“Come on, Dot,” said Jacob, nudging her with his elbow.
“I said no, Jacob,” she said firmly, staring him down.
“Okay, okay, I know when I’m not wanted.” He stood, picking up his beer, and took a swig. “See you two in the funny pages.” He shook his head like we were both nuts, and then he slipped into the crowd back toward the table with the other guys.
Dot looked at me for a moment, then leaned her elbows on the table and hunched over a bit. “I don’t like talking about that stuff.”
“I don’t blame you,” I replied.
She took another pause, then a sip of soda. She looked back at me. “My husband died in the war,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You were married?” I asked. I knew that wasn’t the point. I also knew I shouldn’t have been that surprised. Many of the girls in my neighborhood, the ones I’d grown up with, had already settled down and were keeping house. But there was something about Dot that just seemed like … well, not like them.
“Not for long. We were sweethearts in high school. Then he turned eighteen, they conscripted him. We married at the courthouse just before he had to leave.” She swirled around the remains of her soda in the bottom of her glass slowly. “A month later he was dead. A month after that the war was over.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know why she was sharing this with me. Especially after everything she’d said about boys pushing too much.
“My pa died in the war. Early on. In ’42.” It was all I could think about saying. Even if I didn’t want to think about it in the first place.
She looked up at me then and gave me a sad smile. “I’m sorry, Buddy.”
“I’m sorry for you too. Do you want to—”
“Nah, I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
I felt really awkward. I didn’t know how to carry on with a conversation like things were normal. I didn’t know if Dot wanted me to. I didn’t know anything. How did someone just change a subject like this? Did you just … change it?
“So what do you think I should do?” I asked, giving it a shot.
Dot looked at me for a moment. Then: “You mean about Cowboy Bendy?”
I nodded, relieved we were on the same page. Relieved it had worked.
“I think you just need to practice. I think you should also ask your grandfather if he can teach you.”
“I can’t do that,” I said, shaking my head and finishing my Coke with a gulp.
“Why not?”
“He barely speaks English.”
“What does he speak?”
“Polish.”
Dot thought about that. “I don’t know if you have to speak the same language. I mean, it would be different if this was about writing, but art … it’s universal. Couldn’t he just, you know, show you?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know. Maybe he could. But that wasn’t the biggest problem. The biggest problem was that he was there at all. That he creeped me out, took up my space, that my ma hadn’t even told me he was coming. That we had one more mouth to feed. That I resented him. It was hard asking favors of someone like that.
But maybe she was right.
Maybe it didn’t matter how I felt about him.
Stick to your vision. Be ambitious. Dreams come to life.
Do what you have to do.
“I’ll think about it. He just got to the States and he’s all confused. He might not be able to help me even if I asked.”
“You’re Jewish, right, Buddy?” asked Dot.
I felt that very familiar tightness in my gut. That protective shield unfurl over my spine. I sat up a little straighter but tried to sound even more casual. “Yeah. Is that a problem?” I didn’t sound casual. I sounded angry, and I knew it.
“Of course not,” said Dot. “It’s just, you said your grandfather was from Poland.”
“We’re Polish,” I snapped back. Obviously we were.
Dot held up her hands. “Never mind. Sorry. I don’t want to get personal.”
“Well, I already told you my dad died, and that I’m Jewish, but yeah, let’s not get personal.” I couldn’t not feel angry. I just knew she was judging me. I knew it. Like the bullies in the school yard when I was a kid. Like those same bullies all grown up. Calling me names as I walked through their neighborhood. I hated it.
Dot shook her head. “I get it. I’m sorry.” She pushed her glass away from her across the table. “I’m going to go now.” She stood up then, just like that. And then turned and was gone.
I felt bad. The defensiveness vanished and I was up on my feet chasing after her outside. She was already halfway down the block walking that fast way she did. I caught up finally and grabbed her shoulder. She whipped around and gave me a look of death.
“Oh,” she said, her expression softening, “it’s you.”
“Look, I didn’t mean to make you upset,” I said.
“I know.”
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
“Are you still angry with me?” I asked.
“I’m not angry at all. I feel bad. I upset you. I thought I should leave. Besides it’s getting late.” She looked at me like I was the one who was doing something strange.
“Oh, I just thought you’d stormed out.”
“No.”
No. Okay then.
I said good night and she said the same and that was the first time I learned about her directness.
Your directness.
You once said to me that you liked writing subtext in your scripts but had no time for subtext in real life. I always remembered that.
So just in case I haven’t been clear yet, Dot, and following your always amazing lead, I’ll just say it plain: You have to save them.
You have to stop him.
* * *
It was the weekend, not that that mattered much to Ma. She was sitting by the window at her sewing machine next to the kitchen table, putting together a suit jacket for Mr. Schwartz. I had to admit I was still getting used to the idea of taking the weekend off myself. I’d spent the last couple weeks doing chores for Ma instead, getting the groceries, paying the milkman, that sort of thing.
