Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Henry standing at the far end of the desks chatting with a young redheaded woman. Our professor probably relished the attention of pretty, naive students, I thought, and maybe even took advantage of their eagerness to please, if you catch my drift.
He moved to the next student and stopped to make a suggestion. I admonished myself to get busy and at least appear to be participating. Slipping my new notebook out of its bag, I opened the pad to the first page and stared at the gaping white surface. When it was time for Henry to view my work, what would I show him? I couldn’t remember how to draw anymore. It had been twenty years.
My slacks pinched me around the waist, and I felt cool dampness gathering under my armpits. The desire to jump up and escape seized me—almost lifting me off my chair. But I couldn’t leave; Laurie was my ride home. Anyway, I wasn’t the type to skitter away with her tail between her legs. I was my father’s daughter, the eldest child, a single mother who had made it on her own.
Quite honestly, it required all my willpower to force my attention back to the blank page. Focusing my eyes on the kettle’s wooden handle, I pressed my pencil tip to the center of the paper and started drawing. What an odd sensation, almost as if the pencil had a mind of its own. I quickly filled in the dark area and was soon working on the spout.
I looked up to see Henry wandering down the line of students observing their work. Laurie, her eyes sparkling from behind frosted bangs, giggled when he came by her desk.
“I haven’t drawn since grade school,” she said, one shoulder lifting into a coy shrug.
“You’re doing fine,” he said. “Have fun, and don’t worry about making a finished product.” He stepped behind me. My shoulders hunched and my hand gripped my pencil as he glanced at my work. I held my breath and braced myself for his critique, but instead of addressing me he said hello to the older woman on my other side.
“Emily McBride, I’m honored to have you in my class.”
Emily’s beautifully wrinkled face bloomed. “When I saw your name in the Extension School catalog last week, I couldn’t resist,” she said. Her silver hair was combed back into a loose bun and secured by two wooden picks. “And I’ve missed you. We haven’t seen you at church for a while.”
“I’ve been trying something new. Smaller fits me better right now.”
“That’s fine, dear. Just know you’re missed.”
“Thank you.” He patted the back of her speckled hand, then strolled to the front of the class.
So, he’s religious, I thought, which told me a truckload about him, and none of it good.
Laurie leaned over to me and bumped elbows. “This is fabulous, don’t you think?” she said. “I’ve already learned so much.”
I managed a smile. “I’m glad you’re having fun.” At least one of us was.
“Good work, everyone,” Henry said. “That first forty-five minutes flew by.” He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up, revealing a splotch of yellow ocher paint on one forearm. “We’ve explored how the eye perceives objects as solid masses. Now let’s look at the same grouping as nothing but lines. Extending one arm, use your index finger as a pointer and visually define the contour of each item on the table.” He demonstrated with his hand as he spoke. “Take that finger around the edges and through the shapes.”
I don’t know if I was being obstinate, or maybe grumpy, but his instructions annoyed me. I kept my hands in my lap as the other students, their arms reaching out like children playing Simon Says, followed his directions.
“Continue studying the contours,” he said, “and without looking down at your paper use a pencil to record what you see. Let your eyes tell you where to move your hand.”
The others turned the pages of their notebooks. The rustling of paper prickled my eardrums, and my stomach clenched into a fist. Once more, it took Herculean strength to position my pencil on a new piece of paper, then I fastened my gaze to the still life and began outlining a jar. A moment later, much to my surprise, my pencil glided across the paper in a flowing line and captured the curve of the lamp.
Just as I was beginning to enjoy myself, I noticed Henry walking my way. I tried to look as though I were concentrating on my work and paying no attention to him. Again, he paused for a moment, glanced at my paper, and said nothing.
Was my drawing so awful it didn’t warrant a comment? My throat tightened around a growing lump, but I swallowed it down and told myself I didn’t need his approval. I was a grown woman, for goodness sake. Who cared what he thought?
“You’re all doing beautifully,” he said, striding to the front of the room. But I didn’t feel included in his gratuitous compliment. If he thought I was doing well, he would have spoken to me directly.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Let’s take a short break. I brought a thermos of decaf, and there’s a pop machine down the hall for those who’ve heard how bad my coffee is.”
The sound of chair legs scraping the floor and voices chattering filled the room. I watched most of the class stretch to their feet, then straggle over to the thermos and Styrofoam cups.
“I love our teacher, don’t you?” Laurie said, gushing like a teenager experiencing her first crush. “What a wise man.”
I looked at her crude drawing—a jumble of squiggly lines—and felt a wave of fondness for my dear friend of eighteen years. “It looks like you’re doing great,” I said.
“I figure I can only improve.”
While the other students mingled and inspected each
