Hidden Pictures(5)
“He seems gifted,” I tell her, and I worry the words sound forced, that I’ve gone too far too soon.
But Caroline agrees with me!
“Oh, definitely. He’s really advanced for his peer group. Everyone says so.”
We settle at a small dining table in the breakfast nook and she hands me a sheet of paper. “My husband typed up some guidelines. Nothing too crazy but we might as well get them out of the way.”
HOUSE RULES
??1.??No drugs
??2.??No drinking
??3.??No smoking
??4.??No profanity
??5.??No screens
??6.??No red meat
??7.??No junk food
??8.??No visitors without permission.
??9.??No photos of Teddy on social media.
10.??No religion or superstition. Teach science.
Underneath the typed list, there’s an eleventh rule, handwritten in delicate feminine script:
Have fun!
Caroline starts apologizing for the rules before I’ve even finished reading them. “We don’t really enforce number seven. If you want to make cupcakes, or buy Teddy an ice cream, that’s fine. Just no soda. And my husband insisted on number ten. He’s an engineer. He works in technology. So science is very important to our family. We don’t say prayers and we don’t celebrate Christmas. If a person sneezes, we won’t even say God Bless You.”
“What do you say?”
“Gesundheit. Or ‘to your health.’ It means the same thing.”
There’s an apologetic tone in her voice and I see her glance at the tiny gold cross that hangs from my neck—a gift from my mother on my first Holy Communion. I assure Caroline that her House Rules won’t be a problem. “Teddy’s religion is your business, not mine. I’m just here to provide a safe, caring, and nurturing environment.”
She seems relieved. “And have fun, right? That’s rule eleven. So if you ever want to plan a special trip? To a museum or a zoo? I’m happy to pay for everything.”
We talk for a while about the job and its responsibilities, but Caroline doesn’t ask a lot of personal questions. I tell her that I grew up in South Philly, on Shunk Street, just north of the stadiums. I lived with my mother and younger sister, and I used to babysit for all the families on my block. I attended Central High School and I had just received a full athletic scholarship to Penn State when my life ran off the rails. And Russell must have told Caroline the rest, because she doesn’t make me rehash the ugly stuff.
Instead she just says, “Should we go find Teddy? See how you two get along?”
The den is just off the kitchen—a cozy, informal family room with a sectional sofa, a chest full of toys, and a fluffy shag rug. The walls are lined with bookshelves and framed posters of the New York Metropolitan Opera—Rigoletto, Pagliacci, and La Traviata. Caroline explains that these are her husband’s three favorite productions, that they used to visit Lincoln Center all the time before Teddy came along.
The child himself is sprawled on the rug with a spiral-bound pad and some yellow number two pencils. At my arrival, he looks up and flashes a mischievous smile—then immediately returns to his artwork.
“Well, hello again. Are you drawing a picture?”
He gives his shoulders a big, exaggerated shrug. Still too shy to answer me.
“Honey, sweetheart,” Caroline interjects. “Mallory just asked you a question.”
He shrugs again, then moves his face closer to the paper until his nose is practically touching the drawing, like he’s trying to disappear inside it. Then he reaches for a pencil with his left hand.
“Oh, I see you’re a leftie!” I tell him. “Me, too!”
“It’s a common trait in world leaders,” Caroline says. “Barack Obama, Bill Clinton, Ronald Reagan—they’re all lefties.”
Teddy maneuvers his body so I can’t see over his shoulders, I can’t see what he’s working on.
“You remind me of my little sister,” I tell him. “When she was your age, she loved to draw. She had a giant Tupperware bin full of crayons.”
Caroline reaches under the sofa and pulls out a giant Tupperware bin full of crayons. “Like this?”
“Exactly!”
She has a light, pleasant laugh. “I’ll tell you a funny story: The whole time we lived in Barcelona, we couldn’t get Teddy to pick up a pencil. We bought him markers, finger paints, watercolors—he showed no interest in art. But the moment we move back to the States? And move into this house? Suddenly, he’s Pablo Picasso. Now, he draws like crazy.”
Caroline lifts the top of the coffee table and I see it doubles as some kind of storage chest. She removes a sheaf of paper that’s an inch thick. “My husband teases me for saving everything, but I can’t help myself. Would you like to see?”
“Definitely.”
Down on the floor, Teddy’s pencil has stopped moving. His entire body has tensed up. I can tell that he’s listening carefully, that he’s focusing all his attention on my reaction.
“Oooh, this first one is really nice,” I tell Caroline. “Is this a horse?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“No, no, no,” Teddy says, springing off the floor and moving to my side. “That’s a goat, because he has horns on his head, see? And a beard. Horses don’t have beards.” Then he leans into my lap and turns the page, directing my attention to the next drawing.