I was thinking about what Dot had said when my grandfather passed by with his worn jacket and hat on.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
He looked at me in that way he did.
“Where’s he going?” I asked Ma.
She didn’t look up from her work. “Probably the library.”
I turned back and Grandpa had already opened the door. I just had this “it’s now or never” feeling. “Hey, Grandpa, I’ll come with you.”
Ma did look up at that. She gave me a smile, and it was small but so full. It was a thank-you. I didn’t get it, but she appreciated it.
I didn’t bother putting on my button-up if we were going to the library. That was just up the block and everyone else would be in their undershirts too. It was too hot to care. I slipped on my shoes and held the door for him. He stared at me a little as he walked onto the landing. Then nodded.
As we stepped out into the thick midday air under a hot midday sun, I still wasn’t really sure if I wanted to ask him for help. Obviously my gut thought it was a good idea, and Dot did say to trust your gut. But at the same time how would it even be possible for him to help me?
I reminded myself he had offered to “teach.” That maybe I should respect that. But still.
We crossed the street to avoid the open fire hydrant spraying water on the local kids, and I never thought I would be one of those people to cross the street to avoid that. I guess that meant I was getting older.
“Fun,” he said, pointing at the kids squealing and laughing in the water.
The library was a four-story brick building on the corner. A mom and her little girl were sitting on the steps leading up to it reading a book of nursery rhymes. The girl waved at me as I walked by, and I waved back. Inside, the air was a little cooler thanks to fans i
n the ceiling that rotated slowly above us, and the tall white walls made of stone. It was a nice relief.
The quiet was also soothing. You couldn’t even hear the hum of the city. It was like when Ma would turn off the radio when it was time to go to bed.
I followed my grandfather to the back of the stacks. He seemed to have a purpose. We made it to the children’s section, and that’s where he stopped to look through the collection. He carefully examined each book as he pulled it off the shelf, flipped open the cover and went through the pages, then carefully and neatly put it back where he found it. It was a time-consuming process but it was fascinating to watch.
He eventually collected a small pile of books. Three picture books (including a Curious George book) and Pippi Longstocking. It was when he looked at me and nodded, satisfied with his collection, that what he was doing finally clicked.
He was teaching himself English.
Of course.
If he could teach himself something so difficult, then I shouldn’t be afraid to ask him. That’s at least how my train of thought went.
“Grandpa?” I whispered, as we made our way to the librarian’s desk.
He glanced in my direction.
“Could you teach me how to draw better?” He stopped walking and looked at me. “You know,” I said, motioning with my hand, pretending I was drawing on a piece of paper. “Art.”
He smiled. “Art.”
“Yes. Could you help me?” I asked.
He didn’t nod or say anything. He just placed the books on the checkout desk and said to the librarian behind it, “Keep for me?”
She nodded. “Certainly, Mr. Unger.”
She knew him. Of course she did.
“Come,” he said to me, and I followed him. This time he made his way to the stairs and we climbed them very slowly.
We climbed to the second floor, and we walked along the stacks and then stopped. We were in the art section. I should have known. Once again my grandfather carefully appraised the books, in no rush. He smiled at them and touched them as if he had a fond memory of each. Then he started to pull books off the shelf. And pass them to me. One after the other after the other.
The stack got heavy in my arms, and as I looked at the titles, I wasn’t exactly sure why I was holding them unless I wanted to learn all about art history, which I didn’t. Ancient Roman. Ancient Greek. Renaissance. Da Vinci. Monet. Not a single book on how to draw. Nothing like that.
Grandfather stopped and looked at me. Then he said, “Good.” And turned toward the stairs.
“Grandpa, this is swell and all, but I don’t really want to be an artist-artist. I just want to learn how to draw the cartoons.” I said it all knowing he probably didn’t understand.
“History. Good,” he replied.
History good.
By the time we made it home I was a sweaty mess, but Grandpa was just starting. He sat at the kitchen table and looked at me. “Paper,” he said.
So I grabbed the paper and pen and ink from our room and brought them to him.
He pushed over a thick, small book with “The History of Art” written on the cover. I opened it. The writing was small and densely packed into each page. It looked impossible to read. I was bored just flipping the pages.
“Read and practice. Today, circle.” He reached over to one of the larger, glossier books and opened it. He found a page with a glossy photo of a painting. A woman sat, looking kind of depressed, holding on to a puppy in her lap. My grandfather looked at me and pointed at the painting. Then he started to re-create the painting on the page with circles. And ovals. And other geometric shapes. She had no facial features, hands, or anything. It was almost like she was a shadow of herself.
“You see?” he said.
“Ah, circles,” said Ma, looking over my shoulder. I looked up at her. “Starting with the basics.” I nodded. “Water?” she asked.
I nodded again.
As she went to the sink she said, “You know, I always said that you’d inherited your artistic ability from your grandfather.”
“To who?” I asked, watching my grandfather draw.
“To everyone,” she replied, placing two cloudy glasses of water on the table.
“Not to me,” I said. “I don’t remember you saying much about him ever.”
