Gary Paulsen

by Paintings From the Cave: Three Novellas

  “He got agitated the other day,” Nan explained, “and we were worried he might fall out of bed in the night, so we put soft restraints on him to keep him safe.”

  I don’t know what to say. What do you say when you find out someone has been tied down? I might know what to say, but I know I’m not going to tell Erik; it would just be one more thing for him to worry about.

  Nan looks at me from the door, a little sad, I think. She knows that Erik and I are the only ones who visit Grandpa and she takes good care of him, she calls him “Mr. Dixon” and not just “dear” like some of the other staff do.

  “Come with me,” she says, and turns to leave the room.

  I pat Grandpa’s hand and start to say goodbye, but instead, I rip out the picture I’d been sketching of his hand and sign it, “From your grandson Jamie (the shorter one).” I prop it up on his bedside table so he’ll see it when he wakes up. Then I turn and hustle after Nan, who’s waiting for me by a food cart near the elevator.

  “Here.” She thrusts a paper bag at me. “These folks don’t eat half their meals anyway. Take a couple of sandwiches and some pudding cups to share with that handsome brother of yours.” She winks and pushes the cart down the hall before I can think of how to thank her.

  I turn and head down the stairs, dinner in my hand and twenty bucks in my pocket. Other than finding out that Grandpa’s getting worse, which I kind of already knew anyway even if I don’t like to think about it much because there’s nothing I can do to stop it, it’s a pretty good day.

  I jog-trot to Trudy’s place because it’s getting dark and I know Erik will be waiting for me by the outside door. We always go in and out of Trudy’s place together so that we’re not too much of a distraction to her. I don’t know how you could distract someone who just sits in her bedroom watching TV and drinking beer all night after she gets home from work, but I do what Erik says.

  I’m not going to tell him about the money I made yet and I’m definitely not going to bring up Grandpa’s restraints, but I can’t wait to show him that we’re not eating leftover burgers tonight.

  I love the library.

  Every day after school I go there to do my homework. The library started out as another free fun place Erik found; we could go there and use their computers or slip into the big meeting room for programs where there’s sometimes a plate of leftover cookies in the back.

  I wish we could sleep in the library because it’s warm and clean and I like the smell of books, but Erik says it’s too risky to even try to hide out and crash there. Libraries are owned by the government and we do all we can to stay off that radar since we’re kind of illegal—two minors living on their own and all. He won’t even let me get a library card.

  “You’d have to show proof of residency,” he explained. “The school district might not realize our address is phony, but for sure a librarian would. They’re sharp and they pay attention. We don’t want them checking the address and figuring out we’re not exactly what we say we are.”

  Erik’s Rule #5: Stay off the grid, out of sight, out of the loop, don’t do anything to call attention to yourself because the least little thing could trip you up.

  Even though I don’t have a library card, I borrow books anyway. I find a book, read as much as I can after I’ve gotten my homework done and then, until I’ve finished it, I stash the book in the natural science and mathematics section in the back corner. No one goes there much so it’s safe. When I’m done reading the book, I put it back where I found it.

  I have this trick I do to find the next book I’m going to read. I walk over to the stacks, close my eyes and reach for a book. It’s nice to be surprised like that and I’m hardly ever disappointed in what I pick.

  I’m done with my homework and I need a new book so I wander between the shelves until I find the right place. I never know where it’s going to be, I just know that I keep moving until something tells me I’m where I’m supposed to be. Then I shut my eyes, reach out and take the first book I touch. I open my eyes, look down and see the words Annie Oakley on the cover above a picture of an old-fashioned woman with a pistol in her hand. There’s something about her eyes that makes me want to open the book, even though I’m not really into history, and especially not history about girls and guns.

  I take the book back to my seat, glance through it, and before I know it, I’m reading a biography of Annie Oakley. No, I’m not just reading, I’m sucked into the book in that great way where you lose track of time and you can’t remember where you are and the words on the page are more real than what’s around you.

