“Who would throw away something like this?” Kerry asked.
“Don’t know. But I have to admit, every time I see a pile of trash on the street out front, I stop to check—hoping maybe I’ll strike gold twice. It drives my husband insane.”
A loud buzzer sounded from the hallway. “There’s my laundry,” Kerry said.
chapter 11
Kerry was bent over her pad with a fine-tipped black marker, so immersed in her drawing she didn’t notice she had company until a small voice piped up.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
She glanced up. Austin stood beside the table, staring down at her sketch. He was dressed in his school uniform. Red mittens dangled from the sleeves of his jacket, and his cheeks were pink from the cold.
She pointed at the Brodys’ stand across the street. “It’s them.”
Kerry watched as the old gentleman in the black coat approached. He’d added a faded silk scarf to his ensemble today, and an equally faded black wool beret.
Queenie scrambled to her feet as the old man drew closer, her tail wagging. The man’s craggy face brightened, and he reached into his coat pocket and drew out a dog biscuit, offering it on the palm of his flattened hand.
“Good girl,” he said, scratching Queenie’s ears.
“What are we drawing today, then, hmm?” he asked, peering over the top of Austin’s head.
“Hi, Mr. Heinz,” Austin said. “She’s drawing those guys!” He pointed indignantly across the street. “They’re bad.”
“Oh?”
The old man glanced at the Brodys and then down at Kerry’s sketch pad. “This is a little better,” he said, tapping his index finger on the drawing. “You’re a moderately adequate draftsman, but your work lacks heart. Finally, here, I see something approaching emotion. What is this about?”
Kerry chewed the cap of her pen. “We don’t actually know yet.”
Heinz gestured to the sketch pad. “May I?”
“Please.” Kerry stood up and indicated that her guest should take her chair.
He sank down onto the chair and turned to a new page in the sketchbook. He picked up one of Kerry’s pencils and gazed around at the Christmas tree lot for a minute or so. Finally, he began drawing, the pencil moving so quickly over the paper, it was almost a blur.
As Kerry and Austin watched, they saw the Tolliver Christmas tree stand take shape: the wooden structure, the rows of shaggy firs, the strings of lights crisscrossing above and outlining the perimeter. Heinz’s pencil paused for a moment, and then picking up speed again, sketched a flattened oval, adding in a door, and tiny windows, and a set of steps.
“That’s Spammy,” Austin said gleefully.
The old man nodded but kept drawing. Now the outline of Jock’s pickup truck appeared, the bed filled with a pile of Christmas trees. A familiar furry head emerged, peeking over the edge of the truck bed, with a heart-shaped brown patch on its nose, and a feathery tail.
“There’s Queenie,” Austin said.
The old man drew the figure of a burly man, cross-hatching a jacket, sketching a bearded man’s head of wild, dark hair topped with a knitted cap. The man rode a bicycle, with a medium-sized tree strapped across the handlebars.
“There’s Murph, but where’s Kerry?” Austin asked.
The artist grabbed Kerry’s trucker cap and tossed it onto the table.
“Ughhh, no. I’m a mess.”
He ignored her protest and touched Kerry’s chin. “Turn, please, so I can see you in profile.”
She tilted her head to the left, and his pencil flew across the paper.
Austin watched raptly, his eyes following the artist’s progress.
“Hmm. No.” The old man grabbed an eraser and attacked the drawing, then went back to work.
“Hahahahaha,” Austin chortled.
Kerry looked down. Heinz had sketched her, standing defiantly by the truck, wielding a push broom as though it were a saber.
“She’s guarding the trees,” Austin said. “But what about me?”
“Austin!” Patrick called from the doorway of the brownstone. “Time to come inside and get ready for dinner.”
“I’m not hungry,” the child called, turning back to his friends. “Are you gonna draw me now?”
“Austin?” Patrick’s voice sounded a warning note.
Heinz picked up a pen and went to work. In a matter of seconds the figure of a boy appeared on the paper. He was slender, with tousled dark hair and a sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks, and he seemed to tower over a forest of abstract-shaped evergreens. He had an ax slung over one shoulder, and an outsized squirrel perched on the other. A bird nested in his hair, and a mischievous raccoon peered down at him from the lower branch of one of the trees.
“That’s me!” Austin said, his face glowing with excitement. “It’s me, isn’t it, Mr. Heinz?”
“I think so,” Heinz said, studying the boy’s face. “But wait. Something is missing.” He picked up the pen and placed a baseball cap between the raccoon’s paws.
“He stole my hat,” Austin said.
“Only borrowed it,” the old man corrected, his pale lips curving into a smile. “I’m sure his intentions are pure.”
“James Austin?”
Kerry looked up. Patrick was standing on the sidewalk, hands on his hips, a dish towel tucked into his waistband, his dark dress pants dusted with flour. “I just burned the first batch of pancakes,” he announced. “And it’s your fault.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Austin said. “But we were doing something important.” He pointed at the drawing. “See? Me and Kerry and Mr. Heinz are drawing a story.”
Patrick walked over and examined the sketches laid out on the tabletop. “What kind of a story?”
“Kerry drew those guys across the street,” Austin said, breathless with excitement. “And then Mr. Heinz drew Kerry, guarding the tree stand. And he drew Murphy. So then I asked him to draw me…”
“Mr. Heinz?” Patrick asked.
“Yeah.” Austin stabbed the drawing with his index finger. “See? That’s me.”
For the first time, Kerry realized that the old man had quietly drifted away, into the darkening streets.
“Hey,” the boy said, looking around. “Where did Mr. Heinz go?”
“Maybe he went home,” Kerry suggested.
“He probably realized it was time for dinner,” Patrick said, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Pancakes again?” Austin scrunched his face in disgust.
“You love my pancakes,” his father said.
“Do they have blueberries in them?”
“Well, no. The ones in the fridge grew some Grinchy-looking green fur, so I had to throw them out. But we have bacon.”
“And maple syrup?”
“Not exactly. I found a jar of strawberry jam, though, which is even better.”
“Eeeeewwww,” Austin howled. “Nobody puts jelly on pancakes. Gross!”
Patrick threw Kerry a pleading look.
“Are you kidding?” Kerry said. “Strawberry jam on pancakes is awesome sauce. It’s way better than boring old maple syrup. Murphy and I love to make pancake and strawberry jam sandwiches for dinner. And then you put bacon in the middle, and it’s salty and crunchy and sweet all at the same time.”