Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,62
intelligent questions about the process of creating it, but it was clear to Anna that Peter was the more invested of the two.
“I want to be a serious artist someday, ma’am,” he said.
“Peter is really good,” Theresa said, rather begrudgingly. “He drew a picture of a tractor and it looked almost like a photograph.”
“How about you, Theresa?” Anna asked. “Do you hope to be an artist?”
Theresa shrugged. “I hope to get out of school and get married and have five children,” she admitted.
Anna laughed, thinking that marriage and motherhood were probably more realistic goals for this girl.
“Well, you only have, what? A year and a half till graduation?”
“We graduate this spring, ma’am,” Peter said.
“You do? Aren’t you eleventh graders?”
“That’s the last year of high school, ma’am,” Theresa said. “Thank the Lord for that.”
“Really?” Anna asked. “Schools where I’m from go to the twelfth grade.”
“Not here,” said Peter.
“Thank heavens we don’t,” Theresa said.
“Well, I tell you what,” Anna said. “I’m going to be asking some hard work of you two that might not feel as though it has much to do with actual drawing or painting, so to be fair, why don’t you bring in some projects you’re working on and I can give you my critique and perhaps help you make them better.”
“That sounds good, ma’am,” Peter said. He had a good-natured glow about him. A sunniness that drew Anna to him. She was curious to see his work.
“I don’t really have nothin’ I’m working on,” Theresa said.
“Well, then, you can come up with something new to work on during any free time you have here,” Anna said. “I won’t need you to help me every single minute.”
A short time later, the three of them got down to business. They unrolled the cartoon paper on the floor, cut it into twelve-foot lengths, and taped enough of it together to form a twelve-by-six-foot rectangle. Theresa refused to climb the ladder because of her skirt, so Peter climbed one and Anna the other and they nailed the paper to the wall, laughing the whole time because the paper wanted to slip back into its tight little roll and they had quite a time getting it to lie flat. By the time they’d won the war against the paper, two hours were up and Theresa and Peter were ready to go home for their dinners. Anna was disappointed to realize she wouldn’t be able to add the grid lines to the cartoon until tomorrow.
After her student helpers left, she sat down at one of the tables under the floor lamp and began to measure out the grid on her sketch, but daylight was beginning to fade outside the warehouse windows, and she felt that creepy sensation come over her again as the big space filled with shadows and silence. The sheer breadth of the warehouse, the impenetrable dark spaces around the creepy beams high above, made her shudder. She couldn’t look up at those beams, afraid of what she might see. Something other than lights and fans hanging from them, maybe. She didn’t dare look.
Putting on her coat, she packed up her sketch and pencils and straight-edge, and was about to turn out the lights when she heard the slam of a car door outside. She froze, for what reason she couldn’t say except that the darkening warehouse had simply unnerved her. A knock came at the door and she hesitated, then opened it to find a colored woman standing in the dusky light. She was dressed in a black wool coat and a smart white wool hat and Anna knew she was no one’s servant.
“Oh, it looks like you’re getting ready to leave,” the woman said, motioning to Anna’s own coat.
“Yes, in a moment, but can I help you?” Anna stepped back to let the woman walk into the warehouse.
“Oh, my,” the woman said, looking around at the dimly lit space. “You’ve got quite the studio.”
“Yes, I’m very fortunate,” Anna said, thinking of how terrified she’d been of her “studio” only moments earlier. “My name is Anna Dale,” she added, prompting her visitor to identify herself.
“Oh, I know who you are,” the woman said. “Everyone does. I’m Tilda Furman.” The woman studied the cartoon paper tacked to the wall. “You’ll be sketching the mural on this paper, then transferring it to canvas?” she asked.
“Exactly.” Anna smiled. “Are you an artist?”
Tilda Furman nodded. “Though I’ve never done a mural the likes of which you’re proposing.”