Pictures of You (15 page)

             
“I’m good. But the question is: how are you, September?” She was sitting in her usual ancient rocker, the one with the scratchy fabric, reminding me of Velcro. She threw me an absent smile while patting her cotton candy pink curls—she explained to me once that her medications turned her hair such an odd color.

             
“I’m all right. Mrs. Watkins, I hope you don’t mind, but I brought a friend.” Adrien hesitantly stepped into the doorway.

             
“Oh. A man. A handsome man.” She giggled like a schoolgirl. For some reason Mrs. Watkins referring to him as a man embarrassed me. I mean, I guess technically he was a man, although I was pretty sure he wasn’t more than a year or two older than me.

             
“Meet Adrien Gray,” I said with a shaky voice. Why was I suddenly feeling so nervous? It wasn’t like I was bringing him home to meet my parents.

             
“Hello, Adrien.”

             
“Hello, Mrs. Watkins,” Adrien said, acting kind of shy.

              “They were out of whole milk, Mrs. Watkins. I hope you don’t mind I got you two percent.” Adrien and I laid four bags of groceries onto the vintage Formica table.

             
“Two percent will do just fine. You know I’m grateful for anything. I don’t know what I’d do without you, September.”

             
I’d first noticed Mrs. Watkins a couple months ago. She’d labored to juggle three bags of groceries up three flights of stairs—the elevator was out of order for a while. I offered to carry them up to her apartment and she invited me in for iced tea, lemon bars and a condensed version of her autobiography. Two weeks after our initial visit, I’d heard she’d fallen and hurt her hip, so I offered to do her shopping for her. I did it every week since then and I have to admit it was nice to think about someone other than myself for once.

             
After putting away Mrs. Watkins’ groceries, I cemented a polite, happy look onto my face (I didn’t want to burden her with all my problems) and sat on the sagging brown sofa. “Anything else I can do for you?”

             
“Sit, Adrien. Please,” the woman insisted.

             
Adrien obeyed, sitting stiffly beside me on the sofa, resting his awkward hands in his lap. I felt the warmth of his body when our thighs touched.

             
She shook her head. “You look so much like Mr. Watkins, Adrien. With a nice crew cut, you really could be his twin.”

             
“Oh,” Adrien said, nodding politely.

             
We sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Today Mrs. Watkins had drawn on one of her eyebrows crooked, the right an inch higher than the left, making her appear quizzical. With a quaking hand, she reached for a beaded coin purse from the coffee table and placed two shiny quarters in my palm. Our hands touched momentarily, hers cold against mine. “This is for your help, dear. Treat yourself to some ice cream.”

             
“Keep the money—”

             
She wagged a finger. “Tut-tut-tut. You’re a big hearted young woman. I’m not going to take advantage of that.”

             
“Well thank you. This means a lot.” We went through this every Tuesday. She gave me fifty cents, from the bottom of her heart and I refused it, knowing she had so little to give.

Eac
h time she chastised me. It was as predictable as the lines in a worn out play. She smiled at me, reaching over, squeezing my hand.

             
“Adrien, tell me about yourself. What do you do?”

             
“I sell cars.”

             
“He’s also a writer,” I added. I barely knew him and already I sounded like a proud mother.

             
“For heaven’s sake. A writer. Mr. Watkins was a writer. What do you write?”

             
“I write fiction.”

             
“Oh? Have you had anything published?”

             
“I just finished writing my first novel a few months ago. I’m not published, though. Not yet. I also write short stories.”

             
“That’s wonderful. I hope you keep it up.”

             
Adrien coughed. “Um, I will.”

             
I elbowed him in the ribs. I whispered, “Liar.”

             
“You look so much like my husband. He was a good man. He fought in the war. He never came home.” Mrs. Watkins looked wistfully at Adrien.

             
“I’m sorry to hear that. You must be lonely without him.”

             
A single tear escaped her eye. “Very lonely. It’s been a
long
life without him. It feels like a hundred years since I last saw him walk out that door.” She gestured to the apartment door.

             
Surprised, I said, “You’ve lived here that long?”

              “Oh, yes. Yes. We moved in here as newlyweds.”

             
“Wow.” I shook my head in amazement. I hadn’t realized this place was so old.

             
We sat, enduring several minutes of small talk. Normally I enjoyed our little chats, but today I felt restless. There was so much I wanted to say to Adrien, so much I wanted to know. The incessant ticking of the coo-coo clock combined with the fog of stale perfume made it worse. My leg kept jerking—I felt like a junkie in need of a fix—but then I’d force myself to keep still, not wanting to appear impolite. Mrs. Watkins seemed oblivious to my impatience. Today I was nearly invisible. She looked straight past me, eyeing the handsome stranger she swore was a dead-ringer for her husband. Adrien seemed to have her in a spell.

             
“Adrien, I have something for you,” the elderly woman said, surprising us both.

             
“For me, Ma’am?” He placed a hand on his chest.

