by J. J. Murray
Dylan was silent.
“Dylan?”
She heard him snoring. That was quick. I must have kept him up last night with my purring. He deserves a rest.
Hope yawned and rested her head on Dylan’s chest. I’ll rest my eyes for a little while and then maybe do some sketching. That can’t burn too many calories. Maybe I’ll start that line of skinny cards. You’re so skinny that your fingers fall through the cracks next to the keys when you type. Now that’s skinny. You’re so skinny, you cut people in two when you walk sideways. You’re so skinny . . . you . . . can fold yourself . . . seven times . . . like a piece . . . of paper . . .
Hope woke alone to the sound of water running. The room was dark save the red glow from the clock and light sneaking out from under the washroom door. She searched the nightstand until she found her glasses. “Dylan?”
The washroom door opened, and Dylan padded across the floor to her side. “I’m drawing you a bath.”
She looked at the clock. “It’s after eleven?”
He nodded and held out his hand. “Come on.”
She took his hand and pulled herself to her feet. “It’s really late.”
“I know,” he whispered, leading her into the washroom, where steam was rising from the bathtub and fogging the mirror and her glasses. “I thought you’d like to soak for a while.”
I haven’t had a bath in years. “But I’m still sleepy.”
He shut off the water. “Once you’re in, you just soak. I’ll do the rest.”
“But I don’t want you to see me,” Hope whined. “I’m a living skeleton, and just in time for Halloween.”
“Close your eyes then,” he whispered.
“I don’t want to scare you away.”
“Close your eyes, Hope.”
She closed her eyes and felt her glasses leave her face, her T-shirt slide over her head, and her sweats drop to the floor. “I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” he whispered. “You’re beautiful. Every square inch. I’m going to lift you up now.”
Hope felt herself go completely weightless, her feet dipping first into the water.
“Not too hot?” he asked.
“No.” Warm water enveloped the rest of her. “Don’t stare at me.”
“I like everything that I see,” he whispered. “Just relax.”
Hope held the sides of the tub as Dylan used a soapy washcloth on her arms, neck, and chest. She felt a slight tug on her left elbow and leaned forward, feeling the washcloth circling her back. A single finger pushed her back. The washcloth traveled down her stomach, lingered there, went lower, lingered much longer there, and then moved unhurriedly down one leg and up the other. She felt his grip on her ankles as he washed her feet, massaging them before settling them back into the water. She heard water dripping, and a moment later, the washcloth was in her hand.
“I’ll let you wash your face,” he whispered.
Hope washed and rinsed her face.
“Let’s wash your hair,” Dylan said.
Hope opened her eyes and saw Dylan’s fuzzy face. “I’ll wash it.”
“Lean up a little,” Dylan said. “I’ve done this before.”
With Marie.
“I’ll try not to pull or twist when I rinse,” he said.
Hope leaned forward and tried to focus on Dylan as he squirted the DreadHead soap into his hands. “You’ve really done this before?”
“Like washing a sponge, right?” he said. “Work it in, squeeze, and rinse until I see no soap.” He rubbed his hands together and went to work. “I really like your hair.”
“Thank you.”
This is unbelievable. I’m never had any other hands on my dreads, and whoa, he’s making my scalp tingle. Firm but gentle, soap, squeeze, rinse with fresh water from the tub faucet cupped in his hands. “You do this well.”
“Thank you.”
“How often did you . . . I’m assuming you washed Marie’s hair.”
His fuzzy face nodded. “Often. It sometimes put her to sleep.”
“It feels too good for me to sleep,” Hope said. “My arms get so tired, and I never washed my hair in the tub.”
“Over the sink?” Dylan asked.
“Yeah.”
“That’s how Marie preferred to wash, too.” He laughed. “But she kept clogging up the kitchen sink, so I suggested the tub. The tub drain is much easier to unclog. Have you ever used Dread Butta?”
It is so weird to hear a man say “Dread Butta.” Marie must have used it. Her dreadlocks must have been shiny. Hope reached up and squeezed several locks, finding them only a little wet. “No.”
