Many Points of Me

by Caroline Gertler

The microwave beeps, and the door swings open to a mess that looks like someone threw up in there. It exploded all over. Cleaning up the chunks of bean and cheese makes me want to gag.

  But then I’m still hungry. The garlic smells from Mrs. Velandry’s apartment waft up to the sixth floor, making my stomach rumble.

  A minute later I knock at her door, covering my ears to Olive’s sharp barking. It’s worth it to snuggle Royal and get a hot meal.

  After turning all the locks, Mrs. Velandry greets me with a wide smile on her wrinkled face, in her favorite red-and-white-checked apron, a wooden spoon in one hand and a rainbow pot holder I made for her in the other hand.

  “Come in! I’m just stirring up a big pot of your favorite.” She gestures for me to have a seat with her spoon, which is dripping green soup onto the floor. Olive slurps it up eagerly. Pea soup sounds yucky and the idea of it kind of is, but nothing is as delicious as Mrs. Velandry’s pea soup. Except maybe for her zucchini bread.

  The Velandrys didn’t have any children, and I don’t really have any grandparents. Dad’s parents died before I was born, and Mom’s parents live in western Canada and we rarely see them. Mrs. Velandry always says she has the dogs instead.

  If it’s true that owners begin to look like their dogs, then that’s certainly the case with Mrs. Velandry and her Shih Tzus—her face has their smushed-in sweetness and big, round eyes. She’s cozy, too, in her hand-knitted cardigans. Mauve, today. That’s how I’d paint Mrs. Velandry—in an elegant mauve. Pinkish purple with overtones of gray.

  Royal and Olive run circles around my feet. Royal sniffs at my boots and jumps up on my legs with his sharp little paws.

  Two jumps, then he stretches out on the floor as if he’s spent enough energy for one evening. I lean down to stroke his fuzzy back, the smooth roundness of his head and velvety ears. He nuzzles into my hand.

  Olive keeps her distance and barks, as if telling me to mind my own business. Which is strange, because usually she stops when she sees it’s only me.

  “That’s enough!” Mrs. Velandry shouts. She gives the soup a firm stir, and slices homemade brown bread to melt cheddar on top.

  Olive doesn’t listen to her, either, but eventually she gets bored of barking. She gives a few half-hearted harrumphs, then pads over to the faded corduroy dog bed and curls up to snooze.

  I give Royal a few kisses and put him down on the bed to snuggle with Olive.

  “Those dogs.” Mrs. Velandry tsks as she places a thick bowl of soup and a plate of grilled cheese on the table in front of me. “Shih Tzus are not supposed to be barkers. Don’t know what went wrong with Olive.”

  I laugh. “But Royal loves her, doesn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes. They remind me of you and Theo. Two peas in a pod. No pun intended.”

  I give her a confused look, and then realize she means the pea soup.

  I smile and dip the corner of the grilled cheese into the soup. That first bite is heaven.

  “Where is he these days, your other half?” she asks.

  I guess she’s noticed us coming home from school without each other.

  “Busy with stuff.”

  “He’s a good kid, that Theo,” she says as she prepares the dogs’ kibble and sets their food bowls down, then comes to sit across from me at the table. “Reminds me of your dad, in a way. How they look at the world. You can see it in his face, that dreamy quality. Something more is going on behind there than meets the eye. That thing that makes them artists.”

  The grilled cheese suddenly feels rubbery and thick in my throat. The soup, sour. Theo reminds her of my dad—but what about me? Don’t I have that dreamy artist quality, too? But I don’t want to have to ask.

  “Did he ever used to talk to you about his art?” I ask instead. Because maybe she’ll be able to tell me something useful.

  “Not directly—but I knew he was always thinking about it. You could be having an everyday conversation with him about the weather, and you knew that in another part of his mind, he was thinking about his work.”

  I nod. I remember how I’d get frustrated with him when I’d be telling him a story and he’d tell me to hold on while he sketched or jotted down an idea. But maybe that’s what made him a real artist.

  “You were probably too young to remember how he used to walk Royal and Olive in the park, pushing you for a nap in the stroller. For hours. Those dogs would sleep the rest of the day after those walks.”

