The Moment Before

Chapter Twenty-Two

TWENTY-TWO

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The next couple of days are a blur. Mom and I have a cold war at home. Don’t ask, don’t tell. She’s doing her realtor thing, mostly, and I come and go. I attend all my classes. I do homework, even. Study. Pass tests. Martha, if she hates my guts, she doesn’t let on. She’s her usual positive self. Even more so, because she’s got the Rose Festival thing going on. That, and she and Nick are going to Prom together Saturday, and because they’re the new “it” couple, Marnick, good behavior is a must. When I see her in trig, she practices her Rose Festival Queen smile. And, I see her sneaking her Xanax or Ativan or whatever it is under the lip of the desk. Popping pills to keep from chewing her fingernails to stubs.

            The other thing I do is I get Mrs. Cupworth to agree to consider hiring Connor for her yard. Even though Mrs. Cupworth has a crew the size of the Whitehouse Secret Service to tend her lawn and trees and flowers, I convince her that she could revitalize the herb garden alongside her portico. And the dead arborvitae in Grecian urns that surround a side patio could be swapped out for new ones. And then there’re her roses.

            “Is he trustworthy?” she asks when I call her.

            “More than anyone I know,” I assure her.

            “Saturday afternoon at two,” she says, and, before hanging up she adds, “if, you’ll also agree to consider the studio space I suggested. On a trial basis, of course.”

            Bowerman had tipped me off about this idea Mrs. Cupworth had been “bandying about in her head.” She wanted to launch an artist-in-residence program whereby aspiring artists from Greenmeadow could apply to have use of her studio—a converted pool house, actually—for each school semester, as well as through the summer. She would supply the tools of whatever medium the artist required – paint, canvas, clay – and in return the artist would spend time making art. The artist would also agree to do some public speaking in support of arts education around the city. I was the hoped guinea pig. I had to admit, the most compelling part of the offer was that she wanted me, not Martha.

           

Saturday afternoon, I pack up my sketch pad and my charcoal. I’m going to “feel the space out.” But, mostly, what I’m hoping to do is get Connor a job that’s conveniently located to where I’ll be spending afternoons and weekends.

            When I get to Cupworth’s, I see the front of the beater truck already parked in the semi-circle, half-hidden behind a fountain that’s a leaping salmon made of copper. The water spraying out of its mouth is greenish. I say a little Nona-type prayer that the truck isn’t leaking oil all over Mrs. Cupworth’s driveway.

            I expect to see Connor still behind the wheel, waiting for me before meeting his prospective employer, but he’s not in the truck. As soon as I round the edge of the circle, I hear Mrs. Cupworth’s fancy old lady voice, and then Connor’s mellow boy voice. They are discussing grass length. And whether it’s too early to put in tomatoes.

            Connor’s arms are folded, and he’s attentive as Mrs. Cupworth points to various places around her garden. They both look up when they hear my footsteps on the gravel. “Good afternoon,” says Mrs. Cupworth. “Your friend and I were just getting acquainted.”

            Connor winks at me and my stomach goes all liquid-mush. He’s wearing a turned-around Mariner’s cap and a bright blue shirt with the sleeved rolled halfway up his forearm. He looks like a guy ready to build something, with a Leatherman fastened to his belt and his heavy work boots. And next to him Mrs. Cupworth looks even more delicate than usual in her pale purple pleated skirt and cardigan. A strand of pearls hanging primly at her collar bone. Matching earrings. Connor is not, thank God, wearing Sabine’s earring. Even for an arts lover, that might be asking too much of Mrs. Cupworth.