I spend the weekend convinced I’m being paranoid. I have no proof that Teddy is still drawing pictures. The scratching sounds from his bedroom could be anything. The black grit on his fingers could be dirt from our gardening projects, or the normal grimy smudges of a five-year-old boy. Everything else seems to be going fine, so what am I worried about?
Monday morning, I awaken to the sound of sanitation trucks making their slow rumbling crawl down Edgewood Street. They come twice a week—on Mondays for recycling, and again on Thursdays for regular trash. And in an instant I remember the one spot I didn’t think to check: the wastebasket in Ted’s second-floor office. Teddy has to walk right past it to get downstairs. It would be an easy place for him to discard his drawings, on his way out of his bedroom.
I spring out of bed, grateful that I sleep in running shorts and a T-shirt, and I sprint out my door and across the lawn. The grass is still wet with morning dew and I nearly wipe out rounding the side of the house. The truck is three doors away so I only have a minute to spare. I run to the end of the driveway, where Ted drags the blue containers every Sunday night—one for metals and glass, the other for papers and cardboard. I plunge my hands deep inside, past shreds of junk mail and utility bills, take-out menus and credit card statements and a heaping stack of mail order catalogs: Title Nine, Lands End, L.L.Bean, Vermont Country Store, they arrive every day by the dozen.
The recycling truck pulls alongside me, and a skinny guy wearing work gloves smiles at me. There’s a tattoo of a dragon coiled around his bicep.
“Lose something?”
“No, no,” I tell him. “You can take it.”
But then he reaches for the bin and all its contents shift, revealing a giant ball of crumped paper, with the same confetti edges familiar to Teddy’s drawings.
“Wait!”
He holds out the bin, allowing me to grab the ball, and I carry it back up the driveway to my cottage.
Once inside, I boil some water, make myself a mug of tea, and then sit down to study the papers. It’s a bit like peeling an onion. There are nine pages total and I use my palm to smooth out all the wrinkles. The first few drawings don’t look like anything. They’re just scribbles. But as I turn the pages there’s more control and more detail. The composition improves. There’s light and shadow. It’s like a sketchbook for some strange work in progress; some of the pages are cluttered with drawings, many of them half-finished.
11
And I’m sorry but there’s no way Teddy drew these pictures. Most adults can’t draw this well—let alone a five-year-old boy who sleeps with stuffed animals and can’t count past twenty-nine.
But how else did they end up in the recycling bin?
Did Ted draw them? Caroline?
Are the Maxwells studying illustration in their free time?
All my questions lead to more questions, and pretty soon I’m wishing I never got out of bed. I wish I’d just let the sanitation trucks carry away the clues, so I wouldn’t have to wonder what they meant.
Monday passes in a daze—LEGOs, mac and cheese, Quiet Time, swimming pool—but by nightfall I’m ready to do some serious research. I take a shower and wash my hair and put on one of Caroline’s nicest outfits, a breezy blue midi dress with pretty white flowers. Then I walk a mile into town to The Raconteur, Spring Brook’s local independent bookstore.
I’m surprised to find it crowded on a Monday night—a neighborhood author has just finished a reading and the mood is festive, like a party. People are drinking wine in plastic cups and eating sheet cake off tiny paper plates. I have to push through the crowd to reach the parenting section, but I’m grateful for all the distractions; I don’t want any store clerks offering to help me find something. If they heard what I was researching, they’d think I was crazy.
I gather some books and head out the back door to a large brick patio—a crowded café that’s ringed with twinkling Christmas lights. There’s a small bar selling snacks and drinks, and a very earnest teenage girl sitting on a barstool with an acoustic guitar, dressed in overalls and singing “Tears in Heaven.” I can’t hear this song without thinking about my sister’s memorial service; it was part of a playlist that looped over and over. The song is constantly sneaking up on me in supermarkets and restaurants, and even after a thousand times it still has the power to make me cry. But this girl’s version is brighter than the Eric Clapton original. There’s something about her young age that makes the song seem almost hopeful.
I walk over to the coffee bar and order a mug of tea and a pastry, only to find that I don’t have enough hands to carry everything. Plus, all the tables are full and no one seems anxious to leave, so I can’t believe my good luck when I see Adrian sitting alone at a table for two, reading a Star Wars novel.
“Can I join you?”
And it’s funny—this time, he doesn’t recognize me, not right away, not in Caroline’s gorgeous $500 dress. “Yes! Definitely! Mallory! How are you?”
“I didn’t realize it would be so crowded.”
“It’s always busy here,” Adrian says. “This is the third-hottest spot in Spring Brook.”
“What are the other two?”
“Number one is Cheesecake Factory, obviously. Number two is the Wegmans hot food buffet.” He shrugs. “We don’t have much of a night life.”
The girl with the guitar finishes “Tears in Heaven” to tepid applause but Adrian claps long and loud, and she shoots an annoyed look in our direction. “My cousin Gabriella,” he says. “She’s only fifteen, can you believe it? She marched in here with a guitar and they gave her a job.”
Gabriella leans closer to the microphone and says she’s going to switch to the Beatles, and then she starts singing a sweet cover of “Blackbird.” I look at the book Adrian is reading. The cover shows Chewbacca firing lasers at an army of robots, and the title is printed in giant silver-foil letters: Wookiee Vengeance.
“Is that any good?”
Adrian shrugs. “It’s not canon? So they take a lot of liberties. But if you liked Ewok Vengeance, you’ll love this one.”
And I can’t help myself—I start laughing. “You’re really something. You look like a landscaper. You’ve got a Florida tan and dirt under your fingernails. But it turns out you’re actually a country club kid and a Star Wars nerd.”
“I spend my whole summer pulling weeds. I need some escapist entertainment.”
“I understand. I watch Hallmark Channel for the same reason.”
“Seriously?”