wanted to watch T.V., Elliott thought, but didn't say. He went to the bed and lay down beside his mother. The mattress was lumpy. When his mother turned to him, her breath was familiar and strong.
"I feel a little better, honey." One side of her mouth went up in what might have been a resigned smile. It looked as if even her face hurt her.
Mom always called Elliott honey. Never "Wee-wee Boy", or "Poop-Man" like the kids at J.E.B. Stewart Middle School did. Elliott's mother loved him, even as she was dying. And she had been dying since Elliott had been in third grade. Her heart was bad, she told him. She couldn't breathe very well because she was born with bad lungs. Her stomach made juices that were poison. Her muscles were giving up inside her skin and her nerves had so many short-circuits the doctors couldn't even find them all. Month after month she begged him to stay with her and not go to school. Daddy had insisted, getting Elliott onto the school bus when he could. But most of the time Daddy left for work before the school bus came, and three days out of five, Elliott would stay with his mother because if she died when he was at school, what would he do then?
Elliott awoke to the tune of All My Children . He had slept next to his mother for almost two hours. It was time to find something for them to eat for lunch. At two o'clock, the teacher, Mrs. Anderson, would come.
Mom didn't eat much of the bean with bacon soup Elliott fixed. She let Elliott wheel her to the bathroom but she would not eat with him in the living room. She insisted on a tray in bed, and then only sipped a couple of spoonfuls and ate the chips Elliott had put in a bowl for her. She didn't want the Dr. Pepper he'd poured for her. She wanted Sprite. There wasn't any Sprite, so Elliott told her he would make a list for Daddy when he came home. He could go into town and get Sprite for tomorrow. Mom settled down with another daytime show, and Elliott took the tray to the kitchen, ate his own soup and Dr. Pepper in the living room, and looked through the mail again.
He opened the bills and put them back on top of the console television in a pile for his father. He slid the paper cover off of one of the telephone books, and stopped.
The cover was not the normal photograph of the mountains or a rolling cattle farm, as the phone company was prone to use. It was, instead, a painting. A reproduction of a childish watercolor, splashed in its brilliant colors across the book's broad cover. The painting was of a bright blue-green ocean, and a sailboat with smiling people all lined up together on the deck. White sparks flashed in the water; the sky was pink and yellow. At the bottom of the painting was the title, "The Adventure on the Sea" by Mosby Paulson.
Elliott cleared his throat, feeling the raw pain of his own illness, his own poor blood and bad lungs and short-circuited nerves.
Inside the front cover was a description of the painting.
"Mosby Paulson is a sixth grade student at J.E.B. Stewart Middle School. She is in Mrs. Connie Pugh's art class this year, and entered the phone book competition along with over one hundred middle school students throughout the county. All the entries were judged by a panel of artists in the area, and Mosby's work, 'The Adventure on the Sea', was selected as the winner for its lively depiction of movement, brave use of effective colors, and originality of shape.”
Elliott looked back at the cover. Happy people smiling, going somewhere on a silly sailboat in a bright sea. Going places that Elliott would never know, places he would only see as return addresses on the mail that came daily to his dented mailbox.
He could have done better. If he'd been in Mrs. Pugh's art class this year, he would have entered the contest. And he could have won. He could have had his art somewhere besides on the door of the greasy refrigerator.
"Ellie?"
"What?"
"Can't find my lighter. It fell down under the bed, I think."
Elliott went
"I feel a little better, honey." One side of her mouth went up in what might have been a resigned smile. It looked as if even her face hurt her.
Mom always called Elliott honey. Never "Wee-wee Boy", or "Poop-Man" like the kids at J.E.B. Stewart Middle School did. Elliott's mother loved him, even as she was dying. And she had been dying since Elliott had been in third grade. Her heart was bad, she told him. She couldn't breathe very well because she was born with bad lungs. Her stomach made juices that were poison. Her muscles were giving up inside her skin and her nerves had so many short-circuits the doctors couldn't even find them all. Month after month she begged him to stay with her and not go to school. Daddy had insisted, getting Elliott onto the school bus when he could. But most of the time Daddy left for work before the school bus came, and three days out of five, Elliott would stay with his mother because if she died when he was at school, what would he do then?
Elliott awoke to the tune of All My Children . He had slept next to his mother for almost two hours. It was time to find something for them to eat for lunch. At two o'clock, the teacher, Mrs. Anderson, would come.
Mom didn't eat much of the bean with bacon soup Elliott fixed. She let Elliott wheel her to the bathroom but she would not eat with him in the living room. She insisted on a tray in bed, and then only sipped a couple of spoonfuls and ate the chips Elliott had put in a bowl for her. She didn't want the Dr. Pepper he'd poured for her. She wanted Sprite. There wasn't any Sprite, so Elliott told her he would make a list for Daddy when he came home. He could go into town and get Sprite for tomorrow. Mom settled down with another daytime show, and Elliott took the tray to the kitchen, ate his own soup and Dr. Pepper in the living room, and looked through the mail again.
He opened the bills and put them back on top of the console television in a pile for his father. He slid the paper cover off of one of the telephone books, and stopped.
The cover was not the normal photograph of the mountains or a rolling cattle farm, as the phone company was prone to use. It was, instead, a painting. A reproduction of a childish watercolor, splashed in its brilliant colors across the book's broad cover. The painting was of a bright blue-green ocean, and a sailboat with smiling people all lined up together on the deck. White sparks flashed in the water; the sky was pink and yellow. At the bottom of the painting was the title, "The Adventure on the Sea" by Mosby Paulson.
Elliott cleared his throat, feeling the raw pain of his own illness, his own poor blood and bad lungs and short-circuited nerves.
Inside the front cover was a description of the painting.
"Mosby Paulson is a sixth grade student at J.E.B. Stewart Middle School. She is in Mrs. Connie Pugh's art class this year, and entered the phone book competition along with over one hundred middle school students throughout the county. All the entries were judged by a panel of artists in the area, and Mosby's work, 'The Adventure on the Sea', was selected as the winner for its lively depiction of movement, brave use of effective colors, and originality of shape.”
Elliott looked back at the cover. Happy people smiling, going somewhere on a silly sailboat in a bright sea. Going places that Elliott would never know, places he would only see as return addresses on the mail that came daily to his dented mailbox.
He could have done better. If he'd been in Mrs. Pugh's art class this year, he would have entered the contest. And he could have won. He could have had his art somewhere besides on the door of the greasy refrigerator.
"Ellie?"
"What?"
"Can't find my lighter. It fell down under the bed, I think."
Elliott went
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