He rinsed his hands in the tub. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want you to be more stunning than you already are. You’d stop traffic on your walk to work.”
I need some Dread Butta.
He stood. “Take your time soaking. I’ll go warm up the bed.”
“Thank you.” She closed her eyes.
She felt a soft kiss on her cheek.
She heard the door close.
I’m clean and weightless. My hair is clean, and my arms and fingers don’t hurt. A man so strong, so caring, and yet so gentle is in my bed waiting for me.
She shivered.
This water is getting cold.
She stood, stepped out of the tub, and dried off. She used a smaller towel to squeeze her locks. After putting on her glasses, she lotioned her body from head to toe and then turned out the light. She left the washroom, put her glasses on the nightstand, and slipped under the covers, her cool skin contacting Dylan’s hot skin, his arm pulling her close.
“You’re naked, Miss Warren,” Dylan whispered.
“So are you.”
“I got too hot last night and couldn’t sleep,” he whispered. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Do I mind a steaming hot man sleeping au naturel next to me? “I don’t mind at all.” She kissed his chest. “Thank you for my bath.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Mine, too. “My hair isn’t quite dry. I hope it’s not too cold on you.”
“It’s fine.” He rubbed her back. “Warming up?”
“Yes.” Steaming up is more like it. Dylan is a woodstove loaded with kindling. She wandered her hand across his chest and down to his stomach. “Are you sleepy?” she whispered.
“Very,” he sighed.
Guess we’re not burning a calorie a minute then, but I’m sleepy, too. I could have dozed off in that tub if the water had stayed warm. “Then let’s sleep.” She kissed him on the neck and wrapped her arm around him. “Marie was a fool to leave you.”
“Thank you.” He nuzzled her hair. “I needed to hear that.”
“Bonne nuit, Dylan,” Hope whispered.
“Good night, Hope.”
Good night, you sweet, sweet man.
OCTOBER 18
Only 67 more shopping days until Christmas . . .
Chapter 16
While Dylan showered and Whack chased and danced with the dust floating in the sunbeams streaming through the windows, Hope analyzed the back of the Pop-Tart Frosted S’Mores box.
I’d have to eat ten of these a day to hit two thousand calories. That’s a lot of sugar. She bit into one. Not bad. I’m sure they’d taste better toasted. She toasted the other one. Pretty good, but I will not eat ten of these every day. I’ll eat two of these, drink my coffee, and eat the toast and jam Dylan gives me, so roughly . . . eight hundred calories for breakfast, which is eight hundred more calories than I’ve been eating every morning for the last eight years. I’ve missed eating nearly three thousand breakfasts! I’d need about a thousand more calories for the next two meals just to maintain my weight, and then a thousand more after that so I can start putting on weight.
I don’t know if I can do that, but I have to gain weight to give myself more time on this earth and more of me for Dylan to love. He was so interested in my body last night! He bathed me, washed my hair, and held me all night long. He was just too tir
ed to get frisky, that’s all. I was so relaxed, and he was so hot. Yes, I wanted him. I still do. And it doesn’t really matter if Marie was gorgeous. She left him. I’m here with him. He’s getting out of my shower. He has spent the last two nights in my bed, and when I get back to what I should weigh, I will be la plus belle femme sur la terre, and we will be getting frisky every night.
But what if Marie comes back? What then? I hope she doesn’t. Five years is a long time to be gone. He has to be over her by now. I know Dylan loved her, but that’s in the past, and I know firsthand that “loves of a lifetime” go away. If she were truly the love of his life, she wouldn’t have left. Therefore, because she left, Dylan has yet to meet his love of a lifetime, and I plan to be her.
I want to be the love of his life. I want to be his love.
Hope rubbed her eyes under her glasses. I’ll say one thing for severe depression. It really makes you zero in on what you want.
I want Dylan.
It’s obvious that I need him.
It’s becoming obvious that he needs me.
I want him, and as soon as I admit that, my depression takes a break.
I want Dylan.