  I don’t remember, but I look at Royal, gobbling up his food, and wonder if he does.

  “One time he came back—you were still asleep in the stroller—and he was practically manic. He told me he’d gotten the best idea for a series of paintings, from bird-watching. Blue jays, cardinals, pigeons, robins . . .”

  The Bird series. Dad did three others in addition to Charcoal on Green, which I just saw at Harper’s house: Red on White, the winter painting of the cardinal in the snow; Brown on Pink, the spring painting of a robin perched on a branch of cherry blossoms; and Blue on Yellow, a blue jay in the yellow autumn leaves of a tree.

  Mrs. Velandry continues: “He left you sleeping in the stroller and took out his sketchbook and a pencil, and sat right here—where you’re sitting. Yes, in that very seat. He sketched out the ideas, the whole series, right then and there.”

  A chill runs through me.

  “He even gave me those drawings. After he worked out the idea upstairs over the next few months. He wanted me to have them as a thank-you.”

  “Where are they now?” My brain is ticking—maybe, on the back of one of those bird drawings, he made asterism points that would later become Bird in the Tree—the asterism painting in Harper’s dad’s office.

  “Gosh, you see what a mess it is here?” Mrs. Velandry waves at her overflowing desk and bookshelves. “I’ll look for them. I really should keep things like that in a safer place. They could be valuable, right?”

  I nod. “Does my mom know about them? I bet they’d be useful for her exhibit.”

  “Not sure that she does.” Mrs. Velandry frowns in realization. “I didn’t think of that. I’ll tell you if I can find them.”

  “What about the asterism paintings?” I ask. Maybe she knows something about them, too. Maybe she can tell me something that will show how I might’ve inspired him to paint the stars, not just Theo.

  “Ah, he loved looking at the stars. When your dad first rented the apartment, it was all about the outdoor space. He liked that it had the little balcony for his telescope. Can you believe, he even got me out there once!” She gives a wistful look. “You still use it, I hope?”

  “Actually, we can’t find our key.” I cross my fingers. “Do you have another one?”

  “That’s a shame. Let me check.” She uses the master key from her giant keyring to unlock the metal wall cabinet that stores all the building keys. She scans the rows of hooks.

  “Here it is.” She pulls the little key off the hook and holds it in her hand an extra few beats, as if deciding whether to give it to me. “It’s my only one. Tell you what. I’ll get a copy made and then give it to your mom. It’s too cold outside anyway, these days, for stargazing.”

  I don’t want her to give Mom the key—she’s already misplaced our current one, and who knows if I’ll ever see the new one. “But you know Mom’s so busy. I’ll come get it for her.” I think of a reason, fast. “Also, it has something to do with a special surprise I want to make for her.”

  Mrs. Velandry falls for it. “Deal. As long as you promise no nonsense monkey business, you hear me?” She wags a stubby finger in my face.

  I stifle a giggle. She’s referring to the time that Theo tried to make a rope ladder from his room to my room. Mrs. Velandry ended up having to call the fire department to rescue him when he got too petrified on his windowsill even to turn himself around and go back into his room. No one besides me was impressed.

  “Promise.” I smile.

  But Mrs. Velandry’s attention has shifted to Royal, who�
�s stopped eating. He coughs and shudders and collapses onto his back.

  “Royal!” Mrs. Velandry cries, sinking to her knees next to the dog, whose whole body is trembling. “He’s having a seizure.”

  I freeze, watching what I think is the end of Royal’s life. No. It can’t happen this way—Royal was Dad’s. We can’t lose him now. Not like this.

  Mrs. Velandry places her hand on Royal’s belly, and after what seems like forever, the convulsing stops. He rights himself, shakes his head, and hobbles to his bed, leaving behind a small puddle of pee.

  “Oh, my poor baby.” Mrs. Velandry rubs Royal’s back. “He doesn’t want to eat after a seizure. They’re becoming more frequent.”

  Olive glances at her brother and then puts her face back in the bowl to finish all the food. Maybe that’s why her stomach is almost touching the ground.

  I’ve completely lost my appetite for pea soup and grilled cheese.

  “What can we do to help him?” I ask.

