power hammer dangling from a loop. Bobbie had both tools in her own arsenal in the garage.

  Sheamus was delighted. He stood and leaned over her shoulder to watch her work. She could feel his little heart beating against her arm.

  Nate came to stand over them. “Handsome dude,” he said. “But he doesn’t have eyes.”

  “We’re getting to that.” Bobbie handed him her half-empty cup. “That’s really good stuff. May I have a warm-up?”

  “I’m on it. Anyone want cocoa?”

  Sheamus shook his head. “I want to finish Shrek first.”

  Bobbie looked up, completely distracted by Sheamus’s reply. Her eyes met Nate’s. She could tell they shared the same thought. Shrek was seriously nonthreatening as monsters went. That seemed like a good sign.