This has to be enough information for Paula. I start to stand and make excuses to leave when Alice, who apparently believes my lie about a therapeutic mission, pipes up:
“That’s impressive, that he was clean and sober. Say, did Donny like to jog? Or bike ride? Maybe go to the gym? Lift weights?” She spits out every unlikely suggestion pertaining to that fat lard until Yvonne finally interjects.
“Donny didn’t waste money on a gym. He liked to hunt. Had a real nice BB gun. Expensive. Saved for it. He liked to hunt birds, squirrels…”
Humans.
“… larger prey too.”
Alice drops her forehead into tented fingers. I kick her.
Yvonne shakes her finger at Alice. “I watch my CSI shows. I know what they say about people who hurt small animals. It wasn’t like that.”
“Of course not,” Alice says.
“Donny had a sensitive side too.” Yvonne points at me. “You should know that. He was a real good artist.”
A ping of recognition. My eyes snap into focus.
“What did he like to draw?” Alice asks.
“Well, it varied. When he was little, animals, like dogs, ducks, horses. Then later, fancy ones, like dragons and unicorns and—what do they call those things? Half horse, half man? I can’t think of the word. I guess those last two count as horses. He definitely liked horses.”
“Did he continue to draw? As an adult?” I say.
Yvonne chuckles softly. “Oh yes, he got pretty good, let me tell you. Especially at faces. He could draw real realistic. You know that man who used to be on the PBS channel? The Joy of Painting, that was the show. I can’t remember his name now, but he always talked about ‘happy little clouds’ and ‘happy little trees.’”
“Bob Ross,” Alice says. I stare at her. “My parents loved him. You can still watch him on YouTube.”
“He’d whip those landscapes out in a few short minutes. My husband, Don, never missed him—Bob Ross, that was it. I always said our Donny was better than him. It took Donny longer, but he could capture anyone. Particularly around the mouth.” She rubs her fuzzy chin, lost for a moment.
“That’s wonderful, Mrs. Jessup,” I say. “That’s just the kind of thing my therapist thinks I ought to know. I would love to see some of those sketches. Would that be possible?”
“Well, I suppose Donny can’t mind now, God rest his soul. The whole sunroom is covered in them. Can’t bear to take them down, never mind throw them away. They’ll still be here long after I die, so whoever buys this house after I’m dead and buried will have to decide what to do with them. Might even make them a bit of money; he was that good.” She rises with a squeal of springs and metal. “You first, I’ll tell you where to go.”
“I don’t think that will be nec—” Alice starts.
“We’d love to.” I pull Alice up by the wrist. We step past the kitchen into a sunless sunroom. The Tiger Balm gives way to something fetid. Squirrel droppings lie in small black piles in the corners of the room. Alice stretches the front of her jersey over her nose. The walls are paneled in wormy wood with holes among the knots. Spanning the south-facing wall are jalousie windows, slats of glass shut tight by rusted crank-handles. Moisture has overlaid a cataract haze. I rub my shoulders as the cold pours in through the glass.
Behind us, the walker halts. “You’re not even looking at them. Behind you.”
We turn slowly. Framing the door we just stepped through is sketch after sketch, dangling from pushpins tacked into the door frame, a child’s drawings pinned proudly to a kindergarten corkboard. The subjects include the animals that Yvonne described, plus sexy fairies, hobbity things, and warriors, the latter with some Jessup DNA mixed in.
“Not the best spot, but that darn paneling is impossible to stick a tack through. They kept falling down. I’d come in, and they’d all be on the floor. It was like they were sad their maker was gone.”
Another breeze blows through. The sketches sway on their tacks.
I feel Yvonne’s warm breath on the back of my arm. “I wasn’t bragging when I said he was talented, was I?”
I wrap my arms around myself and move away, fighting nausea. “So talented,” I nearly choke. “Are there any other pictures? Perhaps something more recent?”
Yvonne thinks for a minute, chewing something imaginary. “Well, I suppose there’s what he was working on before this mess got started,” she says.
“And where is that?” I am terrified she’s going to say his bedroom. Because there are limits to what Alice will do—limits to what I can do. And we are right up against them. I focus on a sketch at eye level and try to breathe. An ancient hunter holds a rabbit by its feet, its belly lax and long.
“In the dining room. Donny had a whole set-up in there. It’s the only room that gets good light in the whole house, he said. Got mad at me about that, like I could control the sun. Like I’m God.”