Grace in Autumn (17 page)

It was her turn to frown. “Dangerous?”

“I want this kept quiet, Birdie. You are the only one who knows—and I'm mad at myself for being so careless. I didn't want anyone to know—no one can know. Do you understand?”

“Of course.” Tentatively, she reached out and patted his broad hand. “You've nothing to be ashamed of—this situation happens to all kinds of people.”

He lifted a white brow.

“You're not the only one who's had to do this,” she went on, “it happens more often than you'd think. Actually, you should have done it sooner. And you shouldn't be ashamed to ask for help.”

His scowl deepened. “I don't need help to do this, Birdie. I'm not too old, no matter what they might say.”

“Of course you're not! I knew a man who did it when he was ninety-seven!”

Salt's jaw dropped. “He was ninety-seven? With his grandkids?”

She laughed. “No, he used the kids down the street. And they were happy for the experience. Their parents were grateful.”

Salt stared at her, drawing back. “Well,” he said after a long pause, “I appreciate the books, but I don't need them.”

“Then tapes. There are wonderful tapes—”

“No tapes or books! Are you daft, woman?”

“Then home correspondence. I'll deliver the material to you personally. No one will ever know what you're doing.”

Surprise siphoned the blood from his face. “There's a home correspondence program?”

“Of course, wonderfully informative material, clearly outlined, step by step.”

He stared at her. “Step by step?”

She nodded. “With tapes and videos and expert lecturers. You could have a diploma in no time.”

He turned away, disgust flaring his nostrils. “Don't need no diploma.”

“Please, Salt, let me help. I'm quite good—I was a librarian for over twenty years.”

“What's all this got to do with kids?”

“Kids?” She smiled, perplexed by the way his mind wandered. That was odd and potentially troublesome. “Well . . . I suppose people in your situation often find themselves reading lots of kids' books. But you don't have to. There are adult-level easy readers, too.”

Abruptly standing, Salt pulled his collar tighter against the rising wind. “No books, no home correspondence courses, no tapes, and no diploma. I'll do this myself. All I need from you is your promise not to gab my secret around the island.” His eyes darkened. “I mean it, Birdie, no one can know. If they find out I'll be forced to leave.”

Leave? The gormy cuss was being a little melodramatic.

But he was set on teaching himself to read. Without books. Or tapes. Or home correspondence courses. She'd like to know how he planned to accomplish that!

But Salt's inability to read wasn't her problem. If he was too proud to accept help, there was nothing she could do. The only clear course at the moment was to lay low until he admitted defeat. Eventually he would realize he needed help and she'd be around to extend a hand of help.

“You have my promise,” she said, smiling up at him. “I won't breathe a word to anyone.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

Opening his coat, he withdrew his bakery bag, then offered her a cookie. She accepted it and they ate the sweets in silence.

“Abner bakes a mean cookie,” she ventured.

“Ayuh.”

“The best in the State of Maine, if I can say so without seeming uppity.”

Salt's eyes studied the deteriorating weather on the horizon. “Getting colder; we need to be going.”

They walked back in companionable silence, but Birdie's thoughts were all aflutter with confusion. Teach himself to read? The man had to be crazy as a backhouse rat.

Babette felt like breaking into a round of the “Hallelujah Chorus” when, after supper, Georgie went to his easel without being asked. While he had watched TV and babied his upset stomach, she'd reconsidered her plan and decided that Georgie's reluctance to paint had to be rooted in her change of his routine. He usually painted in his bedroom or in the den, so while he went out to call Zuriel to supper, she carried the paint box and easel to the den, set up a blank canvas across from the television, and quietly left the room.

After eating two grilled cheese sandwiches and three chocolate chip cookies and downing two glasses of milk, Georgie returned to the den, Zuriel slipped out to his cottage, and Charles went back upstairs to learn about RAM and ROM and other computer alphabet soups. Babette quickly cleaned up the kitchen, then moved to the den doorway to watch Georgie paint.

On the television screen, animated crime-fighters blasted criminals with ray guns as high-pitched screams filled the air. Georgie stood before his easel, his brush in his hand, but his wide eyes were focused on the television. As Babette watched, he dipped the brush in orange paint, then smeared it across the blank canvas in a distracted motion.

“No, Georgie, not like that!” Hurrying forward, she took the brush from his hand. “Whoever heard of an orange puffin? You have to do the body like the others— black and white, with color only on the beak. Remember?”

Georgie blinked, then his gaze hardened. “I want to paint my kind of puffins.”

“We have to paint these like the others.” Babette withdrew a clean brush from the paint box and offered it to him. “Now dip this in the black paint and see if you can paint over the orange. Try not to waste the canvas—I had to order more, and the new shipment won't arrive for another week, at least. Remember—these things cost money!”

