Dreams Come to Life

by Adrienne Kress

  “Grandpa, I have to go.”

  “Boss,” he said with a nod.

  “Yes.”

  “Ink.”

  “What?”

  He took my hand and pointed to the ink on my finger. He held up his hand and showed me the exact same spot on his. From helping me, I assumed. “Ink,” he said.

  I nodded. “Yes. I’m still practicing.”

  Then he placed his hand on my back. Spreading his fingers wide. “Ink,” he said again.

  My breathing got thinner, feeling him touch the same spot as last night. Feeling his hand push against my back. He smiled softly and took his hand away and held it up in front of me. “Not this hand, boss hand,” he explained.

  “Okay,” I said, not fully getting it.

  “Ink.”

  I nodded. Sure, yes, Mister Drew had ink on his hands too. He was an artist too. At least … that’s what he’d implied when I’d first met him. I mean, he’d invented Bendy, hadn’t he?

  Hadn’t he?

  “Boss ink same ink,” said Grandpa.

  “Same ink?” As what? As the handprint? No, that I knew was definitely not Mister Drew.

  “Ink bad.”

  I stared at him. I wanted him to explain. I needed to understand. A few days ago this all would have been nonsense to me. I would have looked at him like a crazy old man.

  But not after what had happened last night.

  Not after Sammy’s notebook.

  “Ink bad,” I said.

  Grandpa lowered his hand and nodded solemnly.

  Ink bad.

  I didn’t see Dot the rest of the day. By the time I came back to the office, there were only a few hours left before quitting time. And I did have actual work to do. I stayed late, but not as late as the previous night. I wasn’t staying in the studio alone anymore, that was for sure. When I saw Richie lean back and crack his knuckles above his head, I knew it was time for me to pack it up as well. And I was happy to.

  By the time I got home, Grandpa was sleeping and I had to sneak by him to look at our drawings. I thought maybe it was time to try just a horse. Maybe. I stood over the dresser, hunched a little so my neck ached, and copied a horse from a painting, first as circles and then slowly drawing over the top of them. Turning them into actual features.

  It kind of worked.

  It worked better than my old-donkey-fat-dog-horse creation from that first attempt. But it still felt like I had so much further to go than ever. Especially after the visit to the art gallery. The more I learned, the more I realized I didn’t know.

  It felt a bit the same about the studio.

  About the ink.

  * * *

  The next day I was exhausted—I’d barely slept. Thoughts wouldn’t leave me alone, and I hated that. I hated thinking so hard. The harder I thought, the more jumbled up the thoughts got. Kind of like how the harder I’d looked at that painting in the museum, the less I saw the actual picture.

  I couldn’t see the big picture anymore.

  I was grateful that I didn’t have too many deliveries to make around the studio. It almost seemed like Ms. Lambert could see how not up for it I was. Like she was giving me a break. I decided to practice drawing Alice today. Because I hadn’t really tried at all. And she was cute. It was fun to draw her.

  I needed some fun.

  Did I ever.

  I was the first one to see Sammy.

  He came charging down the narrow hall that was next to my desk, and I immediately went from exhausted to terrified. I figured he’d found out that Dot and I were looking into him. That he knew we’d seen the weird drawings on his music, the empty bottles in his closet. That he was coming to pick a fight. And I didn’t know what I’d do then, because, for one thing, I didn’t think fighting was considered professional or anything people did in uptown, but also because I’d been a lousy fighter my whole life. I only managed to win a few scrapes because it was so hard to tip me over.

  Instead he stormed right past me, didn’t even seem to notice me sitting there in my dark corner, and burst into the brighter room of the Art Department.

  Ms. Lambert got up slowly from her desk with a frown. She could read the rage on his face. It wasn’t hard to see. You’d probably be able to spot it from the top of the Empire State Building.

  “Mr. Lawrence,” she said carefully.

  “Abby,” he replied.