“I did,” she replied. “Maybe you don’t remember.”
“You didn’t.” I was feeling annoyed again. Reminded of how she had just invited this stranger to stay with us without even talking to me about it. Without even warning me about it.
I heard her sigh. “I’m going to buy groceries for dinner.” She turned on her heel and left.
“Buddy,” said my grandfather, and I looked back then, shocked. I’d never heard him say my name before. “Okay, work now.”
He passed me some paper and pushed over the book, flipping to another page. It was strange seeing these colorful paintings in black and white. They felt like only half the story.
“Work.”
He passed me the pen and looked at my page closely. I finally nodded.
“Circles?” I said.
“Yes. Circles.”
It was fun. It was. Learning from Grandpa. Sure it was frustrating, and sure sometimes even boring, everything was so technical, I didn’t get to draw what I wanted to. But, yeah, it was also fun. And the more excited he got when I learned something new, the better. In a few days he added more to the lessons. We were still doing circles but moved on to lines. Lines that helped with perspective. Don’t ask me how he knew that word, he just did.
We drew a buncha lines that ran beside one another to the middle of the page. Then we drew things like rectangles for buildings or cones for trees along the lines. We made them shorter as we got closer to the center of the page. And it worked! It looked like the “trees” were getting farther away.
“Pyramid,” Grandpa had said. “Perspective.”
He was pointing to a painting by da Vinci. Of the Virgin Mary sitting on some rocks holding Baby Jesus.
I nodded. “Pyramid,” I said back.
We kept practicing after work together, on the weekends, and during my off times at the studio I practiced too. I didn’t have any more Cowboy Bendys to give to Ms. Lambert, and I could feel her sometimes looking at me, judging me, doubting me. I really wanted to prove myself to her. Almost more in a way now than to Mister Drew. I felt like she didn’t think I had saved my job because I deserved it. I felt like she thought that Mister Drew just liked me. A boys’ club thing.
I thought that because she’d said it once. Just “the old boys’ club” and not really at me, but I heard it. And thought about it. Thought about how Mister Drew had dismissed her that day in his office. I was so confused. Which was it? Did he respect talent or not? Or maybe he did, but he was more forgiving toward people who looked like him? Who reminded him of himself?
No, no. I didn’t want to think that way.
Anyway, I figured it was time to start actually doing some Bendys and had planned on asking Grandpa at home to help. I was feeling excited, and was rushing through the lobby at the end of the day when I heard a familiar voice: “Buddy!”
I skidded to a stop and turned. Mister Drew was standing by the front desk, a big grin on his face.
“Sir!” I said, shocked. I instantly made my way over to him.
“Where you rushing off to so fast, have a date?” he asked with a laugh.
I felt my face get hot like it did whenever people asked personal questions like that. “Oh no, sir, don’t have a sweetheart.”
Mister Drew nodded at that. “Probably for the best. Right now it’s important for us to focus on the work.”
“Yes,” I said. I supposed. That wasn’t really it, but it was also it. When would I have the time?
“Have something for you. Apologies for the delay, but gave you a little something extra to make up for it.” He handed me a white piece of paper.
I looked at it.
My paycheck.
My first paycheck.
It’d been three weeks and, yeah, I guess it was late, but I’d been so wrapped up in everything going on with drawing, and lying, and then doing my best to cover up for the lying that I guess I’d kind of forgot. The reason for all of this in the first place.
The money.
Forty bucks.
Forty whole dollars.
In my hand.
“Hope it’s enough; we never actually talked about how much Schwartz paid you. Good lesson, Buddy. Always talk numbers.”
Always talk numbers.
Forty bucks.
I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“It’s good,” I managed to squeeze out.
“Good!” replied Mister Drew. He gave me a hearty slap on the back and I coughed. “Come on, we’re celebrating!”
We are?
Without even waiting for me to say anything he made his way to the door and I followed him outside into the blazing heat. Somehow it didn’t seem totally overwhelming for once. Somehow it felt kind of good.
I caught up to Mister Drew and stepped in beside him as he walked fast along the sidewalk. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“To celebrate,” he replied, grinning again.
Yes, but how and where, I wanted to know. I didn’t ask it again. I wasn’t supposed to. I just had to trust him. And I did, trust him.
We walked along a couple blocks and turned south. Eventually we came to a restaurant with a bright red awning. The word “Sardi’s” was written on it.
“I think I’ve heard of this place,” I said as we passed through the doors into the dark red interior.
“I should hope so,” replied Mister Drew with a laugh.
“Ah, Mister Drew, usual table?” asked the host at the stand.
“Absolutely,” replied Mister Drew, and as he reached out to shake his hand I noticed a flash of a dollar bill pass between them.
“Right this way!” he said with a bright smile.
We followed him through toward the back of the restaurant and to a table for two right under a wall full of caricatures of famous people. “That’s Sinatra!” I said as I sat down.
“Someday, kid, that’ll be us,” said Mister Drew.
Dreams Come to Life Page 9