Tim Wynne-Jones - The Uninvited

“You were just bowled right over,” she said.

How she had led him, blindfolded, out to the drive shed “Made you open that big old door yourself to show me how strong you were getting.”

And there was the canoe sitting on two sawhorses, brand-new and glistening red. Red as -

“Scarlet lake,” she said.

I was only ten -

“You were only ten,” said his mother, shaking her head back and forth at the bright happiness of this memory.

And it was a good memory. She’d been painting well-painting up a storm! And somehow she’d attracted the interest of a gallery in Ottawa.

“I hightailed it down there in the Taurus one day, when the Taurus was new, and damned if Simon Whiteside didn’t offer me a show.”

A one-woman show -

“A one-woman show.”

And every piece sold -

“Every damn piece sold, Cramer. Can you believe it?”

He looked at her, her face shining, as if the show had happened that very week instead of half his lifetime ago. She never knew-he’d never told her-how terrified he had been arriving home on the school bus that day to find the house empty, no note-no nothing.

But it was all water under the bridge now. He didn’t mind. She could tell him this story every day, if it made her happy. Her contentment helped to ease his mind, distract him from the other things he was thinking, feeling.

She reached out for him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and held him tight. She only came up to his chest. He rested his chin on her head.

She sniffed. Sniffed again. “What’s that pretty smell?” she asked.

Cramer gently pushed her away. “Must be some new flower come up,” he said, looking all around, hiding his face from her scrutiny.

She grinned at him, one eyebrow raised. “Smells like a girl to me,” she said, in a teasing kind of voice. “What are you getting up to on these jaunts of yours?”

Cramer dug his hand deep into his pocket, trying to keep what was there out of sight. He looked down at his bare feet. He never wore shoes in the canoe.

“I do believe you’re blushing,” said his mother.

“I am not blushing,” he said.

“Yes, you are. Why, maybe I should get that old canoe down from the shed and follow you one of these days. See what kind of trouble you’re getting into.” He looked out toward the creek. Saw a kingfisher skim the surface. Mavis poked him in the ribs. “I hope whoever she is, you won’t be bashful about bringing her home.”

“Mom.”

“Or too proud,” she said, her voice teetering a bit now. It didn’t take much to deflate her.

Cramer wished there was something he could do to drive her demons away. “I promise when there’s a girl, you’ll be the first to know.”

She gave him a hug. “‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,’” she started to sing, her voice muffled in his shirt. She swayed back and forth, trying to lug him around with her on a dance on the uneven shore. He held on to her lest she slip off the bank into the water. Something was up.

She must have sensed what he was thinking, because she pulled away and held him at arm’s length. She was still smiling to beat the band.

“You think your mother’s gone cuckoo on you?” she said.

“No, Mom-”

“It’s okay, Cramer, honey,” she said, and then she tipped her head back and laughed out loud. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay!” She looked into his face, her own suddenly composed and sober. “I know how difficult I can be,” she said. “I’m not famous for being levelheaded.”

“Mom-”

“And I know that if it weren’t for you, I’d’ve been toast a long time ago.”

“Ah, Mom, it’s not like-”

“Shhh! Yes, it is!” she said, gently pounding his chest with her fists. “You really are my knight in shining armor.”

He swallowed hard, proud and self-conscious.

Then she smirked and said, “Come on. I want to show you something.”

The painting stood on the easel, still wet in patches but remarkable in its energy. His mother didn’t speak. She just let him gaze upon her work.

It was an abstract piece, all in lavenders and ochers and blue-veined greens, so that it looked like a garden seen in a cracked but bright mirror. Cramer didn’t know much about art, but he knew this: the painting before him contained all of the excitement and enthusiasm and sparkly-eyed optimism that his mother had revealed to him down by the stream.

“It’s so good,” he said.

“Do you think?”

“I know!”

“Oh, honey,” she said. “I do, too. ‘I have found the key to my courage locker,’” she said. He recognized it as a saying from The Artist’s Path, and he had to admit it was true. This painting was courageous-it seemed to shout at him across the room.

“Now I know why you’re so happy,” he said. And she squeezed him tightly and pressed her head against his chest as if trying to smother a scream or stop herself from bursting into tears.

“It’s back,” she whispered. “I am recovered.”

“I’m so proud of you, Mom,” he said, drinking in her excitement.

Then she pushed him away again, though she held on to his hands tightly. Unconsciously, he rubbed his thumb along the scar on her left hand. Then he stopped himself, lest it set her off. But she seemed happily oblivious of her painful past. She gazed at the painting, the way he’d seen people in movies gaze through the window at a baby in a maternity room. Then she looked up into his eyes. “There’s more where that comes from,” she said confidently. “I mean it.”

“That’s good news,” he said.

She turned around to give the painting her complete attention. “We’ll be rich again,” she said, and laughed because they had never been rich, but they had once been happy, for a while.

“I know it,” he said.

“There’s just one thing,” she said.

He could hear the hesitation in her voice. He braced himself.

“I’m going to need more paint and more canvas,” she said hurriedly. “A lot more paint, a lot more canvas.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. Hardly breathed. She felt the change in him. She turned. “It will be worth it,” she said.

“I know.”

“I’ve made a list,” she said. “I phoned the supply place in Ottawa.”

“Good,” he said, not wanting to lose her.

“Five hundred dollars ought to cover everything,” she said. “For now.” She held his eyes for a moment longer, then her gaze skittered away.

“Okay,” he said quickly, not wanting to let her down. “I’ll handle it.”

“Of course you will,” she said. Now she looked up at him again, and her eyes went all coquettish, the way she’d get with Waylin when she wanted something from him. She rubbed Cramer’s upper arms, squeezing his biceps. “God, when did you ever get to be so strong?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. His mind was reeling. Five hundred bucks, he thought. Where would he ever get five hundred bucks? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he would.

“You can count on me,” he said.

Her smile softened. She shook her head in amazement and respect. “Whoever that girl is I smell on you, she is one lucky lady.”

He didn’t bother to argue with her. Kind of liked the idea that there could be a girl-a lucky girl-who was his alone.

Jay sat in bed listening to Gabriel Zouave’s Sang-Froid on his iPod, reading the score along with the music. The oversize manuscript was propped against his knees. He had seen the premiere, heard Zouave talk about it. Jay dreamed of writing something this good-this big. But right now all he wanted was for the music to take him away. He did not want his mind to wander. Did not want to think of Mimi down the hall.