The Boy Who Drew Monsters: A Novel by Keith Donohue Page A

or deduced. On the carpet by the Christmas tree, Jip curled like a cat in his old favorite threadbare pajamas, frayed at the cuffs and outgrown by two sizes. Intent at his drawing, he hummed softly to himself, and only when Tim listened closely could he make out the tune his son was singing. “Little Drummer Boy.” Stray flurries wandered across the picture window. He thought for a moment of turning on the Christmas lights against the dismal morning, but he had settled in too deeply to move his bones. Stuck at his puzzle, Tim leaned back in the chair, nestled his head against the cushion, and closed his eyes.
    In what seemed mere seconds, his son appeared at his side and was softly smacking him on the cheek. He opened his eyes to the sight of the boy hovering above him, bouncing on the balls of his feet, mouthing a silent admonition to wake up, wake up. The newspaper had fallen from his lap, though he still held the pen in his clenched fist.
    “What is it, Jip?”
    “Someone at the door.”
    “I’m awake, I was never asleep. Why didn’t you just answer?” he asked, realizing at once his mistake. Jip would never risk bringing the outside in. Rousing himself from the chair, Tim gathered his robe together as he marched to the front door. Standing on the stoop were Nell Weller and her son, flakes of wet snow melting in their hair.
    “Nick, you little ray of sunshine. Were we expecting you this morning?”
    Cupping her hand around the back of his head, Nell guided the boy inside with a gentle nudge. As he was taking off his coat, Nick sneezed, covering his mouth with the lining. Nell followed her reluctant son, taking in the scene of the Keenan men in their robes, the room in quiet disarray.
    “Don’t worry,” she said. “Not a cold, I don’t think. Allergies. We had to put up a fake tree this year, took Fred all day to figure out the branches. You don’t seem to be prepared for visitors at all. Is Holly home?”
    Tim rubbed the stubble on his chin and smoothed his bed head hair. “Out Christmas shopping. You just missed her.”
    “Shopping? I wish she had told me. I would have gone with.” She unbuttoned her winter coat and slipped out of it with a shimmy. Beneath it she wore a tight red sweater that showed off her figure and a black pleated skirt that rippled as she moved about the room, tidying as she went. “Husbands,” she said, but the tone was amused, not exasperated. “Maybe you forgot? She agreed to have Nick over for the day. Is that okay by you, or do you two have plans?”
    Tim looked for his son, but the boys had disappeared, already at play in another room. “Free as a bird. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
    She nodded and followed him into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table for two tucked in the breakfast nook. Through the bay window that overlooked the ocean, she watched the few stray flakes spin wildly, launched upon the wind. With the insouciance of a waiter at a café, he set down the ceramic bowl filled with sugar cubes, the dairy creamer in the shape of a cow, and her coffee in a cup and saucer.
    “Something out there caught your fancy?” He took the seat opposite.
    “The sky, the sea. Funny, same as my underwear. Black on top and blue on the bottom.”
    He was not sure if she was flirting with him, but he decided to try his luck. “You are looking especially gorgeous. All dressed up this morning.”
    “Christmas party,” she said. “Fred’s work. He’s already at the office in his Santa suit for the little frights. Bad as their mommies and daddies. I’m skipping all the early folderol and am timing my arrival to coincide with the annual spiking of the eggnog. I can barely stand the people he works with. We would have taken Nick along, but he’s such a pill these days. Too old, he says, for Santa Claus. You’re sure it’s no inconvenience to have him here?”
    “No trouble at all. Jip lives for the company.”
    Red lipstick marked the edge of her cup. She leaned