Part 16 (1/2)
He glanced over his shoulder at the elegant couple and then leaned close to whisper, ”I'm adopted.”
”Oh. You were in the War?” she said, gesturing at her airplane. ”Like a bomb was dropped on your house, and you were an orphan, and the soldiers took you away?”
”No,” he said. He put back the Green crayon, took a Brick Red one instead and drew a house: a square, a triangle on top, a chimney with a spiral of smoke coming out of it. He drew well. ”I don't think that's what happened.”
She drew black jagged lines under the plane, bombed-out wreckage. She drew little balloon heads protruding from the rubble, drew faces with teardrops flying from the eyes. ”This is what happened to the war orphans,” she explained. ”My daddy told me all about them, and I could see it when he told me. So that didn't happen to you ?”
”Nope,” he replied, drawing a window in the house. It was a huge window, wide open. It took up the whole wall. He put the Brick Red crayon back in its tier carefully, and selected the Gray crayon. ”The War is over now, anyway.”
”Everybody thinks so,” she replied, glancing uneasily up at the dome. ”But my daddy says it isn't really It could come back any time. There are a lot of bad people. Maybe those people got you from an orphanage.”
The boy opened his mouth, closed it, glanced over his shoulder. ”No,” he whispered. ”Something else happened to me. Now I'm their little boy. We came tonight so they could see the meteors from a train. they never did that before. they like trying out new things, you see.”
With the Gray crayon, he drew the figure of a stick-man who towered over the house, walking away from the window. He gave it a long coat. He drew its arms up like Frankenstein's monster, and then he drew something in its arms: a white bundle. He put away the Gray crayon, took out the Pink and added a little blob of a face to the bundle.
”See,” he said, ”That's-”
”What are you drawing, Daniel?” said the elegant lady sharply. The little boy cringed, and the little girl felt like cringing too.
”That's a man carrying wood into his house for the fireplace, Mother,” said the little boy, and grabbing the Brown crayon he drew hastily over the bundle in the man's arms, turning it into a log of wood. The little girl looked at it and hoped the lady wouldn't notice that the man in the picture was walking away from the house.
”I'm going to be an artist when I grow up,” the little boy said. ”I go to a studio and they make me take lessons. A famous painter teaches me.” He sketched in a row of cylinders in brown, then took the Green crayon and drew green circles above the cylinders. ”That's the forest,” he added in an undertone.
He took the Dark Blue and drew a cold shadow within the forest, and sharp-edged stars above it.
”Is he taking the baby to the forest?” she whispered. He just nodded. When he had drawn the last star he folded the page over, and since she had used up all the room on her page she did not complain, but took the Olive Green crayon again. She laboriously drew in stick-figure soldiers while he watched.
”What are you going to be when you grow up?” he asked.
”A waitress at the dinette,” she replied. ”If I don't die. And a ballerina.”
”I might be a dancer too, if I don't die,” he said, reaching for the Gray crayon. He began to draw cylinders like oatmeal boxes, with crenellations: a castle. She took the Black crayon and drew bayonets in the soldiers' hands, remarking: ”Boys aren't ballerinas.”
”Some boys have to be,” he said morosely, drawing windows in the castle walls. ”They have to wear black leotards and the girls wear pink ones. Madame hits her stick on the ground and counts in French.
Madame has a hoof on one foot, but n.o.body ever says anything about it.”
”That's strange,” she said, frowning as she drew the soldiers bayoneting one another. She glanced over at his picture and asked: ”Where's the king and queen?”
He sighed and took the Blue Violet crayon. On the top of one tower he drew an immense crowned figure, leaving the face blank. He drew another crowned figure on the other battlement. ”May I have the Black, please?”
”You're polite” she said, handing it to him. He drew faces with black eyes on the crowned figures while she took the Red crayon and drew a flag on the ground. She drew a red circle with rays coming off it to the edges of the rectangle, and then drew red dots all over the flag.
”What's that?” he asked.
”That's the blood,” she explained. ”My daddy has that flag at home. He liked somebody for it. When he told me about it I could see that, too. What did your daddy, I mean, that man, do in the War?”
”He sold guns to the soldiers,” said the boy. He drew bars across the windows in the castle and then, down in the bottommost one, drew a tiny round face looking out, with teardrops coming from its eyes.
The little girl looked over at his picture.
”Can't he get away?” she whispered. He shook his head, and gulped for breath before he went on in a light voice: ”Or I might be a poet, you know. Or play the violin. I have lessons in that too. But I have to be very, very good at something, because next year I'm seven and-”
”Have you drawn another picture, Daniel?” said the elegant man with a faint warning intonation, rising in his seat. Outside the night rolled by, the pale lights floated, and the rhythm of the iron wheels sounded faint and far away.
”Yes, Father,” said the boy in a bright voice, holding it up, but with his thumb obscuring the window with the face. ”It's two people playing chess. See?”
”That's nice,” said the man, and sat down again.
”What happens when you're seven?” the little girl murmured. The boy looked at her with terror in his eyes.
”They might get another baby,” he whispered back. She stared at him, thinking that over. She took the tablet and opened it out: new fresh pages.
”That's not so bad,” she told him. ”We've had two babies. They break things. But they had to stay with Grandma; they're too little to come on the train. If you don't leave your books where they can tear the pages, it's okay.”
The boy bowed his head and reached for the Red Orange crayon. He began to scribble in a great swirling ma.s.s. The girl whispered on: ”And you're rich, not like us, so I bet you can have your own room away from the new baby. It'll be all right. You'll see.”
She took the Sky Blue crayon again and drew in what looked at first like ice cream cones all over her page, before she got the Olive Green out and added soldiers hanging from them. ”See? These are the parachute men, coming to the rescue.”
”They can't help,” said the little boy.
She bit her lip at that, because she knew he was right. She thought it was sad that he had figured it out too.
The boy put back the Red Orange, took both Red and Yellow and scribbled forcefully, a crayon in either fist. He filled the page with flame. Then he drew Midnight Blue darkness above it all and more sharp stars. He took the Black and drew a little stick figure with limbs outstretched just above the fire.
Flying? Falling in?
”I'm almost seven,” he reiterated, under his breath. ”And they only like new things.”
”What are you drawing now, Daniel?” asked the lady, and both children started and looked up in horror, for they had not heard her rise.
”It's a nice big pile of autumn leaves, Mother,” said the little boy, holding up the tablet with shaking hands. ”See? And there's a little boy playing, jumping in the leaves.”
”What a creative boy you are,” she said throatily, tousling his hair. ”But you must remember Mr.
Pica.s.so's lessons. Don't be mediocre. Perhaps you could do some abstract drawings now. Entertain us.”
”Yes, Mother,” said the little boy and the girl thought he looked as though he were going to throw up.
When the lady had returned to her seat she reached over and squeezed his hand, surprising herself, for she did not ordinarily like to touch people.
”Don't be scared,” she whispered.
In silence, he turned to a fresh pair of pages. He took out a Green crayon and began to draw interlocking patterns of squares, shading them carefully.
She watched him for a while before she took the Silver and Gold crayons and drew a house, with a little stick figure standing inside. Then she took the Olive Green and drew several objects next to the figure.
”That's my bomb shelter, where I'm safe from the War,” she explained. ”But you can be in it. And that's your knapsack, see it? I made it with big straps for you . And that's your canteen so you can be safe afterwards. They're colored like what soldiers have, so you can hide. And this is the most important thing of all.” She pointed. ”See that? That's a map. So you can escape.”