             
“There’s something I want you to have. In that coat closet there.” She pointed a shaky finger at the closet still covered in last year’s Christmas cards and shiny red bows. Hesitantly, he got up and opened the closet door, which was jammed full of old coats, many of them decades old. A vacuum that looked old enough to be displayed in a museum was crammed into the corner next to sparkling aqua bowling ball peeking out of a bag. He paused, waiting for further instructions.

             
“In the back you’ll find Ned’s jacket—one of his old military jackets.”

             
Adrien raked through various sweaters and coats before pulling out a jacket from the very back. A subdued green, it boasted four pockets and shiny gold buttons. Various patches, symbols of achievement, were carefully sewn into their appropriate places. “This is really cool.”

             
“Try it on.”He paused, eyeing Mrs. Watkins in amazement. “Try it on, boy.”

             
He slipped into the jacket. It fit him perfectly. “Wow, this is a nice jacket. But it belonged to your husband. I couldn’t take this, Mrs.—”

             
“I want you to have it. It’s even a perfect fit. Ned was tall like you.”

             
“But I don’t deserve it.”

             
“It’s green. Your color,” I teased. I couldn’t resist.

             
“Of course you do. You’re a warrior, Adrien. Just like Ned. He fought until the very end. Just like I know
you
will.”

             
It could be my imagination, but I could have sworn I saw her eyes cut into his, almost accusingly. But then her face softened and she simply smiled a warm smile. Was Mrs. Watkins psychic? An angel? How did she seem to sense his dark secret?

             
“If you insist. Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.” He looked away, but not before I caught his eyes watering.

             
I stood. “Well, Mrs. Watkins. If there’s nothing else…”

             
“No, no. You do too much for me already. Thanks for dropping by. Nice to meet you, Adrien.”

             
“It was a pleasure to meet you. Thanks again for the jacket.”

             
“Take care, you two.” The way she said it gave me chills. I knew a deeper meaning intertwined the casual phrase.

             
“We will.”

             
Adrien waited in the hall as Mrs. Watkins handed me an envelope filled with cash for next week’s groceries. She whispered to me, her face so animated, she looked like a Saturday morning cartoon, “September. You really met someone. He’s special, I can feel it. Don’t let this one go.”

             
I smiled in reply, unsure how to respond. “See you next Tuesday.”

             
As I closed her grungy apartment door, I turned to Adrien. His face was screwed up, his eyes troubled as he ran a finger down the front of his new jacket.

15

             
“What do you want to do now?” I asked after mailing my photos to three online customers. One to a woman in London, England another to a doctor in Nampa, Idaho and the last to someone named Harry Loveless in Austin, Texas.

             
“That’s so cool that you sell your art to people around the world. I must say I’m impressed,” Adrien said, stopping to tie his shoe.

             
“Yeah, I guess it is. I think of it as getting paid to play. Someday I hope to make enough doing just that. As much as I love scrubbing urinals…”

             
“I have the same dream. For writing.” His eyes met mine for a few seconds. We both chuckled, as if sharing an inside joke. It was funny—in a sad, twisted way—how half of everything that came out of his mouth sounded off. Knowing he was ending it all in a few short days. Of course it made me sad, but I had to push those thoughts aside, sort of be in denial. It was the only way to cope with such a tragic thing. Plus I refused to give up. There had to be a way to stop him. There
had
to be.

             
As we walked past a few coffee shops and restaurants, the aroma of sizzling burgers and Chinese food made my stomach growl. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Let’s grab some lunch.”

             
“I could definitely go for some lunch. But what do you want to do—after we eat?”

             
“I don’t know. It’s your thirteenth to last day on earth. I’ll let you call the shots.”

             
“I like that idea.” He grinned. “I want to see some of your photos,” he said, grabbing my hand and playing with it. His hand was soft and warm and the touch of it made my heart flutter. I felt like I was in junior high all over again.

             
“Really?”

             
“Absolutely.”

             
Then I had an idea. “Will you model for me?” I asked, suddenly excited.

             
“Excuse me?”

             
“You have the most…interesting face.” Your eyes, your jaw
,
I thought to myself
.
“I would love to photograph you.”

             
“Really? You think so?” His innocent surprise caught me off guard. Was he really that oblivious to his good looks? Did he not happen to own a mirror? He continued, “Would I be in one of your fancy art shows?”

             
“Most definitely. So is it a deal?”

             
He laughed his classic laugh. “Okay, deal. But I’m starving.”

             
“Me too. I’ll make us something at my apartment—we’re almost there. Sound okay?”

             
“Whoa, you met me a day ago and you’re already taking me up to your apartment?” he joked.

             
I shrugged. “I guess I am, but don’t get any ideas—I’m
just
making you lunch. Oh and I have to warn you. I have a really weird roommate.”

             
“Weirder than you?” He squeezed my hand, shooting a jolt of electricity up my arm. He shook his head. “Impossible.”

***

             
“Adrien, meet Mary. Mary, this is Adrien.”

             
“Whoa, September, he’s hot,” Mary said, as if he wasn’t there in the room. Mary was like that—very blunt. Sometimes even rude. She sat Indian-style on the purple velvet couch, playing with a rubber band. Her long blue hair was twisted in a knot, a pencil holding it in place. She wore her usual dark colors and rose-red lipstick.