Sketcher (17 page)

Seventeen

Well, for the rest of that year we got so isolated and paranoid I swore trees were people. Even when there were no reporters or curious campers comin' to look at the scene of the “most intense hostage situation in the State's history”, I was seein' shadows. Then again, it was weird how L-Island was suddenly empty. Everybody stopped comin' 'cept for that girl Teesha Grey, who still had “wildlife research” to do. She even tried gettin' an interview with
Télépathie
to “get the word out” about protectin' the environment and buildin' a refuge for endangered species and all that. Man, those gossip reporters just backed away from her real slow, like some kids at school who thought we were evil. Now, I thought she was really just hangin' around spying on Frico, and I wanted to catch her in a lie. So I asked her how much more research she was gonna need to do.

“Well now, let's see, we have about ten thousand species of birds in all... and about another hundred or so that are extinct. So... I'm, like, on number
one
of my ten thousand – one hundred birds. How does that grab ya?”

She was a feisty one, that girl. And I liked that a lot. But I couldn't let her get in the way. That Frico needed leadership, and she had his talent headed in the wrong direction with all her damn birds and what not. She didn't have a clue about half of what this boy could do. If she did, she wouldn't be wastin' his time when there were dreams to fulfil and money to be made.

Speakin' of which... Apart from the bad publicity that stupid gang gave us, they also cost me some dough. See, I was plannin' to ask all the shindig supporters for a modest
contribution of a quarter each, 'round about the same time James rode up shootin' gators – gators he left behind to stink to high heaven in the next-day sun.

So, anyway, I lost that money, and Samadh only needed so much tamarind polish and no more. So I was runnin' out of the usual options. I reckon I could always hunt down the Couyon Gang in hopes of getting the hundred-thousand-dollar reward, but that would take me until I was thirty, especially with no Frico-sketchin' support.

And Lord knows I tried to get him to help me go after ol' James Jackson, but there was no convincin' Frico after he said no. But I know for a fact that he was doing some sketching behind my back, the bastard. That Teesha Grey girl he was talkin' to, just kept getting cuter and cuter all the time. That's how I knew. And what pissed me off was the fact that she thought he sketched her because she was pretty. But I knew she was pretty
because
he sketched her. Soon she had a cute little nose, fuller breasts and a butt with a mind of its own. You shoulda seen that thing.
Freeze frame
.

Now look, it wasn't like I was jealous or nothing – but hell, I'd made an investment a few years back, so I thought that I needed to get my Snickers' worth at least.

So I see her braggin' one day by the school, and I just rolled up on the bicycle that Belly left with me, and I told her she owed me money. Well, she started actin' up in front of her friends, so I just pulled her aside and told her the whole damn story about the sketchin', and then I demanded some money again. Of course she didn't believe me, and she told Frico that his little brother's crazy like ol' Mississippi murderer James Jackson.

So I'm up in the house doing dishes and, of course, here comes Frico chargin' in through the screen door shoutin' about what I told Teesha Grey. So I told him we're business partners and he was givin' away the sketchin' services for free. But he denied it and said she was pretty from before.

And I said: “Yeah,
pretty
dumb.”

And maan, it was on. He punched me in the face. Now I don't believe you should punch your brother square in the face. That's the family face you're messin' with. So I recovered and hit him hard with my elbow, but he was stronger than me. So he grabbed a hold of me, but I had my head in his belly, so I pushed him into that glass display case with all of Moms' fine china in it. There was a horrible crash, and splinters and broken crockery was everywhere, and the fightin' suddenly stopped, cos now we had to make up a damn good excuse to tell Valerie Beaumont why her display case was broken and her crockery all smashed up. Then I remembered that this guy could fix anything by sketchin'. So I hit him again, with a gravy dish this time. So after he knocked me out cold for hittin' him with the gravy dish, he woke me up and told me to hold still so he could sketch my face back good and proper, and then I had to hold the mirror so he could sketch himself. Then he sketched the display case real quick. But when Moms came home and we were sittin' there smilin' like Cheshire cats, she took one look into the glass display case and said:

“OK, where's my gravy dish? That's not my gravy dish. The pink flowers are supposed to be on the side, not around the rim – so where is it?” And Frico just sat there cool as a creek and told her that I broke it and then I went and borrowed one from Ma Campbell, cos I was so sure she wouldn't notice.