  Annie Oakley was a trick shooter in the eighteen hundreds, but that’s not why I like reading about her. The part about Annie Oakley that really hit me was when I found out how she had such terrible foster parents that she called them wolves because they beat her and worked her nearly to death and, although the book didn’t come right out and say it, probably hurt her in ways kids shouldn’t be hurt.

  Like me and Erik.

  It’s like being part of a club no one wants to join, but one where you can recognize the other people who belong because you know what it’s like and, in ways you can’t even explain, you understand each other.

  But Annie Oakley didn’t let that part of her life wreck her and she made something of herself later, when she got away, and she became rich and famous because of her shooting skill.

  Even though it’s crazy, even though she’s been dead forever, I got the feeling that I would have liked Annie Oakley. Drawing and shooting aren’t anything like each other, but I kind of thought I knew what she must have felt like when she found out she was good at something that most other people aren’t.

  As I’m reading and wishing I’d gotten the chance to know Annie Oakley, I reach into my backpack to grab a sketchbook because I want to draw her. As I pull out the sketchbook, a flyer falls to the floor. Mrs. Fitzgerald handed them out in art class this afternoon, but I haven’t read it.

  It’s an announcement for an art competition. Artists, singers, dancers, actors, writers and sculptors of any age and skill level can submit their work for a cash prize and an exhibition or performance during the month-long city culture fair. The top five winners will present their work at a reception.

  Artists are supposed to submit a portfolio of fifteen to twenty-five pieces.

  I can’t help getting excited. Greg thought my drawings were good enough to get homes for the dogs, so maybe I have what it takes to enter the contest.

  I flip through my sketches. I don’t have anywhere near fifteen finished pieces. But the last day to enter is six weeks away and maybe that gives me enough time.

  The pages are full of partial sketches and crossed-out attempts and I’ve hardly completed anything. But Greg recognized some of the dogs I’ve drawn. So I could probably work on finishing some works-in-progress, and do a few new ones.

  I flip to a drawing of one of my favorites at the dog run—a spunky little corgi with the brightest, smartest look. If dogs had jobs, I just know this one would be a librarian dog.

  I grab a pencil to finish this picture. I close my eyes, trying to remember exactly what the dog looked like so I can get it down on paper. I’m frustrated, though, because I can’t imagine him clearly enough. I open my eyes and see the librarian at the circulation desk. He’s got his head cocked the same way as the corgi at the park. I smile at myself, but I capture the tilt of the dog’s head. Somehow, between what I already had on the page, what I remember and what I can see in the librarian, I get the angle and the shadows just right.

  For the first time, I feel like a real artist.

  We didn’t work it out, officially, but Erik and I take turns having bad dreams about what it was like in the time before Grandpa took us away. Seems every few nights we wind up hugging in the dark with one of us going “Shhh, it’s okay, I’m here, you’re safe, it was only a dream, go back to sleep now.” The only thing that changes is who’s doing the shushing and who’s shaking and sweating
, sick to his stomach from the memories.

  Erik’s Rule #6: Stuff from the dark doesn’t get talked about in the light. Ever.

  Tonight, it’s his turn to wake up and mine to do the shushing.

  I’m still feeling smooth and even from my time at the library and I’m busy picturing drawings I want to make for the portfolio, so while he pulls himself together, I imagine the sketches I’m going to do. And I know that even if we don’t talk about the memories in the night, I’m going to have to find a way to draw them.

  We lie there awake for a while—no matter who has the dreams, neither of us can go back to sleep right away—and I remember that I’ve got to tell him about working at the shelter or he’ll worry about where I am and what I’m doing.

  “I’m going to start volunteering at the shelter in the afternoons. For the service hours requirement at school.”

  “Oh,” he says, “that’s nice. Dogs.” His voice is getting sleepy and I can tell that pictures of the dog run are replacing whatever dreams woke us both up.

