Paint by Magic (11 page)

"But our father was strong, and he did go off to fight in the Great War," Homer said sadly, "and so
he
was the one who died."

I sat down next to Betty on the grass. It was damp and cold on the ground, but the sun was warm on my face. "I'm sorry about your dad," I said. "That's really tough."

"Well, you know how it is," she said. But again there was that challenging note in her voice, like, did I
really
know?

"So we're nearly orphans, too," said Elsie mournfully.

"Chester and Elsie never knew him," Betty told me. She plucked some blades of grass and rolled them into a little green ball. "But I was five, and Homer was three, and I remember. Our dad didn't actually die in the war, not really. He came home wounded, and I remember how we all tiptoed around the house a lot, not wanting to disturb his rest. And the doctor was always coming by. For a while it seemed he was getting better. It was a chest wound, and he was weak, but he could sit up in a chair during the day, and even walk out here in the garden." She ducked her head and her hair hid her face. Her voice faltered. "But then he developed pneumonia, and he ... he died, anyway."

"That's really sad," I said. It made me uncomfortable, listening to them talk about their dead dad. I mean, I know plenty of kids whose parents are divorced, but only one with a dead parent. That's Lissie Albertson, whose mom got hit by a car when she was crossing the street. Everybody feels so terrible for Lissie, but nobody knows what to say about her mom.

They were all silent for a second. Betty cleared her throat hard a few times.

"I remember Daddy, too!" insisted Elsie.

"You couldn't!" objected Betty, raising her head to frown at her sister. "You were only a one-year-old baby—and Chester wasn't even born yet."

"I was
almost
born!" said Chester indignantly.

"So your uncle's been in a bad mood ever since your dad died?" I looked around at the four kids. "And painting can't help him feel better? You know, like therapy?"

"Nothing made him feel better," said Betty. "Until Pammie came."

I got that weird, sick sort of feeling in my stomach again. "Tell me about her," I said, trying to sound casual.

"No, Connor," said Betty. "How about
you
tell us about her?"

I'd been expecting a challenge—but not this one, coming out of the blue like that. I was shocked. How had Betty guessed? The other kids hadn't, from the look of them. They were gaping at me and Betty in surprise. Obviously they hadn't cottoned on to it yet.
Cottoned
on to it. Get it?

"I don't know what you mean," I said sternly to Betty.

"Oh, of course," she replied. "You never heard of Pammie in your life?"

"How could he?" asked Homer.

"This is the exact spot where Uncle Fitzy found her," Elsie said suddenly. "Right, Homer? Wasn't it right here under the plum trees?"

"Yup." He nodded. "Lying on the ground like some old
corpse
—but she was only sleeping."

"He
found
her out here?" I asked. Mom must have been swept through the wind like I was. She must have landed here—just like I landed on the floor of the studio.

"Yup," said Elsie. "Right here." She sighed. "I miss her. I thought they were gonna get married. I coulda been the flower girl. It's not fair."

"What did you say?" I demanded. "
Married?
"

They just stared at me. I wrenched out a handful of grass. "Who was going to get married?" I asked Elsie more gently, staring at the blades and dirt in my palm.

"Uncle Fitzy and Pammie, of course," Elsie said. "Pammie was Uncle Fitzy's model. He loved her; you could tell. But then she left us, and now we're all sad."

"Mama's not so sad," Homer corrected Elsie. "I mean, she liked Pammie and all—who wouldn't? But she'd rather have Uncle Fitzy marry
her,
don't you think?" He jumped high to pull down a tiny hard plum off the tree, and then looked over at me. "Since our dad's dead, our mama could get married again, you know. If she found the right person."

"Uncle Fitzy isn't going to, marry Mama," said Betty scornfully. "He's in such a black mood all the time, he doesn't even notice Mama anymore. He doesn't notice
anybody
anymore, and he's grown rather horrid, if you ask me, even worse than before. He's always snapping at you when you say anything. I'm glad Mama won't be marrying such a grouch."

"He's just missing Pammie," said Elsie. "It's so romantic."

"
Hmmph.
" Betty sniffed. "If you like him so much, then
you
can take up his meal trays."