I also want to know what’s in that backpack.
She tried but failed to keep her eyes from darting to the long backpack on the floor by the door. I saw him take out some clothes and a shave kit, but what else could be in there? It’s such a big backpack, the kind mountain climbers use. If I could somehow get Whack “stuck” in there, I could rescue her and take a peek.
Dylan walked out of the washroom shirtless and sock-less, his long hair slick and shiny. “We need to leave soon. Did you eat?”
Hope waved the last half of her second Pop-Tart. “What’s in the backpack?”
He smiled. “You shall see.”
“You could tell me,” she said.
“And ruin the surprise?” He winked. “I like surprising you.”
Hope finished her Pop-Tart. “Do I need to bring anything besides my curiosity?”
“Just your creativity and imagination.” He looked out at the coffee table. “And some paper and pencils. You might get an idea while we ride . . .”
They walked to the subway station at the Brooklyn Museum, rode the 3 train to the New Lots station, and began a half-mile hike to the Brownsville Recreation Center on Linden Boulevard.
They had no shortage of people staring.
I’m holding hands and walking in Brownsville with a long-haired, smiling Irishman wearing a backpack that makes him look eight feet tall, and he is the only white man I can see. These people driving by might get in a wreck if they don’t stop staring at us.
“Why are they staring so hard?” Hope whispered.
“They’ve never seen such a beautiful woman before,” Dylan said.
“Right.”
“I understand, Hope,” Dylan said. “I felt the same way when I was a kid. I kind of stuck out.”
“Really? No. You? I can’t imagine why. Did you wear the backpack then, too?”
“I love your sarcasm,” Dylan said. “I grew up in the Tilden Houses, about a mile or so from here. That was a wild place. Eight buildings sixteen stories high. Noise. Crime. Violence. But what I learned there helped me survive. I knew never to walk on Pitkin or Sutter after dark, to keep from making eye contact with anyone, and to avoid walking by the seventy-third police precinct at any time, especially on a day I was skipping school.”
“It’s so hard to believe that you grew up in a place like this,” Hope said. “You’re so . . . gentle and kind.”
“Most people from Brownsville are good people, Hope,” Dylan said. “Larry King and Al Sharpton are from here. U-God of Wu-Tang Clan is from here. Mike Tyson lived here.”
“But Mike Tyson is a thug,” Hope said. “Isn’t he?”
“I prefer to think of Mike Tyson as misunderstood,” Dylan said, “and if anyone around Brownsville asks you, you tell them Mike Tyson is the greatest boxer and gentleman who ever lived.”
He guided her west on New Lots Avenue. “You hungry?”
“I just ate some Pop-Tarts,” Hope said.
“Not enough,” Dylan said. “We have to compensate for this walk. Let’s go eat some grease.”
Crown Fried Chicken provided them with five delicious, salty, oily pieces of chicken and two spinach-and-cheese rolls. Hope surprised herself by eating a wing, a thigh, and half a breast.
“I shouldn’t be hungry at all,” Hope said, finishing her roll.
“It’s the fresh October air,” Dylan said.
Or the fresh-faced man in front of me. She looked across the street at a wide expanse of fields, tennis courts, and open space. “Is that the recreation center?”
Dylan nodded. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Like an oasis on Linden Boulevard.” He picked up his backpack. “Come on. There are some artists I want you to meet.”
He led Hope through several ball fields to a playground swarming with children, and when they saw him approach, Hope heard “It’s Dill Pickle!” and “Hey, D-Funny!”
“Dill Pickle?” Hope whispered.
“So I’m Irish.”
Dylan swept into the enclosed playground and set his backpack down near a park bench as a dozen brown and black children danced around him. “How are my young artists today?”
“Ready! . . . You’re late! . . . Who dis?”
“Ladies and gentleman,” Dylan said, putting his arm around Hope, “this is my girlfriend, Hope Warren. She is an artist.”
His girlfriend. I wondered what he’d call me. I’m okay with that, but calling me an artist?
“She came all the way down from Canada to be with you today,” Dylan said.
