THE PICASSO PROJECT

by Carol Anne Shaw

  "Shut up, Eddie! I do not!" Maya starts to cry, and in no time at all, there are two black rivers running down her cheeks.

  Lesley appears from the kitchen, another dishtowel—a clean one—in her hands. She's heard the whole thing, but Eddie knows she's going to do the whole conflict resolution thing and keep quiet.

  "Maya," Eddie says. "Just go get your own clothes on. You don't need to dress like that. You're just a kid."

  "Everyone dresses like this, in case you haven't noticed, Eddie. It's called fashion. And FYI, I'm not a little kid anymore. I'm fourteen."

  "Eddie?" Lesley says finally. "Maybe this isn't that big a deal. I mean, it's just a pair of jeans, right?" She looks at Eddie like he's some kind of ticking time bomb; like she's not sure if he'll detonate at any given moment. At least, that's what Eddie thinks.

  "Sure. Just a pair of jeans," he says. "For whores, maybe."

  "Hey!" Lesley frowns. "Out of line."

  Maya storms off down the hall and Jess goes after her, but not before she gives Eddie a dirty look.

  "You need to pick your battles, Eddie," Lesley says after they've gone. "Maya's a teenager now."

  Eddie's face burns. "She's only fourteen."

  "It's a pair of jeans and a little bit of make-up. It isn't worth this." She walks back to the kitchen. A moment later Eddie hears water running and dishes clattering in the sink. Normally, Eddie would help her in the kitchen, but he can tell this isn't one of those "normal" times.

  Jim goes in to help her and briefly rests his hand on Eddie's shoulder when he passes by—a guy's way of saying, "I hear you, buddy."

  Eddie closes his eyes. He doesn't want to be dealing with this kind of crap from Maya. Not when they're so close. Not when he turns nineteen in less than two months. Doesn't Maya get it? Two months! Then they can get a place somewhere. He can get a job. They can finally get a life. Two. More. Months.

  They drive home in silence. Eddie punches the radio knob, even though he knows it's busted. A noise, any kind of noise would be welcome right now, but he can tell Maya wants to stick it to him good. It's silent treatment central.

  When they reach the gravel verge beside the old access road, they pull over, same as always and wait for a break in the traffic. When they get one, Maya slams out of the car, walks over to the spot where the old road begins, and holds back the cedar boughs. Eddie drives forward but she lets the branches go before he's all the way through and they smack hard against the rear window.

  By the time they reach the clearing, it's raining. Eddie lets the car idle for a moment so he can check things out before turning off the headlights: same blue tarp, right where it should be, same clothesline, same shitty Coleman stove, sitting on two bricks. That reminds him, they're down to their last propane canister.

  The beam from the headlights illuminates the stump beside the tarp. On it, is an empty peanut butter jar holding a two bright plastic sunflowers on wire stems, both of them artfully arranged so their faces are turned up to the sky. Maya ripped them off from the art room at school. She said it made it feel more like home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  (April)

  "Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth."

  - Pablo Picasso

  Pablo, my man, you nailed this one. You really did.

  I gotta tell you...Mr. Mackie liked my latest painting—the big one with the trees and two figures in the background, and the parallel universe overhead, all cubist-cool and stuff. He did that whole, "Okay, class. Check out Eddie's painting. Clearly, he gets it." Not gonna lie, that felt good, and maybe, well, maybe my painting is okay. Maybe it's even really good. Thing is, when I start feeling those little "what ifs," I have to give myself a shake. Because it won't make one bit of difference. Mackie thinks I could be art school-bound on a full ride, but come on—I could paint like friggin' Vermeer and it wouldn't matter. My future is not going to include things like art school and girlfriends and camping trips with buddies. My future, if I'm lucky, will hopefully include a shitty basement apartment somewhere out of town and maybe a job at Burger King. Yeah, that's the cold hard truth, but I never lose sight of it.

  My vision, Pablo, is crystal-clear.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The inside of the car is damp but there isn't much Eddie can do about that. Maya left the window open a couple of days ago which means the front seat got soaked. It also means he'll be sleeping on garbage bags under his sleeping bag again. He hates doing that. Last night he rolled off it altogether and landed on the floor.