  She bit her lower lip but didn’t say anything. I remembered Sammy calling the man from Gent “Tom” and not “Mr. Connor,” and I wondered if this was a habit of his. If this was what he did with everyone. Or maybe … how had Jacob put it in the bar about women and black people not getting the same respect, having to work twice as hard? I thought about it as I swiveled in my chair to watch what happened next.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Where’s my ink?”

  I sat upright in my seat.

  “Your ink?” asked Ms. Lambert.

  “The ink. Where did it go?”

  Ms. Lambert’s expression now no longer looked suspicious but concerned. “Are you asking to borrow some of the Art Department’s ink? You can just say that, Mr. Lawrence; you don’t need to act so entitled.”

  Sammy huffed loudly and shoved his hands in his pockets. He shook his head violently no, and, after a few times pressing his lips tight together, said, “The ink in your supply closet.”

  “We don’t keep ink in the supply closet.”

  Okay, so that was odd. We didn’t keep ink in the supply closet? Then what was the Music Department doing with a closet full of it when the people who really needed ink, the artists, kept it under lock and key? But I didn’t think it made sense to bring it up now. I certainly didn’t want to remind her of that whole stealing thing. Not after I had got my second chance. Besides, maybe she was lying to keep Sammy out of our stuff. He really did have a strange ink thing. Clearly.

  Sammy made to say something, but then didn’t. He seemed to be struggling with how to speak. A strange gurgle came from him, like the words wanted to come out but he was holding them down.

  “Look, we keep our ink here, under my desk in the safe. I can give you a bottle if you’d like. But you need to calm down. This is not worth getting so angry about.”

  Sammy shook his head, his neck so tight that his whole body turned frantically from side to side. Then he stormed off past me and back down the dark hallway. And was gone.

  “What on earth was that about?” asked Ms. Lambert.

  Jacob stood up, his eyes wide and eyebrows raised. “Man’s gone off his rocker. You want me to check out the supply closet?”

  Ms. Lambert nodded. “Yes please, thanks.”

  Jacob gave her a bright smile and then made his way past me. He then gave me one, and I thought for a moment how impressive it was that he could smile so big and at everyone and it still seemed real. Like he was genuinely happy to see you. My smiles just made it look like I was in pain. Or had gas. I watched him go down the hall and held my breath. I didn’t hold it on purpose, and I didn’t know why I was holding it in the first place. I didn’t know what I wanted him to find. Either way, I figured, was strange.

  He came back pretty quick and smiled as he sat down at his desk. “Nope, nothing. Guy’s off his nut.”

  My stomach knotted tightly. I didn’t understand what was happening. Why wasn’t there ink in our closet? Why was it all in the Music Department?

  “Buddy,” said Ms. Lambert, calling me over. I got up a bit too fast, and my feet slipped around under me as I forced myself not to fall.

  “Fancy footwork,” said Richie, laughing.

  I nodded but said nothing.

  “Grab that Cowboy Bendy sketch on your way,” said Ms. Lambert.

  Again I nodded, and reached into the desk, picking up the piece of paper and hurrying over to her.

  “So we’re going with the Cowboy Bendy idea, and Story would like a few sample sketches for inspiration. Think you can handle that?” she asked. There was a glint of
a smile in her eye that made me think she was maybe actually proud of me. Or excited for me. I was definitely excited for me.

  “Sure,” I said as calmly as I could, and I handed her the paper.

  She looked it over and nodded. “Yup, something like this, but make sure to center the image. We need the whole horse, don’t want to be missing the hooves or anything. We can make decisions on how much we want to show later. Okay?” She passed the paper back.

  I nodded okay, but I was a little confused.

  “So give me maybe half a dozen different Cowboy Bendy ideas.”

  I nodded again.

  “That’s all.” She dismissed me and I returned to my desk.

  I was nervous now. I’d practiced a lot in the short time since my grandfather had first drawn Cowboy Bendy. But six different Bendy moments? Was I able to do that?

  And what did she mean about the “whole horse”? Had my grandfather forgotten a bit?