  I think about my plan not to tell him I’m earning money drawing the dogs until I have a chunk of change I can show him. I can’t decide if I want to impress him or surprise him. I don’t think I’ve ever done either, so it’s all good.

  “I’m going with you the first day. You know that, right?” His voice isn’t so sleepy and soft anymore now. He wants to make sure it’s safe for me to be there.

  “That’s good,” I say. “You’ll like Greg; he’s going to be my boss.”

  “How’d you meet him?”

  “At the dog run.”

  “That’s a good place.”

  “Yeah.”

  We must have fallen asleep because the next thing we know, it’s morning and we can hear Trudy’s alarm clock. We’re always up and dressed and out the door before she’s done hitting the snooze button for the sixth time.

  I go to school, pay attention and keep to myself. All the while, I’m thinking about the shelter that afternoon and what I’ll draw. It’s hard to notice what’s going on around me with so many ideas running through my mind.

  Erik is waiting for me outside when I leave and I feel bad because I know he took off work to make sure I’m okay. He’ll like Greg, though. I feel bad fibbing to Erik about the reason I’ll be spending time at the shelter. He doesn’t say anything on the drive over, but that’s normal—Erik is almost as stingy about words as about money.

  “Jamie. I’m glad you decided to take me up on my offer.” Greg looks happy to see me as we walk through the front door. He’s pinning descriptions of adoptable dogs to the bulletin board in the lobby.

  “Uh, yeah, thanks, volunteering here will help with school. This is my brother, Erik.” I’m speaking so fast it sounds like one really long word.

  Greg is quick, though, or he has an older brother himself, because he doesn’t miss a beat. “Good to meet you, Erik.” He reaches out to shake hands. My brother is less friendly than I am, but even he reacts to Greg’s basic good-guyness and says hello. He started looking around like he was trying to find something he might not like, but when he shakes Greg’s hand, I notice that that squinty hard look he gets when he’s sizing people up has disappeared.

  “I’ve got to get to work,” Erik says to me. “I’ll see you later.” Then he turns to Greg and nods. “Thanks for letting him work here.”

  “He’s doing us the favor,” Greg says. I try to think if anyone’s ever said that about me, but I’m pretty sure this is a first.

  Greg leads me through the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, and we go down a hallway and turn into a room filled with dogs. There’s a concrete slab, like a mini-sidewalk, down the middle of the room, leading to a door. I can see an enclosed patio through the window. On either side of the little path are chain-link pens with doors.

  The dogs all stand up when we come into the kennel, like they’re really polite and want to show off their good manners. A few whine or bark at Greg, trying to get his attention, but they all wag their tails and push their noses through the holes in the fences, trying to reach us.

  My throat tightens a little when I think that they’re all hoping for someone to come save them from this place. Dogs weren’t made to live in little concrete-floored chain-link pens. And it’s wrong. Wrong in a way that I know is huge. I don’t pray, but I find myself thinking, Please, please, please, hoping that people are on their way right now to take all these dogs out of here.

  I think back to the running, barking, leaping, bounding, playing dogs in the dog park and how they all seem to react when their owner stands up from the bench he or she was sitting on. A few of the dogs make a game out of being caught and leashed so they can leave, but I’ve noticed that most of the dogs drop their game the very second their people start to move, and the dogs run to them, ready to leave their dog friends and dog games in an instant for their people lives.

  Greg walks me down the aisle, pointing to each dog and introducing them all.

  “This is Mac, he’s an Irish setter. That’s Gretchen, the pug you know from the park—you’ll be happy to know she learned her lesson and hasn’t snapped at anyone lately. Maya, the black Lab, is in this cage, and the dogs of indeterminate lineage are Topher, Buzz, Gib and Corky.”

  I let them all smell my hand through the fence and they seem to approve of me, because they all go back to lying down. A few curl up and sleep, the rest watch Greg and me talk.

