The House of Eve (9)

As our class packed up to leave, Louise gifted me a tote bag containing a few tubes of paint, four brushes, and three small canvases.

Most times my approach to making art was to let my brushes guide the way to unlocking what was inside my heart, so I dipped the flat brush in black, and streaked it across the white page creating a tangle of darkness in the sky. It didn’t take long for me to get lost in the sweep of gray, then scatters of blue, disappearing into what I called Ruby Red’s World, where I had complete control over everything.

Dinah Washington was singing “I Wanna Be Loved” when a hard rap against the door snapped me back.

“Who is it?” My voice came out husky.

“Miz Marie, it’s Shimmy.”

I wiped my hands on my apron and swung open the door. A pale boy with curly brown hair stood under the fluorescent hall light. Our eyes touched and the air around me felt sticky and warm.

“Who are you?” His cheeks flushed beet, and his emerald-green eyes stared at me two seconds beyond politeness.

“Ruby. Marie’s my aunt.”

“Shimmy Shapiro.”

I stepped aside to let him enter.

He smelled like cedar with a hint of the potatoes I pictured him having for dinner. I felt unkempt in my splashed apron and wished I had left my bangs curled over my wide forehead.

His eyes lingered over my canvas and paints, then turned his focus to the kitchen. “This sink here?”

I nodded and he rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows and hiked up his dungarees. After placing his tool bag on the table, he got down on the floor. He pushed aside the makeshift curtain that covered the plumbing and pulled out a bucket. I could smell bleach, and see a bottle of vinegar and a small flask that probably contained corn liquor.

With his head underneath the sink, he called to me. “Can you hand me that flashlight?”

I looked down at the stick hanging from the top of his bag and unclipped it. Our fingers brushed against each other as he took it from me.

“Are you an artist?”

I blew out a nervous giggle. “Wouldn’t say that.”

He rooted around and then pulled his head out and sat up.

“Is it fixed?”

“No, I don’t have the right tools.” He took off his gloves and wiped the sweat on his forehead. “Can I have a drink of water?”

Each cup I picked up was either chipped or faded, and I didn’t want to feel shamed in front of this white boy. I chose my tin mug with the dent next to the handle.

He leaned against the sink and sipped, while taking in my homemade studio in the corner. “You look like an artist to me. What are you painting?”

I glanced down at my bare feet. The pink polish had chipped on my big toe, and I covered it with my other foot.

“Nothing really. Just passing time.”

“Can I see?”

Ordinarily, I didn’t show anyone besides Aunt Marie my work, but there was something about the way he asked. It had a sweetness to it that blotted away some of the sourness from my awful day. Timidly, I turned the easel his way. He moved in closer to me. Then put his hand on his chin and studied it, almost like he was at a museum.

“It’s beautiful but moody. What’s got you sad?” He stared at me with intense green eyes. His expression was thoughtful, and I could tell that he was actually interested in what I had to say.

“Who says I’m sad?”

“The contrast in colors, here and here.”

“You an art critic or something?” I turned my easel away from him.

“No, but I’ve taken a few classes at the art museum. And I know I like it.”

I wasn’t used to compliments. His appreciation of my work made me feel foolish for turning the easel, so I dropped my hands and allowed him to see. He took in the painting again.

In the middle of the page was a large head with grossly oversized bloodshot eyes. I had exaggerated the hair, making it wild and so big that it clouded and shaded out the sun. Down in the right-hand corner was an oak tree with a knothole in the center. Peeking from the hole was a small blue bird searching for the light. Shimmy stepped in closer, tracing the bird with his fingertips. After several seconds passed, he uttered the word “lovely.”

I wrapped my arms around my middle, suddenly feeling exposed.

“The bird says it all.”

The tiny bird was the only object on the page that was bright and in full color.

“Thank you,” I mumbled finally, having not realized that I had been holding my breath until the words left my body.

“May I?” He reached for my paintbrush.

I nodded and then he dipped the brush in my smear of yellow and dabbed in a streak through the big head’s hair. It added the perfect contrast to the bird’s blue.

“If you don’t like it, you can cover it over with black.”

“No, it’s nice.” My heart was thumping like I had just taken the stairs two at a time. Shimmy stood so close to me that we were almost touching. The way he stared at my painting made me feel like he was peeking at my soul.

He finished his water and then put his cup in the sink. Turning for the door he said, “I better go. Tell your aunt my mother will send someone by. Guess I’ll see you around, Ruby.”

“When?” The question escaped from my lips too quick for my brain to stop it, and I wanted to grab the word and shove it back inside. There was no reason for me to see this white boy again. Even if he did like my art.