"I didn't say I like him!" Elsie corrected her hastily. "I just said he's missing Pammie."

I couldn't hold it in anymore. "Well, she couldn't marry him, anyway, because she's
already
married!" I blurted out. And then, of course, I wished I hadn't said it, because Homer and Elsie and Chester were all over me: "What do you mean?" "How could you know?" "Do you know Pammie after all?" and so on.

Betty just sat there with a superior smile on her face because I'd given myself away. She'd been right all along that I did know Pammie.

But I tried to cover up, anyway. "It's just an educated guess," I said quickly. "Probably that's why she left you—she must have had a husband waiting." I looked up at the lacy branches of the plum trees.

Here on this sun-warmed grass, my mother had been found by Fitzgerald Cotton. She'd been a time traveler just as I was—and to this same place. This was where she'd been and why she'd made that strange comment about having been away for so long! She'd known these same people I was just meeting now. It was more mind-boggling than any
Mad Scientist
episode I'd ever seen, because things like this just didn't happen.

But it had, and I couldn't help but feel it had happened for a reason. I was here because I was supposed to do something.

But what, Mom? Why didn't you tell me?

Because she couldn't. Because she was frozen. Maybe because she thought no one would believe her. I felt close to her suddenly, and almost thought I could hear her voice calling to me from far away.

Connor! Connor!
The voice had a desperate tone to it.

I shook my head and the voice was gone. I looked up at all the kids staring at me and rubbed my hands across my face. "So tell me more about this model," I said to the kids in what I hoped was a cool, casual tone. "Like, did she just hang out here and get painted all the time? Didn't she have other stuff to do with her time—you know, like go to work? Didn't she miss her husband and children and job?"

Homer threw a small, unripe plum at me. "She never mentioned a husband or children. She stayed with us all year—and then just all of a sudden was gone. She's been gone about a month already, and Uncle Fitz has turned into a beast."

She was here a whole year?
Hadn't she missed us? The thought made me uncomfortable. Hadn't she tried to come home?

"Why did she stay so long?" I asked.

"Why wouldn't she stay?" replied Homer. "She was Uncle Fitzy's best model."

Simple as that, huh?
"But where had she come-from in the first place?" I persisted.

"That's definitely one of life's big mysteries," replied Betty, raising her eyebrows at me. "And there are others. Maybe
you
can give us some answers?"

I had to look away from her again.

"Uncle Fitzy had a tantrum when Pammie left," Elsie reported solemnly. "A very big one. And he
keeps
having tantrums and crying about her. He needed her, and he loved her, and now he can't paint since she's been gone."

"He says he may never be able to paint again," added Homer. "He just stays up in his studio, raging and banging things around. Mama says it must feel like being in a black hole for him to be without his muse. Nobody can talk to him, and nobody but Gramma dares to get too near him." He threw another plum hard against the garden gate. "The old cuss."

Elsie had pulled up some little daisies and was threading the stems together in a daisy chain. "But it's not just Uncle Fitzy. We
all
miss Pammie—she was hotsy-totsy. She was the bee's knees." Then she added softly, "You would have liked her, Connor."

I looked up. Betty was still watching me.

A bell started ringing somewhere, and all four of the Cotton kids jumped up.
Saved,
I thought. Betty made me nervous.

"Dinnertime!" yelled Chester, racing off for the house. "Grandpa's home!"

The rest of us followed. Grandpa was a round old guy, standing on the back stoop, waving a big handbell up and down. Suspenders held up his baggy brown pants, and he had a bald head like a shiny egg. Homer introduced him to me as Mr. Edgar Cotton. Mr. Cotton smiled and pumped my hand like he was trying to draw water from a well. Then we all went inside to the dining room.

This is what Mom wanted.
The big round table was set for eight. There was candlelight. There were platters of chicken and potatoes and green beans with onions. I was seated between Homer and Betty, and I watched them out of the corner of my eye so I would be sure not to make any mistakes. The whole family—minus Uncle Fitzy, who apparently never came downstairs for meals and was served on a tray up in his studio—bowed their heads and said a prayer together.
Grace,
Mom had called it.
For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.

