“Oh yeah,” I said. He was on a lot during wrestling. “I’ve seen those.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said. “Anyway, he’s a big deal around here. City Council, Tourism Board, all that. Norman’s two older brothers have both gone into the business. But Norman …”
She trailed off as the cooler door slammed, waiting until Norman emerged with a handful of lemons and went outside.
“Anyway,” she went on quietly, “Norman’s just not the car salesman type, you know? And a couple of years back, when he started talking about applying to art schools, his dad just freaked. Said he wouldn’t pay for it, that it was a waste of time, all that. It was so ridiculous. Norman had already gotten a scholarship; he starts this fall. He’s good, Colie. You should see his stuff.”
I thought of the portrait in Mira’s house, and the one I’d seen of Morgan and Isabel.
Norman was on the front stoop now, studying his lemons. He threw one up in the air and caught it.
“So,” she continued, pulling down another tray, “it finally got so bad that Norman moved out of his Dad’s house. This was, like, last year, when he was seventeen. He packed everything in his car and was just living back here, by the Dumpsters, until Mira told him to come stay with her. It was the same week that cat showed up near dead on her front step. So she took them both in.”
“Wow,” I said, looking out at Norman, who was still tossing and catching the lemons, studying their falling patterns. “That’s amazing. I mean, that his dad would be like that.”
“Well, he’d made up his mind about what he wanted Norman to be. He’d assumed too much.” She didn’t look at me as she said this, but I knew the lesson was there, and I was expected to take it. “And it’s so sad, that his dad just doesn’t get it,” she added. “He never has.”
“Get what?” I said, as Norman launched a lemon into the air, keeping it circling with one hand. After a moment he added another, using both hands now.
“Our Norman,” Morgan said, as the third lemon was tossed up, and Norman juggled them higher and higher until they blurred into a band of bright yellow. “He’s just…” And she glanced outside, seeing him, and smiled. “He’s special, Colie. That’s why you have to be careful. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. She nodded, like we were straight, and went back to work.
Later, when I was done, I went out and found him by the Dumpsters, rummaging through the backseat of his car.
“Hey,” I said.
He barely lifted his head. “Hey.”
I sat down on the stoop. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” he said into the back of the car. He picked up a canvas and leaned it against his bumper, then rested another against it.
“Are those new?” I asked him.
He shook his head. He still wasn’t looking at me. “Just some old stuff.”
“Look, Norman,” I said slowly, knowing this counted, “I’m hoping you’ll give me another chance. To get my portrait done.”
“I figured you weren’t interested.”
“I am,” I said. “I was stupid. I forgot.”
Now he did look up. “You don’t have to feel obligated,” he said. “I mean, I’m not desperate or anything.’
“I know,” I said. “I wanted—I want—to do it.”
He bent over to rearrange the canvases, shoulder blades moving beneath his shirt. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m pretty busy these days.”
“Oh,” I said. I wasn’t about to beg; I felt bad enough as it was. “Okay.” I stood up and started inside.
I was about to open the back door when he called after me. “I didn’t really think about that when I asked you.”
I just stood there half in, half out.
“I mean, a portrait is a big commitment,” he went on. “It’s not just a one-day kind of thing.”
“I’ve got time,” I said.
He turned back to the car. I didn’t know why this was so important to me, but winning Norman back was suddenly all I wanted. So I stood there, wishing he would turn around.
He didn’t. I started back inside, but just as I did I heard him say, very quietly, “Well, okay.” I had to strain to hear him. “I mean,” he said, sounding resigned, “I guess there’s still time.”
I felt my shoulders relax and I let out a breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding. “Good,” I said. “Thanks, Norman.”
“But,” he told me in a firm voice, “you missed out on the hot chocolate. No second chances on that.”
“Okay,” I said. “I can take that. When do we start?”
“You still have those sunglasses?” he asked. “The ones I gave you?”
“Yeah.”
“Bring them down to my place tonight, around eight, so I can do a sketch. After that we’ll work on it there in the evenings, and here, during the day,” he said, going around and shutting the tailgate with a bang.
“Here?” I said. “You can do it here?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Right here, actually. Under that.” And he pointed over my head. “I’ll see you tonight.”
I turned and saw a sign I’d never noticed before. It was white,
painted with red letters, deliveries, it said. And then, underneath, LAST CHANCE ONLY.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
The first time I’d been in Norman’s room I’d thought it was a mess. What I discovered that night was that it was, actually, a carefully ordered universe.
Norman’s universe. And in it, everything had a place, from the huge collection of plastic cartoon and action figures on a bookshelf---arranged according to height, like a class picture-- to the mannequins he’d had with him the first day we met, which were seated neatly against the walls as if waiting for appointments. There was a workbench lined with baby food jars, each full of something: washers, bolts, brightly colored thumbtacks, rusty nails, marbles, seashells, tiny plastic doll heads. It looked like he could take anything and make it worthwhile.