  I placed the drawing on my desk and looked at it. Odd. She was right. The drawing was right at the bottom, the legs cut off. It didn’t make any sense. Was I remembering wrong? I thought for certain he’d drawn the feet. I thought for certain it had been right in the middle of a page, like a single cel of an animation series.

  It’s amazing how often we make the assumption that our mind is playing tricks on us. That when things happen that are strange and impossible it must be that somehow we are wrong.

  But sometimes things are strange and impossible.

  And we don’t make some connections until it’s too late.

  I didn’t make the connection then. I did make it later, and I don’t know if I should tell you that now or wait until it happened. What’s the point in waiting?

  No. I can’t jump around too much. If I jump forward in the story I might forget to go back. The memories might change. I worry I’ve already changed them. Did I really go to the art museum and stare at the Seurat painting with my grandfather, or did we talk about that painting in the kitchen, looking at one of his books?

  I know he came to see me that day, and I know he’d been worried. But maybe he just went home after.

  Maybe that makes more sense.

  Maybe the horse wasn’t slipping off the page.

  Maybe I thought of Sammy’s notebook then, not later. Remembered how the pictures in there looked like they’d been slipping too.

  Maybe I made the connection then.

  Not everything makes sense to me anymore.

  I do remember this though. I remember sitting and staring and feeling scared and confused and then hearing: “I’m never going to get sick of that cowboy, makes me smile every time.”

  I turned a little too fast, straining my neck to see Mister Drew standing over me.

  “Mister Drew!” I said quickly, and stood up.

  “Hello, son. Excited about Cowboy Bendy?” he asked with a grin.

  “Absolutely, sir. Thank you.”

  “A good idea is a good idea.” He just kept smiling at me, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to say anything back to that because, well, there wasn’t much to say except for …

  “Thank you. But it’s really all from Dot’s script—”

  “So! You worked for Mr. Schwartz there for a while. Your mom makes his suits for him, you mentioned,” said Mister Drew, leaning against the wall by my desk.

  “Yeah.” What?

  “So you know suits,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  Hadn’t thought about it that way. I felt like I knew the bags that you carried suits in way more. But I supposed I’d seen Ma put together enough of them to have some kind of knowledge.

  “Sure,” I replied. It felt like the right thing to say. Wasn’t exactly a yes. Wasn’t exactly a no.

  “Great, come with me,” he said, clapping his hands together.

  I looked over at Ms. Lambert, who was watching us closely. She nodded slowly despite a disapproving look, giving her permission, even though there was no way I could have said no. She knew that too. Of course.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  It was a strange feeling following him into the elevator, everyone watching us. Jacob looked like he was about to burst out laughing, and I figured that probably had something to do with my expression. I knew I looked stunned. I felt stunned.

  “Your grandfather okay?” asked Mister Drew as we made our way down to the lobby.

  “Oh, yes, he’s fine.”

  “Family can be difficult,” he said with a laugh.

  “Yeah, I mean, it’s different. Having him around now.”

  “He just move in with you?” asked Mister Drew.

  I nodded.

  “Ah, yeah, obligations. I get it. But don’t let them hold you back. Old people make you feel guilty, but they lived their dreams, didn’t they? Why shouldn’t you?”

  I thought about it. “Yeah, he did.” I tried to remember what Ma had told me ages ago. “My parents tried to convince him to come here with them to the States back when I was just born. He refused. Had his own stuff to do, I guess.”

  Mister Drew tapped his finger against the wall of the elevator. “Exactly.” He paused for a moment, and we listened to the strained sound of the chains lowering us. “Well, he seems like a nice old man. Just can’t have him interrupting the workday like that again.” He laughed. Like it was a joke.

  But he meant it.

  “Yeah, of course. He was just worried about me,” I said. Then flinched. Because of course the next question was going to be:

  “Worried?”

  Shoot.

  I stood there thinking hard. I was ready to lie about something, but then again, why didn’t I just tell Mister Drew what I’d seen? He’d appreciate it. Maybe.

