paper in half, placed it on the left side of the table, and proceeded to take off her rings, all eight of them. She arranged them in a circle with the left thumb-ring in the middle. She webbed her fingers, turned them outward, and stretched.
"OK, now what do you want me to draw first?" Her hands were floating above the art case, ready to select the right tool for the job. Denny shoved back, sat on his hands, and frowned.
"I changed my mind."
Josephine raised an eyebrow but kept her hands hovering over the charcoal sticks.
"You're playing me now, right?"
Denny shook his head and struggled to bite back the grin. He knew the game better than anyone, and Josephine Thompson was not going to march right into the Sanborn house and take over that easily. If she wanted to come back she would have to survive the report to Dad, so Denny was proving right here who was boss. Oh, he wanted to watch her draw in the worst way, but wanted more to see how far he could push. After all, it was her job to make nice-nice and he was just here for the ride.
"Tell me a story," he said.
"You're playing me," she said for the second time. "Tell me you're playing." Denny shook his head and smiled at his sneakers.
"Nope. Not playing. Don't you know any stories?"
"What kind of story do you want to hear?"
"A scary one." He looked back over. She was smiling now, not so much in a sweet way, but more in a knowing one. Her hands had migrated to her lap but the rings were still on the table.
"Do you want me to tell something like The Monkey's Paw ?"
"Heard it," Denny said.
"What about The One-Armed Brakeman ?"
"Too stupid. Why don't you make one up? Do you know how to do that? Make one up?"
She blinked a few times as if in pure disbelief at Denny's smart mouth, then looked away, thought for a moment, and turned back. Her voice went creepy.
"Turn off the overhead light, Denny, and flip on that table lamp over there. We need atmosphere to do this just right."
He obeyed and the room wore its shadows a bit deeper. The thickening winter darkness outside seemed to press against the windows and Denny got ready for a thrill. He had asked for it.
It was 4:09 P.M.
4.
"Stand over in the corner, Denny."
"Why?"
"Just do it."
"But you're drawing. I thought you were going to tell me a story."
"Don't worry about what I'm doing just yet."
"I wanted to hear a story!"
"The story has already started. Just stand there quietly and whatever you do, don't touch anything. It's a matter of life or death."
Denny tried lifting his chin, going up on tip-toes, and jumping in place, but he could not see what Josephine was creating from his angle by the dining room archway. She was bent over the coffee table with one arm covering the work and the other drawing sweeps across the page. These broad motions were intertwined with little flicks of the wrist, rapid back to forth straight-hand, and various moments of smudge rubbing. Every ten seconds or so she would switch charcoal sticks and with each stick, she changed the grip at least twice. Her eyes remained hidden behind dangling braids. She was good. Denny knew this without even seeing the picture, for he could tell by her arm technique alone that she was a machine.
"C'mon!" he said. "Show me! What is it? How is it part of the story? What are you doing?"
She raised her head slowly. The lamp light caught her eyes and made mirrors. Her voice had gone toneless.
"I'm going to use the picture frame. Don't try to stop me."
She turned her drawing face down on the table, rose up, and made for the short mantel above the fireplace. The old, dusty picture frame she was going for sat at the back of the narrow shelf, wedged behind Dad's upstairs toolbox and a Rayovac security flashlight.
The article in question was Denny's first attempt at making straight lines, back from age one and a half. His mother had made a big deal about it by setting the paper into the oversized twelve-by-sixteen frame, but through the years the
"OK, now what do you want me to draw first?" Her hands were floating above the art case, ready to select the right tool for the job. Denny shoved back, sat on his hands, and frowned.
"I changed my mind."
Josephine raised an eyebrow but kept her hands hovering over the charcoal sticks.
"You're playing me now, right?"
Denny shook his head and struggled to bite back the grin. He knew the game better than anyone, and Josephine Thompson was not going to march right into the Sanborn house and take over that easily. If she wanted to come back she would have to survive the report to Dad, so Denny was proving right here who was boss. Oh, he wanted to watch her draw in the worst way, but wanted more to see how far he could push. After all, it was her job to make nice-nice and he was just here for the ride.
"Tell me a story," he said.
"You're playing me," she said for the second time. "Tell me you're playing." Denny shook his head and smiled at his sneakers.
"Nope. Not playing. Don't you know any stories?"
"What kind of story do you want to hear?"
"A scary one." He looked back over. She was smiling now, not so much in a sweet way, but more in a knowing one. Her hands had migrated to her lap but the rings were still on the table.
"Do you want me to tell something like The Monkey's Paw ?"
"Heard it," Denny said.
"What about The One-Armed Brakeman ?"
"Too stupid. Why don't you make one up? Do you know how to do that? Make one up?"
She blinked a few times as if in pure disbelief at Denny's smart mouth, then looked away, thought for a moment, and turned back. Her voice went creepy.
"Turn off the overhead light, Denny, and flip on that table lamp over there. We need atmosphere to do this just right."
He obeyed and the room wore its shadows a bit deeper. The thickening winter darkness outside seemed to press against the windows and Denny got ready for a thrill. He had asked for it.
It was 4:09 P.M.
4.
"Stand over in the corner, Denny."
"Why?"
"Just do it."
"But you're drawing. I thought you were going to tell me a story."
"Don't worry about what I'm doing just yet."
"I wanted to hear a story!"
"The story has already started. Just stand there quietly and whatever you do, don't touch anything. It's a matter of life or death."
Denny tried lifting his chin, going up on tip-toes, and jumping in place, but he could not see what Josephine was creating from his angle by the dining room archway. She was bent over the coffee table with one arm covering the work and the other drawing sweeps across the page. These broad motions were intertwined with little flicks of the wrist, rapid back to forth straight-hand, and various moments of smudge rubbing. Every ten seconds or so she would switch charcoal sticks and with each stick, she changed the grip at least twice. Her eyes remained hidden behind dangling braids. She was good. Denny knew this without even seeing the picture, for he could tell by her arm technique alone that she was a machine.
"C'mon!" he said. "Show me! What is it? How is it part of the story? What are you doing?"
She raised her head slowly. The lamp light caught her eyes and made mirrors. Her voice had gone toneless.
"I'm going to use the picture frame. Don't try to stop me."
She turned her drawing face down on the table, rose up, and made for the short mantel above the fireplace. The old, dusty picture frame she was going for sat at the back of the narrow shelf, wedged behind Dad's upstairs toolbox and a Rayovac security flashlight.
The article in question was Denny's first attempt at making straight lines, back from age one and a half. His mother had made a big deal about it by setting the paper into the oversized twelve-by-sixteen frame, but through the years the
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