Page 101 of Drawing Home
“The company didn’t help,” Penny said, hobbling to her room.
Bea followed, and Penny tried to think what she could say to get rid of her. She tossed her crutches against the bed and dropped her bag onto the floor. Bea immediately swooped in and brushed sand off the comforter. “You should take the crutches into the bathroom and deal with the sand, Penny. Not drop them in here.”
Bea sat on the edge of the bed. Weird! What did she want?
“I’m really tired,” Penny said.
Bea cleared her throat. “I read your graphic novel.”
What?“Oh my God, were you snooping around in here?” She couldn’t believe it. Even her mother at her most annoying didn’t mess around with her stuff.
“I think that’s an excessively negative characterization.”
“That’s an invasion of privacy! It’s totally not okay!”
“Penny, sit down for a moment,” Bea said. “The book is…quite brilliant.”
Penny looked at her. “Really?”
“I apologize for, as you said, invading your privacy. But Penny, I love art. I love art the way Henry loved it; I just never had the ability to create myself. Because of this, when I’m around artists, I have a compulsion to see what they’re doing. My role in the creative process is to nurture and facilitate great talent when I find it. And I see great talent in you.”
Penny could only look at her in surprise. Was she for real? She had to admit, the compliment felt good. It felt like talking to Henry. “I just wish Henry were here to see it,” Penny said, her voice breaking. She started to cry.
Bea, clearly taken aback, reached out and patted her shoulder. “I think Henry did see your talent. That was why he enjoyed spending time with you.”
“And why he left me this house?”
Bea pulled her hand away like she’d touched something hot. “Let’s not, Penny.”
“When Henry died, I felt like my art went with him. I’m afraid of forgetting things he taught me, and I can’t tell if what I’m doing is any good. I mean, I can show my mom, and of course she’s going to like it because she’s my mom. But she doesn’t really get it.”
“Penny, you’re an artist. People can’t take that away from you, not with their approval or disapproval, not with their presence or absence.”
Penny thought about that for a minute. “But when Henry was around, I felt like drawing meant something. Like it could be my future. I know Henry liked it here, but he’d already lived in New York City and done everything he’d wanted to do.”
“It’s hard to be patient when you’re young, waiting for life to happen. I know. I felt the same way.”
“You did?”
“Yes. And as soon as I turned eighteen I moved to New York.”
“That’s four more years for me.” Penny groaned. “I can’t wait that long.”
She grabbed her crutches, made her way over to her desk, and pulled the graphic novel from under her sketch pad. Flipping through the pages, she cringed a little at some of the harsher sketches of Bea. The Bea in the novel was the way she’d seen Bea in the beginning of the summer, not now. The Bea sitting on her bed, talking about life and art and Henry, would make for an entirely different book. Maybe her next book. But first, the contest.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, looking back at Bea.
“You may.” Bea sat rod straight, as if steeling herself against what might come out of Penny’s mouth.
“I’m entering a contest,” Penny said. “But I can’t send in the whole graphic novel. I just have to pick two drawings for the first round, and I can’t decide which. Maybe you can tell me the ones you think are the best?”
Bea looked momentarily stunned before breaking into a smile. It was a completely unfamiliar expression on her face.
“I’d be delighted,” Bea said.
Penny handed her the manuscript.
“It’s not finished yet, by the way. But the contest deadline is next week.”