“And I told him to tell you he broke it, but this little boy of yours is stubborn and
pretty
dumb.”

That's how I realized the guy deliberately sketched that gravy dish different just to set me up. But I couldn't say nothing about the sketchin', of course, cos that would just sound like nonsense – and furthermore, his story was the bomb.

Well, after that, him and ol' Teesha Grey broke up, but I don't think it was my fault. She probably got too caught up
with the environment and all those birds instead of him. So, soon after, she wasn't so pretty no more. Things wasn't pretty between me and Frico after that neither. I think that was the beginning of us growin' apart. It wasn't just because of a fight about some girl: I think it was just that he prob'ly felt like he really couldn't trust me to keep my mouth shut any more. And you can't sketch a relationship back the way it was: you gotta work on it in other ways, you know.

Of course, I didn't see Harry much any more neither. I figured him and Frico started hangin' out. Me and Harry were still cool, but it wasn't the same – especially after that evenin' he zoomed into the swamp with an Air Force recruitment book and said he was goin' to be in the Armed Forces when he left school. To me, he just sounded like that wannabe teen idol Marlon Rodgers. So I wasn't even thinkin' straight before I opened my mouth. Or maybe I was just envious. Everybody seemed to know what they wanted to do. But me, I'd spent so long on this swamp dream that all I'd done with my life was write a stupid ten-dollar poem.

“You don't even know who you are, Harry. And you want to go lose that identity you're still workin' on... in the military?”

Man, I remember he had a cold drink in his hand and one foot on the bicycle pedal. And he just wasn't thirsty any more and emptied the can on the ground and sat there balancin' on the bicycle and holdin' the recruitment book under his arm. Then, when he was crushin' the can, he started out loud:

“Well, look, we didn't all get the opportunity to know our father, Skid Beaumont. So consider yourself frickin' lucky. And you know what? Maybe I don't know who I am, but you don't know neither. You're supposed to be my friend, man. I stand up for you when people talk about your cheese-grater face behind your back. I went with you to Gentilly, and I even went along with that dumb sketchin' plan you talked about that summer when we were kids. You're a real jerk, man.”

Well, I repeated everything he said word for word just to mock him. But I left out the “cheese-grater face” part, cos that kicked me in the bells a little bit. And he just sucked his teeth and pushed off and rode away over the footbridge just as the sun was rollin' out a tattered gold carpet across the bayou. I called out:

“Man, that boy Harry Tobias is so dramatic! Say something sad and then ride off into the sunset, won't ya? Too much TV, I tell you!”

I thought he'd turn back, but he just stopped and let go of one handlebar and flipped me the bird without lookin' back. And you shouldn't say anything more to a person after they flip you the bird. Besides, one fight for the month was enough.

Well, it seemed like I ticked everybody off that year 'cept Doug, but by the following year Doug had his own crew, and even though I'd be fourteen right before the fall, bigger boys don't like new teens comin' around. So that's when I started hangin' out with Peter. Yeah, the same music-playin' Peter Grant that busted his face open at camp.

Eighteen

Well, Peter Grant, he didn't live near the swamp. He lived close to Armstrong Park. We could only hang out a bit on weekends when I didn't have work to do. Now, he's Irish-American, but he always liked tellin' people: “Yeah, me, Skid and Frico, we're all brothers.” That guy had a deep respect for Frico's artistic skills even before the camp accident, and after Frico fixed his face, Peter had a new kinda reverence for the guy. So no matter how mad I got about anything my brother did, he was always on Frico's side. He would answer everything I said with: “Yeah, I hear you, but he got serious talent, man.”

