Page 45 of Grissom
His shoulders lifted. “Yeah, I guess so. Does that mean I didn’t cheat and copy it?”
She bumped her biceps against his. “No, it means you have a very steady hand if you traced a photo as precisely as you did this. You should be proud.”
“Hmmm. Okay. But I didn’t trace it. I just drawed it.”
Tuesday had to look twice. “By sight?”Seriously?
“Yeah, ’course. Dad got a picture for me and Luke at the air show he took us to. I got to talk to the pilots, Miss Tuesday. The real guys who fly them T-birds. You should see them! Them guys are cool!”
“I’d love to,” she murmured, more excited at the attention to detail revealed in Tanner’s artwork than meeting any pilot. “Have you had classes?”Did six-year-olds even take art classes?
His shoulders lifted like it was no big deal. “No, I just like to draw.” Reaching past her, he flipped back to the beginningpage in his scrapbook. “This is the first one I ever did. It’s kinda messy, but Dad fixed it for me.”
“Why’d he have to fix it? From…”Who?Tuesday couldn’t finish the question. She knew what she was looking at, possibly a gifted child’s first foray into the world of art. A beautifully sketched hummingbird in flight, its emerald green throat, its wings a masterful blur of sapphire blues and grays, and a bright white sparkle in its eye. The paper had been torn into eight ragged pieces, those pieces now carefully taped—from the backside—back together. The repair had been done so well, it was difficult to see where it’d been torn. Grissom had carefully matched his son’s pencil strokes, every penciled line, curve, and shadow. He’d even recaptured the iridescence in the tiny bird’s smudged throat.
“He saved it from Mom,” Tanner whispered, as if saying her name could make the witch appear out of nowhere. “She said it was stupid, and I was stupid, too. She always said mean stuff to me, and she’s who teared it up, not Luke. Luke would never do anything like that, cuz, cuz he knows I just like to draw sometimes. It makes me feel good, like on really bad days and…” His shoulders lifted as if hisreally bad daysweren’t worth talking about. “Anyway” —he huffed— “she threw it in the garbage, but I…”
Tanner was breathing hard by then so Tuesday pulled him into her side, angry at Pam all over again. “It’s okay,” she breathed into the side of his sweaty head. “Your mother can’t hurt you anymore, and she isn’t ever coming back. I wouldn’t let her near you if she did.”
“That’s what Dad says, b-but…” Tanner’s skinny little boy body jerked with a hiccup. Tears breached his hazel eyes. “I still have all them bad dreams, Miss Tuesday. She’s screaming and being mean to me, and I can’t make her stop. She just keeps yelling and calling me names.”
“Aw, sweetheart.” Tuesday pulled him onto her lap, scrapbook and all. “Some people are just mean. They get pleasure from hurting others, but just you wait. They’ll all get what’s coming to them.” And Pam surely had, at the hand of the mighty Pacific Ocean.
“They do? P-promise?”
“I promise, sweetheart. We reap what we sow, and if all we sow is hate and cruelty, that’s what the universe sends back to us.”
He snuggled under Tuesday’s chin, his ear against her heart. Right here he belonged. “What’s it mean to sow?”
Of course, a six-year-old wouldn’t understand that little/big word. “Sow means to plant seeds, like the good habits I see your dad planting in you boys. Your mom thought she could plant ugly seeds that would turn you kids into big, mean, thorny thistles like her. But your dad’s planted seeds of honesty, kindness, and love, and you and Luke have grown into perfect little men.”
Carefully, Tanner shoved his open scrapbook to the floor and pointed at the man-size fingerprint in the lower left corner of the hummingbird drawing. “Dad came home early that night, and he saved my picture for me. See? That’s his thumbprint. My picture was wet when he found it cuz Mom threw it in the garbage, and his hands got dirty, but, yeah. Dad’s my best friend. He don’t ever hit me.”
Tuesday couldn’t help the sigh that breathed out of her. “Your dad is the best, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. He never hits me or Luke, not even once. I don’t have to be ascared anymore.”
Tears blurred her eyes. This poor kid was still suffering from his mother’s cruelty. No wonder Grissom hadn’t shown any remorse at his wife’s untimely death. Divorce would’ve kept thatawful woman in these boys’ lives forever. Pam might’ve even gotten custody.
“And he bought me this cool book to keep my pictures in, and these plastic sheets keep them safe and dry and clean. Wanna see some more?”
“I sure do,” she replied as Tanner pulled the scrapbook back onto his lap and flipped to the second page.
That was where Grissom found them, looking over Tanner’s collection of jet fighters. Tuesday hadn’t heard him until he sat on the bed behind her and asked, “Are you kids hungry? I made pancakes, bacon, and scrambles.”
Twisting her neck, Tuesday looked up at him through blurry eyes. “How long have you been sitting there?” How much had he heard?
“Not long.” But she could tell he’d heard enough by the sheen in those hazel eyes.
“You have quite a talented young artist on your hands.” She wiped a hand across her face.
Tugging her between his knees, he nodded. “Know that, love. Pastels. That’s what he wants for Christmas. Right, Scooter?”
“Yeah, and maybe an easel, but mostly pastels, cuz they’re cheaper, and Santa can’t afford to bring everything us guys want. Right, Dad?” Tanner answered brightly.
Geez, this kid was killing her. He didn’t ask for much, and he wasn’t as pumped as she’d been as a kid on Christmas Eve. Back then, she would’ve been climbing the walls by now at his age. There was no childish, holiday energy in this house, and that was because of that witch-mother of his. Tuesday brushed a quick hand over her face at the harsh reality she saw in his hazel eyes. All this little guy had ever wanted was his mother’s love. Wasn’t that a desolate thought on the day before the holiest night of the year?
“Right, son. Need a hug?” Grissom asked, his voice so darned tender.