The frown between Georgie's brows deepened into a scowl.

Unable to understand exactly what he was supposed to do, Georgie glared at his mother. Paint puffins like the others? Why? He didn't like those kinds of puffins any more.

“I don't want to paint black puffins.”

“You have to paint them black, dear. That's what color they are.”

“I want orange puffins.”

“God tells the puffins what color to be. And you're not God.”

He dropped the brush onto the easel tray, then crossed his arms over his chest. “I don't want to paint today.”

“You have to paint, Georgie. A couple of puffins a day until Christmas, that's all.”

Why was his mom being so mean? He stamped his foot on the floor, then looked away. Christmas took forever to come, so he'd be painting forever and ever and ever . . . unless he could change her mind.

Deliberately, he fell into the beanbag chair in front of the television set. “I want to watch cartoons.”

“We have to work. After work, you can watch whatever you want.”

He closed his eyes. “I want to go out and see Zuriel.”

“Zuriel is working, too. You know how hard he works at his pottery. Your dad works. Your mom works. Now you can work, too, and grind your own bait, just like the old-timers say. And everybody will be glad when we get to go to Disney World.”

Georgie lifted one eye and squinted at his mother. He wanted to see Disney World, but he didn't want to paint puffins. Not today. Maybe not ever.

“I want to play outside.”

“It's too cold.”

“Then I want to watch Nickelodeon.”

His mother's pretty face hardened. “Young man, you will work today. After your work, you can play inside and watch TV until bedtime. But no play until your job is done. And your job is painting puffins.”

Georgie chewed on his lip, considering the idea of a job. He used to think having a job would be fun. After all, his dad seemed to enjoy his jobs of writing and painting, and sometimes his mother said she enjoyed her job in the gallery—though lately she frowned a lot more than she smiled. But if having a job meant painting when he'd rather be playing, a job was not something he wanted to have.

He tried another approach. “I want to watch Dad and his computer.”

“George Louis Graham.” His mother's voice had that final, flat tone that meant she would not argue any longer. “You will paint puffins, or you will go to your room and stay there for the rest of the night. Fish or cut bait, Son. Make your choice.”

Georgie lifted his chin, tightened his grip on his arms, and pulled himself out of the beanbag chair, stomping loudly on his way through the foyer. A rhyme formed in his head, and he chanted it at the top of his lungs as he climbed the stairs:

“Puffins stink!

Puffins clink!

Puffins poop on our bathroom sink!”

But later, as he lay on his bed and stared at the crinkly plaster ceiling, he thought he might be angry with his mother and not puffins. And when the shadows lengthened and finally swallowed up the room and neither his mom nor dad came in to tell him to brush his teeth and say his prayers, Georgie thought he might even be a little frightened.

Outside the Graham Gallery, Zuriel stood in the alley that led to his cottage, enjoying the serenity of the twilight. The dark sky seemed to hover just above the village, and streamers of night were gently falling over the sleepy houses of Heavenly Daze. The brisk air was cool, and already the evergreens at the side of the house wore a sweater of crisp frost.

He walked slowly toward his cottage, his boots crunching the dried autumn leaves, his heart heavy with thoughts and prayers for the folks he was privileged to serve. A nudge of the Spirit caused him to look up, and his heart tightened when he saw Georgie at the window. Their gazes met and locked, and even in the dim light Zuriel could see the sheen of tears upon the boy's face. After a long moment, Georgie turned from the window without a wave and the light disappeared.

Georgie's unhappiness seemed to cast a shroud over the house, no less tangible than the layer of frost that would coat the dried grass by morning.

What were Charles and Babette doing to their son? Remaining beneath the boy's window, Zuriel pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together, the cold stinging his skin. Did they know Georgie was unhappy? Had they taken the time to notice?

He debated going into the house on the pretext of looking for something else to eat, but Babette had already fed him a hearty supper. Besides, he wasn't supposed to pry. His job was to serve these people, and at the moment they didn't seem to want his help.

A human might have worried—but Zuriel had long ago learned to resist that particular sin. Trusting the situation to the Lord, he shoved his cold hands into his pockets and trudged back to his little house.

His kiln stood open, the lid raised, and upon entering he could tell that its heat had fully dissipated into the room. The clay objects he had fired were finally ready to be removed from the oven.

He walked to the kiln and lifted out the first piece, a spiral bowl he had thrown in two stages, then carved when the piece was leather hard. The design featured a simple star, cut into the piece with a wire loop and repeated around the bowl in a never-ending circle.

He smiled in satisfaction. The piece should bring a good price for the Grahams, and the natural design spoke of the Lord Creator, as all art should.