  “Don’t go in the cages by yourself. You’re not even supposed to be back here, so I can’t imagine the trouble I’d get in if you got bitten or let one of the dogs escape.”

  “I’m just going to sit there and draw them.” I’m already getting my sketchbook and pencils out of my backpack and deciding that I’m most interested in drawing the setter. I’ve never seen one in person before and I like the ripples in the fur on his flank.

  I’m going to draw another four or five dogs today; that’ll be twenty or twenty-five dollars, and I can’t wait to put the money Greg will give me in my pocket with the first twenty bucks. I wonder how long this gig will last and how much money I can save up to give to Erik. I don’t dare hope, but a tiny part of me wants to get going on the portfolio pieces I’m going to submit for the contest. The idea of the cash prize makes me dizzy.

  Once I’ve drawn something, it’s like it’s burned in my mind, so even though I’ll have to give Greg the original sketches of the dogs, I know I can draw them again for my portfolio.

  I’ve never thought about what I was going to draw or had plans for what I would do next. I’m excited about the ideas I have and I can’t wait to get to work.

  But first I’m going to draw Greg. Mostly because I want a picture of him, but also because I need to see if I can capture the way his eyes seem to smile when he looks at the dogs. When he looks at me.

  I don’t spend much time looking in mirrors, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same look on my face when I sit at the dog run and watch the dogs.

  It’s Saturday morning.

  Erik works as many weekends as he can. He says days off weren’t invented for people like us. Greg only volunteers at the shelter Monday through Friday so I can’t go there. I’m not ready to find out if Grandpa still needs restraints. And now that I’ve been drawing at the shelter, up close and personal with the dogs and really getting to know them as individuals, I don’t think I’d have as much fun at the dog park anymore.

  So I head to the library. I’m going to sit in the comfy chair in the back corner near the restroom, put my feet up on the low windowsill and start working on the non-dog pictures for my portfolio.

  I’d rather just submit twenty-five dog pictures, but something tells me I need to show variety, and besides, I’ve got some other ideas I need to work on. Ever since the last time Erik had bad dreams, I’ve known what I have to draw.

  The first sketch I start once I get settled in my chair comes from the place I never think about, and I’m surprised my pencil can take my hand where my mind would never go.r />
  The memories make me run for the toilet, gagging. I knew that letting myself think about this would make me sick so I made sure I wasn’t more than ten feet from the men’s room. I vomit until there’s nothing left inside me. Then I rinse my mouth out at the sink and head back to the chair, where I dropped my sketchbook.

  I slash at the paper with my pencil, dark jagged lines, trying to figure out what screaming looks like—I know what it sounds like and I remember what it feels like, but I’m trying to put it on paper. I borrowed a box of pastels from the art room because I know this needs color. I slash some lines in acid green and bile yellow, smudging dirty gray shadows with the side of my pencil.

  I remember the slaps and punches, the burns and the belts. Those I make fluorescent orange and bloodred, broken lines that dig into and across the page.

  I can’t do the rest.

  Not yet.

  Because my hands are shaking too much to keep going into that dark place in my head.

  I will, though. Now that I’ve started, I know that I’ll go back. That I’ll find the colors and the shapes that will help me understand. Once I understand, then I’ll be able to forget. Forget for real, not just pretend I can’t remember.

  Erik has never talked about that time or let me talk about it. But this picture I’ve drawn, well, I’ve said almost everything without saying a word.

  It’s only lines and colors, no clear people or objects, but it’s just right and I know that anyone who looks at it will understand why Erik and I still wake up screaming sometimes.

  The next one is Erik. Of course.

  I draw him standing, looking off into the distance, with his shoulders back, and his profile looks like it belongs to a king or a god. I use golds, coppers, and bronzes so that he glows, warm and strong. I could never show this to him, it would make him embarrassed. But I know there’s something real about it, something right. It’s the exact opposite of the first picture and I know I’ll put them back to back in my portfolio.