  “Oh, doll . . . The vet says there’s not much we can do at this point, given his age. My poor, poor boy.”

  My throat is tight, like I’m choking on the tears I’m holding in. Royal is seventeen, which I know is super old for a dog, and his health isn’t great. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to lose him.

  I sit on the floor next to his bed as Mrs. Velandry cleans up his accident. He seems so delicate now, like a sack of old bones. I’m afraid to lift him into my lap, worried I might hurt him. But then, maybe being held will comfort him. He gives a soft moan of contentment as I pick him up and he molds himself into my lap.

  We sit on the floor like that for a long time, watching The Sound of Music, which is showing on TV. I might’ve even fallen asleep for a bit, curled up with Royal in my lap.

  Until the doorbell rings, and Mom is there to bring me home. I stretch and rub my eyes, and reluctantly put Royal back on his bed, with Olive.

  Hoping this won’t be the last time I see him.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  Saturday morning I’m heavy with dread from a nightmare that I was walking Royal and he slipped out of his collar and darted into the street. I wake up just as I try to grab him, and then remember the reality, which isn’t much better.

  I distract myself by going through some of Dad’s papers with Mom. His sketchbooks from when he was my age. Things like art class assignments: bowls of fruit, landscapes, people. I study those sketches for signs that one day he’d be a great artist. But all I see is the working and reworking of lines and angles, as he drew and erased and drew again to get something just right.

  I hear his voice saying one of his favorite phrases about art: “Practice makes perfect.” I never got the chance to ask him what it means if you keep practicing and only get worse—not better. Nowhere close to perfect. Is there such a thing as perfect in art, anyway? How do you know when you’ve gotten to it? And, what if you decide that you can’t reach it, so you just stop trying?

  Mom opens an accordion portfolio and pulls out a stack of papers. I see her face flush, and she tries to stuff them back in before I can see.

  “What?” I ask, pulling on her arm. “What is it?”

  “Oh, nothing important,” she says. “Just some drawings from around when we first met.”

  Now I need to know. I wrestle the portfolio from her hands; she doesn’t put up much of a fight. I pull out the pages and see they’re all sketches of a woman. Mom, is my first thought. I flip to the back of each page as I look quickly, knowing Mom is uncomfortable, just to see if maybe there are some asterism points on any of these.

  And then I see that one of them is nude. It’s not super detailed or anything gross, but still—I do not want to see. “Ew!” I shove the pages back toward Mom.

  She smiles. “They’re not all me,” she says, coyly. “And besides, nude figure drawing is key to artistic training—I bet you’ll do it too, in a few years.”

  “This is way too much information.” I put my hands over my eyes as she giggles. But I kind of like the sound of that giggle—one I haven’t heard much in the last two years.

  Mom gets her workbag together to head over to the Met for the rest of the day. We plan for me to meet her there for lunch after I go to the stationery store to get a new marker set for the Valentine’s Day card designs.

  But in the lobby, we hear crying from Mrs. Velandry’s apartment.

  Royal. I tell Mom what happened last night.

  “Oh, my.” Mom looks at me with worry, glances at her watch. She’s going to be late to work and risk her eyes getting itchy and watery from the dogs, but she knocks on the door anyway.

  “Mrs. Velandry,” she calls, “everything okay?”

  The crying stops, and the sound of footsteps, punctuated by the thump of her cane, approaches the door. She turns the locks.

  “Oh, Georgia and Sally, you’re so kind to check on me.”

  “Of course.” Mom tries to peek over Mrs. Velandry’s shoulder, to see what’s going on. “How’s Royal?”

  “He’s at the vet,” Mrs. Velandry says, even as tears drip down her face.

  I realize one thing is different, coming into Mrs. Velandry’s apartment. Quiet.

  “What about Olive?” I ask.

  Mrs. Velandry begins sobbing again. Heavy, gasping sobs. Mom reaches out to put her arms around her, to walk her to a seat at her kitchen table.

  That’s when I see Olive, curled up quiet as a stuffed animal on the dog bed in the corner. Her eyes are open and moving back and forth, like she’s watching us and listening, but she’s too sad to make her usual noise without her brother. Her best friend. What if, maybe, all these years, she’s barked not to annoy us, but to protect Royal?