Then Mr. Cotton cleared his throat and said, "And, Lord, please end this blasted Prohibition so we can enjoy a glass of wine with our meal again! I have half a mind to turn bootlegger myself!"

"Now, Edgar," reproved Joanna. "It's the law."

"Damnable silly law, when the government tells us what to eat and drink in our own homes!" But he subsided and took a big drink of his lemonade.

I remembered how Mom had spoken of Prohibition at our dinner table. And with a shiver it hit me again that Mom had sat right here at this table with this family. Maybe she had sat in this very chair, where I was sitting now. Weird as that thought was, it made me feel safer somehow, like she was watching over me.

Mrs. Cotton started passing the platters, and that got my mind off Mom. Joanna had to help Chester, who was trying to take all the chicken for himself, and Mr. Cotton heaped green beans on my plate before I could tell him I really didn't eat green things. But everything smelled fantastic, anyway. And with the old man's blue eyes fixed on me, I couldn't very well not take a bite of the beans ... which was when I found out I liked green things after all, at least in 1926. If Mrs. White would use real butter and lots of salt instead of nonfat yogurt and sprinklings of herbs on vegetables, maybe I'd eat them in my own time, too.

"Me first, me first!" shouted Chester all of a sudden, raising his hand like we were in school.

"No, you were first last time, Chess," Homer objected.

"Oldest to youngest," said Betty officiously. "That means I go first."

"Uh-uh," objected Elsie. "That would be Grandpa!"

Of course I didn't have a clue what they were talking about. But Joanna smiled. "Let's let our guest go first," she said, and turned to me. "Telling about our day. What were the high points of your day, Connor?"

Joanna went on to explain that this is what they always did at dinner, every night: listened to each other tell a few of the high points—or low points—of their day.
Copycat, Mom!
I thought.

"Uncle Fitzy used to eat with us," Elsie added, "and he always told us about how well his paintings were coming because Pammie was modeling."

"And what did ... um ... Pammie tell?" I asked.

"Oh, she loved to tell all sorts of things. About canning peaches with Mama," said Elsie. "Or learning to knit. Funny, there were a lot of ordinary things she didn't know how to do when she came. We figure she was probably very wealthy and grew up with lots of servants."

"But she was a fast learner," said Mrs. Cotton. "She was clever, our Pamela. Clever and mysterious, but what I wouldn't give for her to come back to us if it meant Fitz would be part of the family again." There was a really sad tone to her voice, and Mr. Cotton heard it, too.

"Now, Mother," he said gently, "let's not season our supper with tears. Let's hear from our new visitor. Can you tell us something cheerful, lad?"

I cleared my throat. "Well," I said, wondering what they'd say if I told them what really had happened to me today. Instead I looked around at all their interested faces and thought of what an orphan would say. "Well, my high point was dropping in on the Cotton family. It's so nice of you to let me stay. And to feed me! Definitely a high point." And I took a big mouthful of chicken so I wouldn't have to say anything else.

We went around the table, and everyone had something to say. And it
was
interesting, somehow, even though everybody said pretty much the same thing about how nice it was that I'd come to visit. But they added other high points, like Elsie's doll tea party in her friend Agnes's garden, and Betty's roller-skating race with her chums (that was her word:
chums
!) to the park and back, and Homer's and Chester's baseball game on the vacant lot. Joanna told about her shopping, and how she'd met up with Mr. Riley again, and how he'd said he'd like to call on her sometime.

"Not him again!" muttered Betty, but only I, sitting right next to her, heard. Or at least no one let on that they'd heard.

Mrs. Cotton told about her spring-cleaning and how she'd found three dollars and forty cents in change under various beds and chairs, and that she was going to use the money to buy herself a new hat.

Mr. Cotton told about his day at work. He was a cabinetmaker with a small office on the main street of Shady Grove, where people came to order cupboards and bookshelves and tables and other things for their homes. Then he'd come home and make the furnishings out in the old stable behind the house. He always had more business than he knew what to do with, and now he was thinking of hiring someone to help out.