“Yeah right,” one boy said. “She from Jamaica, yo. Look at them dreads.”
“Okay, okay, Devon,” Dylan said, “she’s from Prospect Heights, but she grew up in Canada, and her parents are from the Bahamas.”
Devon, who might have been eleven, smiled. “I got to get me to Canada, yo.”
They sure grow up fast in Brownsville.
A little girl looked up at Hope. “Can you paint a butterfly on my face?”
“I’ll try.” She looked over at Dylan getting hugs and handshakes from children no taller than his hip.
The little girl yanked on Hope’s coat sleeve, and Hope squatted. “He’s not very good at butterflies,” the little girl said.
Dylan then pulled three small fold-up easels from the backpack and set them up in front of the bench. He clipped a large piece of paper to each easel and then took out what looked like a skinny camping table, setting it up close to the easels. He pulled ten different jars of paint from the backpack, placed them on the table, and handed out brushes to six children, who immediately opened jars and started painting, two artists to an easel, their legs dangling off the end of the bench.
He has organized this chaos in two minutes! Hope smiled at the little girl. “What’s your name?”
“Deja.”
“Well, Deja, let’s make you a butterfly.”
Deja took Hope’s hand. “A green-and-orange one.”
“Okay.”
For the rest of the afternoon, Hope and Dylan painted dragons, butterflies, caterpillars, initials, cartoon characters, and even a few Nike swoosh symbols on faces and arms while six small artists painted sheet after sheet of buildings, people, fields, and animals. As soon as one “canvas” was “finished,” Dylan would clip it to the chain-link fence to dry and attach another for two new artists to attack.
As the sun started to set and children ran home waving their masterpieces, Dylan pulled out a sketchbook and a pencil and handed them to Hope. “You do caricatures, don’t you?” He stood sideways and struck up a heroic pose.
“I’ll need a bigger piece of paper,” Hope said.
“My nose isn’t that big,” Dylan said.
How do you fit a hero onto a single piece of paper? “For all your muscles.”
Deja watched Hope sketch Dylan, overempha
sizing his hair, his nose, and his chest. “He doesn’t look like that,” Deja said.
“I know,” Hope said. “This is called a caricature. When you create a caricature, you make things bigger than they really are to make a funny picture.”
“It’s funny, all right.” Deja pointed at Dylan’s nose. “He looks like an elephant.”
That wasn’t what I was going for, but... “He does. Would you like me to draw you?”
Deja nodded rapidly.
Hope flipped the page and sketched Deja’s eyes. “You have very big, brown eyes, so I will make them huge.”
Deja giggled.
“And then I’ll add the rest of you.” She drew Deja’s tiny nose and gave her a smile as wide as her face.
“I don’t smile like that!” Deja yelled.
“You have a beautiful smile,” Hope said. “And now let’s add all your pretty hair.”
While Dylan packed up and waved good-bye to the last group of artists, Hope made Deja into a princess complete with a crown on her cornrows, a paintbrush and a palette in her hand. She handed it to Deja and watched Deja’s eyes.
“This isn’t really me,” she said.
But your eyes tell me that you wish it were you, Miss Deja.
“Sign it,” Deja said. “Dill Pickle says artists should always sign their work.”
Hope wrote her name under the caricature.
“Hope,” Deja said.
Hope. That’s what Dylan’s selling here. Lots and lots of hope.
On the train ride back to Hope’s apartment, she rested her head on Dylan’s shoulder, his backpack bag of artistic tricks on the seat in front of them. “You really love children, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes.” He put his arm around her. “And one day, I want eight or nine of my own.”
Eight or nine? Is he kidding? “Really?”
“Or ten,” Dylan said. “I haven’t decided. How many do you want?”
This has to be a test. “I’ll start with one.”
“You have too much love in you to have only one child, Hope,” Dylan said. “I watched you with those kids, Deja especially. You weren’t just painting faces today. You were sharing love, and I believe that you have an infinite amount of love inside you. You just need someone to draw it out of you.”