Andrew's Brain

VII

HELLO, DOC? I’m speaking to you from their old wall phone, the kind you crank up. Can you hear me?

Yes, Andrew, loud and clear.

No matter how old and broken-down things are, the life seems to work for them. It’s uncanny. The local phone company must be as old as this house. And that flatbed truck, four on the floor, with the bald tires and the paint all weathered away — a kind of art object. So they walk to town. I do it myself. And the town too, shabby dimly lit little stores that have been there forever, but you find what you need. The hardware store — the guy who runs it, he does roofing, I kept picking up shingles in the yard so I engaged him to come patch thing up. There’s a leak, all the old woman does is put a pail under it.

What about the screen door?

Oh, I fixed that. The mesh wasn’t the problem, it was one of the hinges, the top hinge where it pulled away from the frame. But I took the whole thing down and did a job, new hinges, new mesh. Then of course the door frame is soft, spongy, so the real problem is termites. In due time, in due time. I’ve got my work cut out for me. Where the windows stick, where the floor squeaks. You don’t know how good it is to concentrate on these things, the satisfaction of using your hands, figuring things out small-scale.

So you’re planning to be there for a while. I was wondering where you were.

Something about this place. You know how some places stick in your mind for no reason? I mean, this is not a schloss in the mountains. It’s not a finca under the palm trees. They’ve given me a room behind the kitchen with a mattress on the floor, and have otherwise ignored me. Totally incurious as to who I am, where I’ve come from. I can tell they don’t look at me even when my back is turned. So I have every reason to feel safe here. No reason not to — I mean, I can’t possibly bring harm to people with whom I have no relationship.

Do they ever thank you?

Listen, I’m calling to ask you something. She draws. I think I told you that.

What?

The kid, the little girl. She gets off the bus on the two-lane, comes running down the dirt road, flings her book bag on a kitchen chair, and sits down at the table with her colored pencils, her crayons, and her drawing pad, and she draws. It’s all she wants to do. The old lady brings her a glass of milk and she’s too busy drawing to drink it. Are you listening? Can you hear me?

Like we’re in the same room.

When she senses that I’m looking at her through the screen door she scribbles over her drawings that she’s worked on so carefully — puts the pencil in her fist and destroys what she’s done.

So maybe you shouldn’t watch her. Kids get shy about things that are meaningful to them. Do you say anything to her?

I’ve never said a thing. There’s very little conversation in this farmhouse. Theirs is a relationship of mimes, the old woman and the kid. They seem to understand each other and what has to be done in any given moment — when to leave for school, when to go to bed — without talking about it. I’ve gotten to be just like them. I know when to come in for morning coffee, I know when to work on a project, I know when we have dinner, I know to nod good night. It’s like a silent movie in this house.

You said you feel comfortable there.

Until now. Last night, after they had gone upstairs for the night, I went into the kitchen. They leave a light on. And I looked at the drawing she’d done that day on her pad of drawing paper. The kid. [thinking]

Andrew? You still there?

She draws well, far better than you’d think someone of that age could draw. She’s really good. It’s all circus stuff. Acrobats, trapeze artists, tumblers, human pyramids. Girls in tutus standing on horses going around the ring. Little tiny figures all, perfectly formed.

Andrew?

They’re coming. I’m hanging up now.