I put in more detail, more life. Only the drawing existed.
“Hey, that’s great.” Phil’s voice sounded like a machine gun beating into the back of my skull. I twisted around to see that he and Henry had both been watching me draw. It was as if they’d seen me dancing around the house to Kool and the Gang’s “Celebrate Good Times” the night I sold a duplex following a bidding war that skyrocketed the sales price up ten thousand dollars. In other words, I felt exposed.
“I like what you’re doing, Margo,” Phil said. He was wearing a polo shirt and clean jeans, not plaster-room attire. Had he come here to bug me?
“Don’t you have somewhere else you need to be?” I said, and, thankfully, he drifted toward the door.
Laurie leaned over to get a clear view of my drawing. “That’s awesome,” she said.
“It’s that big tree on the corner,” I told her. “You know, the one we meet under for our walks. I guess I got carried away with the rest.”
Emily looked over and said, “How lovely.”
Henry addressed the class. “Our time is up for the night. If your drawing’s not done, finish it at home.” He strode to the front of the room and began tossing the blocks back into the carton. “Your perspective studies were quite good. We’ll go over it again next week, but I promise not to bring these back.”
He paused for a moment to glance at me. “Drawing, like everything else in life, needs review and repetition. And compassion.” I felt as though he were addressing me, alone, but then his stare moved to Laurie. “Show the child within you compassion.”
Again, our homework was to draw twenty minutes every day. “About ten years ago, when I gave up watching most television,” Henry said, closing the box top, “I had much more time on my hands. Window-shopping, crossword puzzles, talking on the phone, can fritter the day away. I’m not suggesting that you forgo dining with friends or watching the Mariners on TV, but make sure to invest twenty minutes a day in yourself.”
When he’d finished speaking, Laurie turned to me and chortled. “I’m not giving up my favorite soap,” she said. “I know—I’ll stop house cleaning. That’s a bunch of wasted time. I’m sick of picking up after Dave and the kids.” Delighted with her own humor, she added, “Hey, want to stop for a little snack on the way home?”
Laurie and I found Starbucks humming with activity that evening. The aroma of coffee beans and warm milk permeated the air. Frank Sinatra’s swooping words, “I did it my way,” mingled with the whooshing of the espresso maker.
Laurie and I stood in a slow-moving line to purchase lattes and scones. Then we scanned the crowded room and found one empty table in the back against the wall. Laurie forged ahead, tugged two chairs together, and motioned me over. I scooted in next to her, so we both faced out. I thought about my evening, recalling the exhilaration I’d experienced as I sketched the oak tree. In spite of Henry’s lack of praise and Phil’s unnerving intrusion, I felt hopeful, as though my life might change for the better.
“What’s Emily like?” Laurie asked between sips. She licked frothy milk off her upper lip. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”
“She’s wonderful—the kind of woman I want to be when I’m her age.” I thought of Emily’s sophisticated style, yet her childlike excitement each time she drew. “She probably has a husband to support her, so she can dabble with whatever she likes.” As I said the words, I realized I had also described Laurie’s situation.
“I’m not putting that down, mind you,” I added, wishing I’d chosen my words with more care. “I’d love to have that kind of setup.” I gnawed off a chunk of currant scone, and savored its sweet taste.
“It doesn’t always work that way. I have all the time in the world, but no talent. Anyway, being a housewife may come to an abrupt end one of these days. I haven’t decided yet.”
I washed my mouthful of scone down with a gulp of latte. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve had it with Dave.”
I remembered her making similar proclamations before, and it never came to anything. I knew she liked to vent her frustrations every now and then. Who didn’t? As she grumbled about his lack of communication, I noticed a young couple studying at the next table. Rob, a late-nighter since the age of ten, was taking an 8:00 a.m. math class. I wondered if he was sleeping through his alarm every morning, the way he often did at home. And without me there to keep after him, was he bothering with his homework?
“This time I mean it.” She spoke with precision, her volume building. “He loves work more than life itself. Certainly more than me and the kids.”
My fingers wrapped around my warm cup. “That’s not true. He’s crazy about you.”
“Be glad you’re single. If I had to do it all over again, I’d never have gotten married.”
“Come on. Sure you would.” Her spats with Dave never lasted more than a day or two, and then I’d be hearing about their joyous reunion.
“Well, I wouldn’t have hitched up with Mr. Work-Eighty-Hours-a-Week. You’ve done perfectly fine being single, Marguerite, and I’m sure I could too.”
“What did he do this time?” The din around us was growing, and I found myself catching phrases from other conversations.
“One more vacation cancelled at the last minute.” She shook her head in a quick rhythm. “This was the weekend we were going take the Clipper to Victoria and stay at