Peter Grant was a genius too. He started playing jazz by ear from when he was eight, he said. Now, we started hangin' out cos his father picked him up from school in a big eighteen-wheeler truck nearly every day. He said it used to be fun in elementary school, but it was gettin' cheesy in middle school. Well, hell I didn't mind climbin' up in a truck from school – I didn't care if kids laughed and said we climbed up so high we got a nosebleed or whatever. So we made it cool again, especially after Mr Grant slapped some fire decals on that custom rig and flung two exhaust pipes up in the air and sprayed the whole thing metallic purple.

He had two eighteen-wheelers, but he called this one the “family car”. Ol' Mr G was cool enough to make me hitch a ride into the swamp from school most days. Peter would ride with us, even though after the shindig Mr G was a bit cagey about lettin' Peter come into L-Island by himself. Well, Peter's mom, she was a sweet lady, but kind of a worrywart, so Peter made every excuse to avoid his house. So that left us lookin' like two bums who lived on the street. To make it worse, Peter
got a little keyboard that used batteries and we used to go into Armstrong Park or head over to Jackson Square and sit around playin' mostly Oscar Peterson stuff. Well, actually, he played, I just sat around and gave girls the eye. And if somebody ever came up and dropped a coin in the Casio keyboard box, that boy Peter would get mad and ask them if it looked like he was street-performin' for tips. Hell, I told him to just play music and let me worry about all that annoyin' money. One time an older, big-belly guy playin' a trombone, he saw us makin' money and told us we'd better play along with him, like we were his band, or he'd have to chase us out. So he had to chase us out. That was the first time we went over to Jackson Square – and I saw this artist guy sketchin' lovers. Now, they were payin' him to make them look ugly. So I went home and told Frico I had a brand-new business idea.

I sat down near to him on the floor beside the bed, and I said: “Frico, I saw a guy today gettin' paid to make people look bad on paper. So just imagine. We could sketch some of those not-so-pretty tourist people over at Mardi Gras, reduce some spare-tyre gut and love handles and stuff, make them look all handsome, and they pay us a coupla bucks. We can do the advertisin' ourselves. I could be the pitchman at fairs and exhibitions across the country, and Peter can play music and sing like one of them real ol'-time attractions.”

Well, he just sighed and looked at me with his eyes all tired. And all I could hear was crickets and frogs far away in the damn swamp. And since I knew that he was always lookin' at Art and Photography schools, I kept goin': “Frico, you could sketch and get to save money... for school.”

“I can get money or a scholarship for school, fool... That ain't the problem.”

The problem, I was thinkin', was that he was scared. Yep, Frico was scared. I thought he wasn't scared of nothin' – especially with these powers he got from God, or God knows where – but God bless a damn duck, he was scared as hell.

He always said – and when he did, he sounded real artsy -fartsy – he wasn't so good at drawin' the human form. See, Frico liked to draw landscapes and animals and Teesha Grey's birds and nice buildin's. Those he drew real good. But he hated drawing people. Even though in reality he was good at it. So before he could even answer, I flipped it and said: “Fine, you're afraid you'll draw somebody all screwed up. But supposin' they need to be drawn all screwed up?” I could think of a coupla people who deserved it, damn it – or at least one guy: that same ol' James Jackson. One year after the shindig that Couyon guy was back to snatchin' clothes off people's clothes lines like he forgot he was the CEO of some place in his head. So I told Frico that maybe we could tell reporters some big lie to bait ol' James Jackson – and when he comes back into the swamp, Frico could draw him without arms or legs or somethin'. Then, when he's rollin' around on the ground, we nab him quick and collect the reward money.

“Where do you come up with this bull? And by the way, didn't I tell you to stop talkin' to people about all this stuff?”