  Mrs. Velandry tells us how she went to sleep, thinking Royal was okay, that it was just another seizure. But this morning he refused to eat breakfast. So she called the vet, who said she had to bring him in. It’s not easy for Mrs. Velandry to go out, but she had to, for Royal.

  “The vet is keeping him there for observation and hydration overnight,” she tells us. “He’s on an IV. But they say his stomach is full of tumors, and if they can’t get him to eat . . . Oh, it’s going to be tough, my dears. Very tough.”

  Mom’s eyes are teary—I think because she’s crying, not just from allergies. I want to run over to the vet’s office right now, to tell them to let Royal go, to bring him home in my arms and nurse him back to health. I don’t ever want to lose him.

  “We have to do what’s right for him,” Mrs. Velandry says, as if she reads my thoughts. “Can’t let him suffer.”

  I nod, knowing she’s right, and try to focus on poor Olive. I wonder if she’ll ever recover from losing Royal. Or if, like me, she’ll stop working like she’s supposed to. She’ll stop knowing how to be the dog she was before.

  Mom checks her phone; her eyes are getting redder. “I have to get to work now, but please, let me know how Royal is doing. You shouldn’t be alone for this,” she tells Mrs. Velandry. “I’ll come with you, tomorrow.”

  “Me, too,” I say.

  They exchange a look. At first I think Mom is going to say no, that I can’t come. But then, slowly, she nods. “Okay,” she says. “It’ll be tough, but I respect if that’s what you want.”

  It’s not really what I want. What I want is not to lose Royal.

  But I know that I have to be brave for him: to say goodbye, to hold him one last time.

  Outside, I drink in the relief of the cold air after the staleness of Mrs. Velandry’s apartment. Mom pulls me into a strong hug and holds me like that for a long time before I pull away.

  She heads toward the bus stop to go across town to the Met, and I walk over to Golden Leaf Stationers, our local art supply shop, trying to clear my head from thinking about Royal. The checkout man, Fareed, keeps a plastic jar of Tootsie Rolls on the counter. He’s worked there for thirty years and now owns the store—he bought it after the previous owner retired.

  “Miss Georgia.
Long time, no see!”

  “Hey.” I keep the glumness out of my voice. But it shows on my face.

  “What’s getting you down today? The weather?”

  I nod, letting him think the gray skies that signal approaching snow are affecting my mood.

  “Where’s your buddy?” Fareed asks.

  Theo. As if he might help me feel better. Theo’s more allergic to dogs than Mom is, and he only sees Royal as something that makes his skin break out in hives. I don’t think he’s touched him once in his life.

  “Don’t know.” I turn to browse the colored marker sets for inspiration.

  As I’m deciding between two different sets, a jar of silvery-gray glitter on a nearby shelf catches my eye. It makes me think of something: moondust. That astronaut marking his daughter’s initials on the moon.

  I snatch up the glitter, four 12´´ x 12´´ primed wood panels, and a bottle of wood glue, and set them down on the checkout counter, along with a twenty-four-color marker set. An image is swirling in my mind: me, making my mark in the lunar dust, with the glitter as dust. The first girl on the moon.

  Even if I’m not going to enter NYC ART, I still have to make a self-portrait for Mr. B’s art class.

  Fareed rings up these materials. He raises his eyes at the glitter. “Trying something different?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Different can be good. Different makes you think in new ways, yes?”

  “I hope so.”

  Fareed gets this distant look on his face as he writes down the charge in his book. We have an account here that Mom pays every month.

  “Your dad, you know he was one of the kindest men I ever met.”

  “Really?” I love when people tell stories about Dad, the person. Not just about how much they love his art. I pluck a Tootsie Roll from the jar, unwrap it, and pop it in my mouth. The burst of chocolate brings me back to being here with Dad.

  “Yes. Always gentle, always soft-spoken, never a loud word. Some artists, they get all, what’s the expression? Worked up. That’s it. But not your dad. One time, when you were very little, you knocked a whole shelf of paints over by mistake. Other fathers, they get angry, yell. But not your dad. He laughed, and together we put everything back on the shelf.” He shakes his head, that shake people give that means what a shame he died so young.