  Why did I feel like he maybe wouldn’t?

  “It’s personal,” I ended up saying. It sounded so stupid.

  “I get it, kid, I get it. But I’m always here,” he said placing a hand on my shoulder. “If you need to talk about anything, my office door is always open.”

  I suddenly felt like maybe I did want to talk to him. About my ambitions and maybe what I could do as part of the company in the future. But not just about that. I wanted to share about my grandfather, and how I felt confused that my ma just dumped him on us. And why it wasn’t fair she had to work so hard. And how I was now forced to wear his shirts because I couldn’t afford anything more. I was too guilty still to spend any more money on myself. Not yet at any rate.

  I didn’t say any of that, of course. I just followed him through the lobby and into the car waiting for us. It was really clean on the inside and smelled like leather. The seats were soft to the touch. There was also so much room I could almost stretch my legs out full.

  “Nice car, isn’t it?” said Mister Drew, smiling at me.

  “Very nice car, sir,” I said.

  He gave me a wink and then leaned back in the seat, turning his head to look out the window. So I did the same and watched as my city went by in an unusual, new kind of way. I hadn’t been inside too many cars in my life. Sure, the back of Zip’s truck for a block or two, even riding the bumper of Nick’s old beat-up jalopy. And I’d taken a cab once in a while, but not that many times and always on someone else’s dime. So to see the world from the street, to be part of traffic for once, not just dodging it, made me feel real big, you know. Made me feel good.

  We drove up Fifth Avenue and pulled to a stop in front of a shop across from the park. Stepped out onto the sidewalk. A woman in a big hat almost walked right into me, her little white poofy dog almost crushed under my big clown feet.

  “What do you think?” asked Mister Drew as we looked at the front of a small, swanky suit shop. In the window was a perfectly tailored pin-striped suit with shiny black loafers that glinted in the afternoon sun.

  “I think why’d you ever go with Mr. Schwartz,” I replied.

  Mister Drew laughed and gave me a slap on the back. “Come on in, Buddy,” he said.

  We went inside. It was dark, but
I couldn’t see any dust at all floating in the shafts of light. Instead everything shone, even the wood shelving. There was a glow to it all.

  A balding man with small round glasses in a simple navy-blue suit came over to us. He had a measuring tape draped around his neck, and it looked so good I thought maybe this was a new trend people were wearing out on the street.

  “Mister Drew, come in,” he said. “Let’s see how this tux fits you.”

  I understood better then. Mr. Schwartz did not do fancy dress wear. He didn’t have enough clients.

  I waited as Mister Drew changed into a crisp black tuxedo, and I marveled at how neat and clean it was. He stood there with his arms out wide as the tailor measured him with the tape, making little notes on his pad as he did.

  “Taking the measure of a man,” said Mister Drew with a chuckle.

  “Always, Mister Drew,” replied the tailor.

  “Learn anything?”

  “Some folks have really long arms,” replied the tailor.

  Mister Drew laughed heartily at that. Then he turned to me. “How’s it look, Buddy?”

  “Really good,” I said. I felt a pang in my gut sitting there in my grandfather’s itchy shirt. And trousers with the hole sewed shut in the knee.

  “We’re hosting a party, the studio. Big fancy shindig. Hotel rooftop. Dancers. The works.” Mister Drew grinned widely.

  “Sounds great,” I said. Because it did.

  “Gotta look good. Gotta make them all think …” He paused. “Gotta make them all know, Buddy. Know we mean business. Expansion in all ways.”

  “The theater,” I said, remembering.

  Mister Drew looked at me and nodded. “Exactly.”

  “So the studio is doing well,” I said, feeling relieved.

  Mister Drew looked at me kind of funny. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, well, you know. People are saying that … well … you know …” I stopped talking because the funny expression had turned into something less so. More severe.

  “Who’s been saying?”

  I glanced at the tailor, who had propped himself up on the counter for a moment to scratch out some things on his pad. His eyes flicked up to me and then down.