  "Lesley gave me toothpaste and stuff," Maya says, finally breaking the silence between them. She digs into the bottom of a plastic grocery bag and takes out three tubes of Colgate, some Band-aids, soap, hair gel and some deodorant. Eddie sees the box of Tampax still in the bag. It takes him by surprise.

  "Wait," he asks his sister. "Are those yours?"

  Maya rolls her eyes. "What do you think, Einstein? That I got them for you?"

  He coughs. "No. I just...I didn't know you...you know."

  "What? You didn't know I get my period?" Maya stuffs everything back into the bag except for the soap and a tube of toothpaste. She reaches for the water bottle in her backpack. "I've been getting it for, like, a year."

  "Okay," Eddie says. "I guess you can talk to the school nurse if, you know, you need to know stuff."

  Maya smiles. "It's okay, big bro. I've kind of figured it all out."

  Eddie and Maya do their homework by the light of the old kerosene lamp, their most prized possession. But they're getting low on fuel, so they don't burn it for long. A half-hour later they're lying in the dark, Maya on the back seat and Eddie in the front, just like always. It's windy out, and occasionally a twig or a pinecone pings off the side of the car.

  In spite of their earlier argument, Maya falls asleep almost instantly, but not Eddie. He can't turn his mind off, and even though his stomach is full, he knows he isn't going to sleep much tonight. Things feel anxious these days. More than usual and Maya isn't as cooperative as she used to be. He's pretty much useless when it comes to that woman stuff, and he feels bad that his sister has to figure it out on her own. Maybe tomorrow he'll get a book from the library or something and leave it in the car for her...or, maybe not. That might be weird. Hell, Eddie thinks, they learn all that crap in guidance class now, don't they? That movie, along with the legendary "how to put a condom on a banana" demo? Jesus.

  Whatever. It is what it is. If their mother were still around, Eddie doubts she would have been any good at any of this, anyway. She was always more "off" than "on," either dodging their father when he was on a bender or getting her nose dirty with coke. But none of that matters. He's gotta stop going there. She's gone. He knows he's got to tell Maya at some point, not that she asks, but the time keeps passing and he keeps putting it off. Anyway, his sorry ass is the best his sister is going to get.

  He lies on the front seat, wedged uptight, suddenly cold despite the extra socks he has on inside the sleeping bag. Man, he thinks, April in this part of the world is so damn wet. Hot chocolate would really hit the spot. He can't remember the last time he had one.

  June. June. June. It's become his mantra. They just have to wait until June. Once they have an apartment, Maya can be safe while he works. Maybe she can have a friend over every now and then, too. They just have to wait it out. One day at a time, as the saying goes.

  A branch snaps beside the car and Eddie is instantly on high alert. He raises himself up on one arm, careful to keep his head low. Another crack, closer this time, and then two more. Someone is out there. This isn't good, Eddie thinks. They've been here for months and never seen a sign of anyone. Someone must have seen them come in with the car.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  Another twig snaps, this one directly in front of the Buick. Eddie strains his eyes in the dark. He can make out a shape moving near the left headlight. It's coming around to the driver's side. Eddie wonders if Maya locked her doors in
the back. Did he remember to remind her? He always has to remind her, but he can't think. His head is scrambled!

  He waits like a sitting duck, his hand groping blindly for the baseball bat he keeps under the seat. If a door opens, whoever is out there is going to get a mean crack to the face. He's never had to use it before but he will if he has to.

  He finds the top of the bat and pulls it out slowly, his hands sweaty against the smooth wood. Something scrapes against the window and Maya wakes with a start.

  "Eddie! What was that?"

  "Shhhhhhh!"

  The shape moves away for a moment and then comes back. This time, it stops behind the car. It remains motionless for a few seconds, and then whoever is out there begins to knock at the back bumper of the car, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. Eddie's pulse quickens—some asshole is messing with them. He takes a firm hold of the bat and bolts out the door, wielding his pocket flashlight.

  There's just enough juice in the light to cast a dull glow at the back of the car. Eddie's heart pounds like a jackhammer, and he's filled with adrenaline, tight as a rubber band. Whoever is out there better be prepared to get his head kicked in.