And that was the end of the conversation right there. If he was goin' to be as dismissive as that, then I wouldn't ask him anything any more. Except to stop the pimples. For one whole year I rushed into the bathroom every mornin' to try and stop him from sketchin' me on the mirror, but I'd always be too late. It was like the guy slept in there.

But, seriously, I couldn't see why tellin' Peter Grant was a problem. I thought Peter would be the first to say he believed in Frico's powers, but the first time I stopped by his house, he suddenly didn't seem to have a clue. Now, first of all this boy lived in a mansion – at least compared to our one-room shack in the swamp. Peter's house wasn't like one of those historic houses that all look alike. Naw, the Grants' house was a mansion fixer-upper. White Lions on black-marble columns greeted you at the front. Then there was a veranda with
black-and-white tiles. It had three bedrooms, a guest room and helpers' quarters. Kitchen counters went on for ever, and there was a huge gas range and a fridge with ice comin' out the side, clink-clink into your glass. Man. Two carved bannisters led upstairs, but one staircase was blocked off. That was to accommodate a Hammond B3 church organ. Yes, a real, live church organ that when Peter held down the keys and stepped on the pedals his whole family jumped up and praised the Lord or cursed the Devil.

Anyway, like I was sayin', about the first time I went to the house, I saw the Frico face sketch in Peter's room. It was done such a long time ago it was faded, and the blood that got onto it was deep brown. I asked him about that night. He said he didn't remember much, cos he lost consciousness, but the nurse woke him up with smellin' salts and then Frico gave him the drawin' he had done.

“Do you remember me holdin' up a flashlight to your face?”

“No, not really man. Why?”

“How long ago was this camp accident?”

“Two, three years?”

“Five.”

“OK, and?”

“And do you remember how you got hurt?”

“One second I was running beside the stupid bus, and then next thing I tripped and hit my face on a rock in the road.”

“Maybe you were lookin' at Donna Milleaux in the bus. She was cute.”

“Donna Milleaux was not cute.”

“Cute enough to make you fall hard and bust your face up.”

“Back to the point, Skid.”

“Yes. Now, don't you think it's strange that there's not even one scar on your face from that accident? Think about it.”

“Good genes, I guess.”

“Good genes, bad memory. A miracle happened that night, man.”

“I dunno. Like I said, I can't remember.”

“Well, you got to.”

“Yeah – as soon as you tell me what you're getting at, I'll try.”

“Just look at your face in the mirror, remember the accident and try to find a scar, then we'll talk.”

The whole way into the swamp, Peter was checkin' his face in the rear-view mirror, until his old man told him to stop makin' him nervous.

“Dad, remember that camp injury?”

“Can't forget. You chased some girl called Dora Miller until she hit you in the face with a rock. I must've paid for the stitches. Waidamminit... did you get any stitches?”

“No.”

He fixed his cap on his head and looked sideways at Peter while drivin', just like Pa Campbell did all the time.

“Come to think of it, you came home properly patched up, really. We sent the nurse a thank-you note and everything.”

“Good genes and a good nurse, I guess.”

I looked straight ahead, smilin'. “Man, I got some things to tell you, Peter Grant.”

That same evenin', Moms was cookin' up a storm with so much skill she made it look like kung fu or like she had more limbs than the rest of us.

I watched her from the bed. In our swamp shack, you see everything just by turning your head – and that made me think of the Grant Mansion and the fact that you could actually be inside that big house the whole darn day and no one would know. I was feelin' so triumphant that day I wasn't even afraid of ol' Frico and his nonsense. So I rolled over to the edge of the bed and looked down on him. “Why don't you just sketch us all a bigger house right here in the swamp and we can all live in it?”

And as soon as I said it, I knew it was the dumbest suggestion he ever heard. But he just said: “It don't work that way,
Skid. I told you this before and so did Momma. You can only work on what you already got.”

And that was the first time Frico Beaumont didn't flat out deny that he could do magic. So I knew we were makin' progress.