in oils took intense concentration.
“And just what do you know about back and forth, Miss Pablo Picasso?” her brother asked. “Maybe if someone had supported me when I was your age, I’d be doing something better than driving a bus back and forth, back and forth.”
“I pay my way,” Dickory replied. In generosity she did not mention that her brother had lost the hock shop to his bookie; but then, she had lied about her salary, telling them the twenty dollars a week she paid for room and board was half of her wages. She was saving her money to move out of this crummy walk-up railroad flat. She wanted her own crummy walk-up studio, all to herself. She wanted to become an important artist—or would she rather be a rich hack artist, like Garson, and live and work in a fine house?
“Well, I’ll say this,” Blanche said, ironing ruffles on her nurse’s cap. “I’d rather be driving back and forth, back and forth, than doing what I’m doing. How’d you like to be drooled on by senile great-grandfathers?”
“Yeah,” Donald argued. “Yeah, well I’ll give you just one day driving back and forth, back and forth. . . .”
Professor D’Arches brushed the back of his hand over the expensive linen canvas, thick with pure oil pigments. “What did you do, Dickory, rob a bank?” That was all he had to say about her single object versus mass. He spent the rest of the period castigating the cluttered, poorly designed street signs.
“I thought your composition was really fantastic,” George III said, trying to slow his long-legged stride to the angel’s serene pace. “The mass of color was really good, and the single object—that was a stroke of genius. Just one little black dot.”
“Thank you, George. I found your design quite original, too,” she replied with heavenly charity. “Imagine, balancing a watermelon on top of a pea.”
“Wow, is this where you live?” They had reached Number 12. “Is that your father in the window?”
Dickory uttered a haughty laugh. “Of course not, that’s our janitor.”
“Really?” Even gullible George was incredulous. “That fat man in white, your janitor?”
Dickory was about to explain that they had very clean garbage when Shrimps appeared next to Mallomar. “That little man in black is our janitor; the fat one in the white suit is our cook.”
Pleased that the derelict was not around to spoil the elegance of Cobble Lane, Dickory unlocked the door to her house, leaving George on the sidewalk gawking at her wealth.
“Who’s the character outside, the one eyeing the joint?” Mallomar’s questions always sounded like threats.
Head held high, Dickory floated through the hall in an aura of silent sanctity.
“I’m talking to you, you snotty kid; and I’m expecting an answer.” The angry fat man spun her around and grabbed her nose between two greasy knuckles.
Dickory kicked him in the shins and escaped up the stairs, praying that the steep flight was too great a challenge to Mallomar’s corpulence.
It was. “I’ll get you, if you don’t stop that snooping. Just you wait.” From the bottom of the stairs he shook a white-knuckled fist at her.
“Get stuck in the bathtub, you fat greaseball,” the Piero della Francesca angel shouted down. “You fat blackmailer, you.”
Mallomar’s bulging eyes glared. Dickory glared back, realizing the truth of what she had said. He was a blackmailer. He was blackmailing the Smiths and the Joneses. And Garson.
Dickory tore herself away from the ugliness below and walked into the studio, caressing her sore nose. What did Mallomar have on Garson? What dark crime blackened Garson’s past? No questions, no questions; she couldn’t ask Garson or dare touch on the subject even if he had been home.
“Garson?” she called. No answer. She looked out of the front window. No one was in Cobble Lane, just George still gaping. He saw her, smiled brightly, waved, and walked away.
Maybe she should quit this job,
“And just what do you know about back and forth, Miss Pablo Picasso?” her brother asked. “Maybe if someone had supported me when I was your age, I’d be doing something better than driving a bus back and forth, back and forth.”
“I pay my way,” Dickory replied. In generosity she did not mention that her brother had lost the hock shop to his bookie; but then, she had lied about her salary, telling them the twenty dollars a week she paid for room and board was half of her wages. She was saving her money to move out of this crummy walk-up railroad flat. She wanted her own crummy walk-up studio, all to herself. She wanted to become an important artist—or would she rather be a rich hack artist, like Garson, and live and work in a fine house?
“Well, I’ll say this,” Blanche said, ironing ruffles on her nurse’s cap. “I’d rather be driving back and forth, back and forth, than doing what I’m doing. How’d you like to be drooled on by senile great-grandfathers?”
“Yeah,” Donald argued. “Yeah, well I’ll give you just one day driving back and forth, back and forth. . . .”
Professor D’Arches brushed the back of his hand over the expensive linen canvas, thick with pure oil pigments. “What did you do, Dickory, rob a bank?” That was all he had to say about her single object versus mass. He spent the rest of the period castigating the cluttered, poorly designed street signs.
“I thought your composition was really fantastic,” George III said, trying to slow his long-legged stride to the angel’s serene pace. “The mass of color was really good, and the single object—that was a stroke of genius. Just one little black dot.”
“Thank you, George. I found your design quite original, too,” she replied with heavenly charity. “Imagine, balancing a watermelon on top of a pea.”
“Wow, is this where you live?” They had reached Number 12. “Is that your father in the window?”
Dickory uttered a haughty laugh. “Of course not, that’s our janitor.”
“Really?” Even gullible George was incredulous. “That fat man in white, your janitor?”
Dickory was about to explain that they had very clean garbage when Shrimps appeared next to Mallomar. “That little man in black is our janitor; the fat one in the white suit is our cook.”
Pleased that the derelict was not around to spoil the elegance of Cobble Lane, Dickory unlocked the door to her house, leaving George on the sidewalk gawking at her wealth.
“Who’s the character outside, the one eyeing the joint?” Mallomar’s questions always sounded like threats.
Head held high, Dickory floated through the hall in an aura of silent sanctity.
“I’m talking to you, you snotty kid; and I’m expecting an answer.” The angry fat man spun her around and grabbed her nose between two greasy knuckles.
Dickory kicked him in the shins and escaped up the stairs, praying that the steep flight was too great a challenge to Mallomar’s corpulence.
It was. “I’ll get you, if you don’t stop that snooping. Just you wait.” From the bottom of the stairs he shook a white-knuckled fist at her.
“Get stuck in the bathtub, you fat greaseball,” the Piero della Francesca angel shouted down. “You fat blackmailer, you.”
Mallomar’s bulging eyes glared. Dickory glared back, realizing the truth of what she had said. He was a blackmailer. He was blackmailing the Smiths and the Joneses. And Garson.
Dickory tore herself away from the ugliness below and walked into the studio, caressing her sore nose. What did Mallomar have on Garson? What dark crime blackened Garson’s past? No questions, no questions; she couldn’t ask Garson or dare touch on the subject even if he had been home.
“Garson?” she called. No answer. She looked out of the front window. No one was in Cobble Lane, just George still gaping. He saw her, smiled brightly, waved, and walked away.
Maybe she should quit this job,
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