  But it isn't "a someone." It's a something...a deer. A buck: a big three-pointer, and he isn't the least bit bothered by the fact that Eddie is standing five feet away from him shining a light in his face. The buck looks at him and then resumes rubbing his antlers against the back bumper.

  Eddie breathes a sigh of relief. It's a deer—a goddamn deer.

  Maya sticks her head out of her now open window and laughs. "Oh my God. It's a deer?"

  At the sound of her voice, the buck ceases his grooming regimen and steps toward her.

  "Hey there," Maya says. "Looking good, Bambi." But the deer is unimpressed and moves off into the brush at the side of the clearing.

  Later, when they're back inside the car in their sleeping bags, Maya chuckles. "I'm not gonna lie. That was seriously freaky."

  "Nah. No big deal," Eddie says. He'd nearly crapped his pants but he doesn't tell his sister this.

  "Would you have used it, Eddie? The bat, I mean? If it had been some guy trying to get into the car?"

  "Yeah," Eddie says. "I would have."

  "But weren't you scared? Her voice is a little smaller now. Eddie thinks she sounds the way she used to, back when she was really little.

  "Nope."

  "For reals?"

  "For reals."

  "Well...I was."

  "Don't worry, Mayonnaise," Eddie says. "That's why I'm around."

  They lay there for a while, not saying anything, listening to the rain on the roof of the car. Eddie closes his eyes, but he knows he won't get to sleep at all now. Even though it was only a deer, he's on high alert. His antenna is up.

  "Eddie?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Thanks. For not being scared, I mean."

  CHAPTER NINE

  JOURNAL ENTRY

  (May)

  "Good artists copy. Great artists steal."

  - Pablo Picasso

  If what Pablo claims is true, then I must be some kind of artistic genius. In my case, I am the King of the five-finger discount. And while we're on the topic, I'm pretty stoked to report that Saturday morning's haul was better than usual: a case of Twinkies. Yes, Twinkies—those beautiful indestructible little yellow bastards that will keep me and Maya in zits for at least a couple of weeks.

  I wonder if Pablo ever got so lucky?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Two days later, Eddie wakes up at 3 a.m., just like he's planned. His socks and shoes are damp, but then, so is pretty much everything else. Still, he hates wet feet almost as much as being hungry and he swears under his breath when he puts on his shoes.

  It's Saturday. He's pretty sure he can snag a loaf or two of bread from behind the Bridgeman Quik Mart when the truck rolls in at 4 a.m. He's done it a lot. It isn't rocket science.

  Maya stirs on the back seat and he freezes. The last thing he needs is for her to wake up and start asking questions. But lucky for him, she sleeps like a dead person. Still, he leaves a note on his sleeping bag like he always does, just in case: Back soon. Don't worry. Go back to sleep.

  He pushes the lock down on the door and closes it quietly behind him, then stuffs the car keys into his jeans pocket.

  The trail out of the woods takes him past St. Peter's Anglican Church—an old stone building with arched, stained glass windows-- probably the oldest church in Bridgeman Lake. Tomorrow there will be a whole lot of singing. And sometimes, if the wind is right, Eddie can hear the congregation from the car, although he seldom recognizes any of the hymns, except for Saving Grace. That one he knows. Even so, all the hymns seem to have the same thing in common: a lot of blood, a lot of suffering. Fear-based shit, Eddie thinks.

  Wherever they happened to be living, Eddie's mom liked to go to the church service at Christmas and Easter, but a hell of a lot of good it did her. Where was that golden boy, JC, when Eddie's father was kicking the crap out of her? Jesus loves you, my ass, Eddie thinks, as he passes by the old church.

  ***

  Bridgeman Quick Mart sits between a vacant lot on one side and a dry cleaner on the other. It's probably been there for decades; it needs a paint job and maybe a new neon sign— the B, and the Q and U in "Bridgeman Quik Mart" have burnt out so the sign now reads: Ridgeman Ick Mart.

  Mr. Lee runs the place: a little Asian guy with a bad combover. He overprices everything, so Eddie doesn't feel too guilty when he helps himself to some bread from time to time. The way he looks at it, just exactly who is stealing from whom here?

