Paint by Magic by Kathryn Reiss Page B

just hang out here and get painted all the time? Didn't she have other stuff to do with her time—you know, like go to work? Didn't she miss her husband and children and job?"
    Homer threw a small, unripe plum at me. "She never mentioned a husband or children. She stayed with us all year—and then just all of a sudden was gone. She's been gone about a month already, and Uncle Fitz has turned into a beast."
    She was here a whole year?
Hadn't she missed us? The thought made me uncomfortable. Hadn't she tried to come home?
    "Why did she stay so long?" I asked.
    "Why wouldn't she stay?" replied Homer. "She was Uncle Fitzy's best model."
    Simple as that, huh?
"But where had she come-from in the first place?" I persisted.
    "That's definitely one of life's big mysteries," replied Betty, raising her eyebrows at me. "And there are others. Maybe
you
can give us some answers?"
    I had to look away from her again.
    "Uncle Fitzy had a tantrum when Pammie left," Elsie reported solemnly. "A very big one. And he
keeps
having tantrums and crying about her. He needed her, and he loved her, and now he can't paint since she's been gone."
    "He says he may never be able to paint again," added Homer. "He just stays up in his studio, raging and banging things around. Mama says it must feel like being in a black hole for him to be without his muse. Nobody can talk to him, and nobody but Gramma dares to get too near him." He threw another plum hard against the garden gate. "The old cuss."
    Elsie had pulled up some little daisies and was threading the stems together in a daisy chain. "But it's not just Uncle Fitzy. We
all
miss Pammie—she was hotsy-totsy. She was the bee's knees." Then she added softly, "You would have liked her, Connor."
    I looked up. Betty was still watching me.

Chapter 8
The Paint Box
    A bell started ringing somewhere, and all four of the Cotton kids jumped up.
Saved,
I thought. Betty made me nervous.
    "Dinnertime!" yelled Chester, racing off for the house. "Grandpa's home!"
    The rest of us followed. Grandpa was a round old guy, standing on the back stoop, waving a big handbell up and down. Suspenders held up his baggy brown pants, and he had a bald head like a shiny egg. Homer introduced him to me as Mr. Edgar Cotton. Mr. Cotton smiled and pumped my hand like he was trying to draw water from a well. Then we all went inside to the dining room.
    This is what Mom wanted.
The big round table was set for eight. There was candlelight. There were platters of chicken and potatoes and green beans with onions. I was seated between Homer and Betty, and I watched them out of the corner of my eye so I would be sure not to make any mistakes. The whole family—minus Uncle Fitzy, who apparently never came downstairs for meals and was served on a tray up in his studio—bowed their heads and said a prayer together.
Grace,
Mom had called it.
For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.
    Then Mr. Cotton cleared his throat and said, "And, Lord, please end this blasted Prohibition so we can enjoy a glass of wine with our meal again! I have half a mind to turn bootlegger myself!"
    "Now, Edgar," reproved Joanna. "It's the law."
    "Damnable silly law, when the government tells us what to eat and drink in our own homes!" But he subsided and took a big drink of his lemonade.
    I remembered how Mom had spoken of Prohibition at our dinner table. And with a shiver it hit me again that Mom had sat right here at this table with this family. Maybe she had sat in this very chair, where I was sitting now. Weird as that thought was, it made me feel safer somehow, like she was watching over me.
    Mrs. Cotton started passing the platters, and that got my mind off Mom. Joanna had to help Chester, who was trying to take all the chicken for himself, and Mr. Cotton heaped green beans on my plate before I could tell him I really didn't eat green things. But everything smelled fantastic, anyway. And with the old man's blue eyes