was shuffling the cards, not saying anything. He looked tired.
"So," Cree Black said, "your grandparents must be very proud of you. I haven't seen your work, but everyone tells me you're
a talented artist."
Tommy looked embarrassed by the prompt and busied himself with stirring his chocolate. "I guess."
" Very talented," Julieta affirmed proudly, as if she were personally responsible for his abilities. "So much so that he won a complete
private scholarship, just for visual artists, to come here. Tomorrow, you'll have to show Cree your work, Tommy."
Tommy looked into his cup and blew across the top.
"How did you start?" Cree asked. "Are there artists in your family?"
"Yeah. My dad was a potter and sculptor. In summer, he'd sell stuff to the tourists in Window Rock. He kind of got me going."
Tommy didn't look up as he answered. Under the edge of the table, his right knee started to bob, and the taut, unconscious
motion, so at odds with the false calm of his face and the controlled movements of his hands, frightened Lynn. Was that a
sign of it? Kids bobbed their knees, but with Tommy you couldn't be sure. Was it an ordinary nervous knee, or the . . . the
seizure, starting to kindle again?
"Okay," Joseph said at last. "Julieta, your turn to start."
They were playing rummy. Everyone took up the cards Joseph had dealt and looked them over. Cree's eyes moved to Tommy, who
was scrupulously intent on his fan of cards, to Julieta to Joseph.
Julieta drew a card, slipped it into her hand, discarded.
"I was watching you with the horses," Cree went on. "Another talent, looks like. You must have spent a lot of time with them
when you were growing up."
"Yeah. My dad liked them. He taught me to ride when I was a baby." The subject seemed to embarrass Tommy, and silence followed
hard on his words.
"Well, my dad was no artist. He was a plumber," Cree said, as if she hadn't noticed the conversational stall. She took her
card and considered it.
"He was from Brooklyn. I loved him to pieces, but I sure wasn't going to follow in his footsteps and set toilet bowls for
a living. You're lucky you got the artistic influence. But Pop did have one thing in common with your father—he liked horses,
too." She chuckled as if at some fond memory, discarded, and went on, "Probably in a different way, though. He liked to bet
on the races. You have to understand, my father was the kind of Brooklyn guy you see in the movies who talks like this: 'So
dis guy sez to me, he sez, "I got a sure t'ing for ya, put yaself a sawbuck on a win for Sugar Baby inna eight'."' Even I
could hardly understand him half the time!"
Tommy flicked his gaze at her, a glimmer of appreciation there.
"You're up, Lynn," Joseph said, startling her.
She had a bad hand, of course, all low numbers and nothing to match. Like life, she thought savagely. She picked up and discarded.
"He died," Tommy said. "Killed himself." This time he raised his eyes to look challengingly at Cree. The words froze Julieta
and Joseph.
"Who did?" the psychologist asked blandly.
"He drunk himself and my mother to death. Got into a car crash because he was so loaded he couldn't see cows on the road."
The psychologist didn't blink. "I'm sorry, Tommy," she said, with sincere but not excessive sympathy. "You must miss him terribly.
I know I miss my pop every day."
Tommy looked to his cards again and shrugged his shoulders, doesn't matter or not really. He seemed puzzled and maybe put out by her response—clearly he'd been fishing for something more dramatic. He picked up a
card, laid out three twos, discarded a six of spades. Meanwhile, Julieta was making heartbroken moon eyes and trying to hide
the expression from Tommy. Joseph gave her a supportive, steadying gaze. It made Lynn sick. The craving for nicotine was beginning
to gnaw at her in a way that couldn't be ignored, and she tried to remember which one she was on—number four? Or five? Whichever,
she
"So," Cree Black said, "your grandparents must be very proud of you. I haven't seen your work, but everyone tells me you're
a talented artist."
Tommy looked embarrassed by the prompt and busied himself with stirring his chocolate. "I guess."
" Very talented," Julieta affirmed proudly, as if she were personally responsible for his abilities. "So much so that he won a complete
private scholarship, just for visual artists, to come here. Tomorrow, you'll have to show Cree your work, Tommy."
Tommy looked into his cup and blew across the top.
"How did you start?" Cree asked. "Are there artists in your family?"
"Yeah. My dad was a potter and sculptor. In summer, he'd sell stuff to the tourists in Window Rock. He kind of got me going."
Tommy didn't look up as he answered. Under the edge of the table, his right knee started to bob, and the taut, unconscious
motion, so at odds with the false calm of his face and the controlled movements of his hands, frightened Lynn. Was that a
sign of it? Kids bobbed their knees, but with Tommy you couldn't be sure. Was it an ordinary nervous knee, or the . . . the
seizure, starting to kindle again?
"Okay," Joseph said at last. "Julieta, your turn to start."
They were playing rummy. Everyone took up the cards Joseph had dealt and looked them over. Cree's eyes moved to Tommy, who
was scrupulously intent on his fan of cards, to Julieta to Joseph.
Julieta drew a card, slipped it into her hand, discarded.
"I was watching you with the horses," Cree went on. "Another talent, looks like. You must have spent a lot of time with them
when you were growing up."
"Yeah. My dad liked them. He taught me to ride when I was a baby." The subject seemed to embarrass Tommy, and silence followed
hard on his words.
"Well, my dad was no artist. He was a plumber," Cree said, as if she hadn't noticed the conversational stall. She took her
card and considered it.
"He was from Brooklyn. I loved him to pieces, but I sure wasn't going to follow in his footsteps and set toilet bowls for
a living. You're lucky you got the artistic influence. But Pop did have one thing in common with your father—he liked horses,
too." She chuckled as if at some fond memory, discarded, and went on, "Probably in a different way, though. He liked to bet
on the races. You have to understand, my father was the kind of Brooklyn guy you see in the movies who talks like this: 'So
dis guy sez to me, he sez, "I got a sure t'ing for ya, put yaself a sawbuck on a win for Sugar Baby inna eight'."' Even I
could hardly understand him half the time!"
Tommy flicked his gaze at her, a glimmer of appreciation there.
"You're up, Lynn," Joseph said, startling her.
She had a bad hand, of course, all low numbers and nothing to match. Like life, she thought savagely. She picked up and discarded.
"He died," Tommy said. "Killed himself." This time he raised his eyes to look challengingly at Cree. The words froze Julieta
and Joseph.
"Who did?" the psychologist asked blandly.
"He drunk himself and my mother to death. Got into a car crash because he was so loaded he couldn't see cows on the road."
The psychologist didn't blink. "I'm sorry, Tommy," she said, with sincere but not excessive sympathy. "You must miss him terribly.
I know I miss my pop every day."
Tommy looked to his cards again and shrugged his shoulders, doesn't matter or not really. He seemed puzzled and maybe put out by her response—clearly he'd been fishing for something more dramatic. He picked up a
card, laid out three twos, discarded a six of spades. Meanwhile, Julieta was making heartbroken moon eyes and trying to hide
the expression from Tommy. Joseph gave her a supportive, steadying gaze. It made Lynn sick. The craving for nicotine was beginning
to gnaw at her in a way that couldn't be ignored, and she tried to remember which one she was on—number four? Or five? Whichever,
she
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