  Sure enough, when Eddie gets there, the bread truck is parked behind the store. Its ramp is down, and a dolly sits a little ways off, loaded up with various loaves and cracker boxes.

  He stays hidden behind a tree at the edge of the lot and waits for the driver to go inside. Once he does, Eddie moves fast. He only has a couple of minutes, but it's enough time to grab three loaves of bread, two packages of preservative-laden cupcakes and some crackers before he boots it back to the woods.

  Goddamn, but the bread smells fine! It's still warm. He tears off a chunk of one of the loaves and stuffs it into his mouth, chewing as he makes his getaway. Not bad for a morning's work. Even the crackers are decent: goldfish crackers. Maya will be super stoked about those. The cupcakes are shit--crappy pink sprinkled too-sweet concoctions, but full-on good for the soul. The loaves are whole wheat and sprinkled with birdseed, but Eddie isn't picky. He can definitely handle birdseed, and it's healthier anyway.

  He crosses over to the parking lot next to All Tech, stashes the food behind a shrub and considers coughing up some change at the 711 for a cup of coffee. He has a few loonies in his pocket.

  Or, he could come back later, when Griffin's, the bigger grocery store, is open. He could grab a buggy and make like he's shopping; help himself to a complimentary cup of java and a couple of ginger cookies they have reserved especially for their customers. Maybe he'd have two cups, with extra cream and sugar both times. Then he'd ditch the cart and take off. He does it now and then on Saturday mornings. It's busy then, so it's easier to be invisible among the crowd of soccer moms who are buying crap cereal for their screaming progeny.

  Thank you, Griffin's. When Eddie turns nineteen and gets a job, he'll shop at Griffin's all the time. They have them in almost every town on the island. He likes the way they show customer appreciation and all. Eddie remembers things like that.

  He buys his coffee at the all-night 711 and then goes back to where he's stashed the food. As he reaches into the bushes, a voice says, "Enjoying your coffee, son?"

  Eddie looks up and sees a short, balding middle-aged man with a gut. "Excuse me?"

  "The coffee. It isn't too bad this morning. They must have just made a new pot. Gotta get it when it's fresh, right?"

  Eddie looks back at the 7-11. "Oh. Sure. Right."

  Behind his glasses, the man has small, piggy eyes that sink into a round, fleshy
face—a face that is pockmarked and redder than it needs to be, giving it a slightly boiled effect. Eddie thinks the guy looks as though he eats most of his meals at the A & W.

  "Been grocery shopping, eh?" The man smiles at Eddie. Looks at his clothes. Looks at his wet feet. Looks at the small mound of food on the ground.

  "Yeah."

  "Listen, if you like I could buy you some breakfast or something? I know this 24-hour place around the corner. They serve great Eggs Benny and a bottomless cup of coffee."

  "Uh...do I know you?"

  "Oh, hell no. I'm just being a nice guy. You look like maybe you're a little down on your luck." The man looks Eddie up and down. "Just trying to help you out, son."

  Eddie hesitates, but only a second, and while the thought of a real breakfast with sausages and toast sounds awesome, he isn't stupid. He knows the dude is bad news.

  "Thanks, but..." Eddie knows to be careful. "I gotta get back home. Appreciate it, though." He takes a plastic bag from his back pocket and fills it with the bread, cupcakes, and crackers. Then he ties the ends of the bag together in a knot.

  "Hmmm, that's a shame. A real shame."

  "Yeah, well...see ya."

  "I saw you take that stuff off the truck, you know."

  Eddie quickens his pace.

  "Oh, come on, man. What's your hurry? It's only breakfast. And my treat, as I said."

  "No, thanks."

  "Listen, it's 4:15 in the morning. Where else you gotta be at 4:15 in the morning?"

  Eddie doesn't answer. Instead, he walks even faster. So fast in fact, that a loaf of bread slips from a hole in the bag and falls on the road. Eddie scoops it up quickly and shoves it down the front of his coat.

  "My name's Randall," the man calls out after him. "You keep safe now, son!"

  Eddie looks over his shoulder to see Randall heading back across the parking lot, his cheap black street shoes looking stupidly out of place with the jeans he's wearing; jeans that are at least two inches too short.