The Boy Who Could Draw Tomorrow (6 page)

Whatever good Pensacola had done, it was all behind her now. Peggy woke dog-tired when the alarm clock went off. Muted as its signal was, to Peggy it was a snarl, some know-it-all reproaching her for staying up so late.

She pushed at Hal, and then she dragged herself to Sam's room, for the first time noticing it wasn't the old short trip.

"Rise and shine, St. Martin's boy!" she sang out, detesting the note of false—almost hysterical—good cheer in her voice.

She waggled his naked foot like a dust rag and raised both Levelors to let the light finish the job. Then she hurried to the kitchen, poured orange juice, and got the coffee on. When Hal came in, eyes half-closed, hand out in front of him like a blind man feeling his way, she held out a cup for him, took him by the shoulders, and turned him around.

"Make sure the scholar's up and getting dressed."

He answered with a snuffling sound and a little comical wave.

***

After breakfast, she recombed Sam's hair while he rolled his eyes in despair, groaning the word
Mom
at every third stroke as if it had an extra syllable. Then she double-knotted his shoelaces and ran to the front door to kiss Hal before he left for work. She almost fell and broke her neck on her way back to Sam's room having forgotten entirely that the hall, was still strewn with their luggage.

"Let's see," she said, determined to be calm and cheerful. What sort of mother pulled a nut job on her kid on his very first day of first grade? She stood him in front of the full-length mirror set into the panel of his closet door.

She stood behind him to admire her handiwork—the Indian Walk shoes, grey flannel trousers, navy blazer, white shirt and tie. Even his hair was in place, she noticed with happy surprise.

She saw Sam smiling at her in the mirror and she reached her arms down to his chest and pulled him back against her.

"You'll muss me."

"Will I indeed?" she said, and ran to her room to get ready too.

***

When she came back to collect Sam for the walk to school, he was seated at his worktable drawing.

"Time to go, Sweetie."

He capped his pen and closed the pad, and then he stuffed both items into the little L.L. Bean back pack Hal had sent away for.

"Uh-uh," Peggy said, coming into the room to lift the back pack off Sam's shoulders. "Those things stay here."

Sam widened his eyes in alarm.

"I mean it, honey," Peggy explained. "School's school. You can do your drawing at home."

"Miss Goldenson always let me."

"That was different. That was nursery school. This is St. Martin's."

"So what?" Sam argued.

"It's just different, is all," Peggy repeated.

She was stumped for a better answer. But what could she say to him that would sound reasonable? Already she could tell from looking at him that she was failing him in some serious way. She knew it was cruel to deny Sam his pad and pen, especially if it comforted him to have them on the very first day. But she had to be honest with herself: she 
was now on tenter-hooks about what he might draw when she wasn't around to keep an eye out. However ridiculously she might be carrying on, she couldn't help but suspect that there was some bizarre connection between Sam's drawings and the future. Something about them seemed to influence events.

The whole business baffled and unnerved her. How could you make sense out of something so impossible?

It was then that Peggy remembered the drawing of the classroom, the pig-faced woman, the little boy who lay collapsed across his desk. What was she to do? She looked at Sam, and she could see that he was trying to steel himself to deal with the inevitable. But she could also see the tears that were beginning to gather in his eyes.

"I'm being silly," Peggy said with a smile. "Of course you can take your drawing things, sweetie. For God's sake, I don't know what got into me. Does that make everything okay?"

Sam nodded helplessly. She could see he was so relieved that he couldn't speak. He held out his hand for the backpack, and when Peggy gave it to him, he clutched it to his chest as if it were a stuffed animal that had the power to comfort and protect.

"I'm really forgiven?" she asked.

Again he nodded, even now not yet fully recovered from his shock.

***

The school stood on Fifth Avenue between Ninety-third and Ninety-fourth Streets, an austere Georgian building whose balanced rows of windows overlooked the particularly lush section of Central Park. She saw the younger boys and their parents streaming through the eddying ranks of older boys and queuing up in front of the stairs. Tightening her grasp on Sam's hand, she took her place in line. Up in front, standing on the top step, she could see Mrs. Wendell-Briggs and a man who must have been the headmaster. She knew the name, of course—she'd seen it in the school catalogue—but she'd never met the man, and now that Peggy stood here waiting her turn, she was a little bit terrified.

She looked down at Sam and tried to smile reassuringly When she looked back up to catch a glimpse of a ruddy, grinning man whose close-cropped white hair was like a beacon shining forth from the dark interior of the doorway, she realized with a frisson of anxiety that she'd forgotten his name.
Wonderful
!

She squeezed Sam's hand to get his attention and then bent down so as not to be overheard.

"Honey, you know the headmaster's name, don't you?"

He looked at her in wide-eyed confusion. "Headmaster?"

"You know, honey, the principal. Didn't I tell you his name?"

The puzzlement faded from Sam's face. "Oh, yeah," he said, shifting his knapsack to his other shoulder. It's Doctor something."

"Doctor what?" But as soon as Peggy said it, she remembered. "Doctor Whalen," she said, pronouncing the name very softly. "But you understand he's not a regular doctor."

"Oh, sure," Sam said. "That's okay. I don't mind."

Finally it was their turn at the top of the stairs. Was she being paranoid, or had Wendell-Briggs whispered some quick comment about her and Sam to the headmaster? Jesus, I'm coming unglued, Peggy thought miserably. Why, Wendell-Briggs had practically told her Sam was a prodigy, had scarcely been able to say enough about how happy the school was to have him. Obviously Sam was welcome here; obviously he'd be up to snuff. Obviously Wendell-Briggs wasn't standing there making nasty remarks about him! Why on earth else would he have been accepted under such extraordinary circumstances, bypassing all the regular procedures.

"... a real pleasure to meet your son," Dr. Whalen was saying, hiding, she could have sworn, 
a look of cool appraisal underneath his impeccably cordial expression. What she could not have known—what would have dumbfounded her to learn—was that Whalen was at that very moment wondering with passionate curiosity who it was who'd made the anonymous five-hundred-thousand-dollar contribution to the school's development fund, expressing at the same time the mild hope that a Sam Cooper might be admitted to this fall's first grade class, however unorthodox such a move might be. Well, the tests they'd run on him showed he really
was
bright as hell—clearly St. Martin's material—and what were a few bent rules in the face of half-a-million dollars.

He and Wendell-Briggs finished exchanging the routine pleasantries with Cooper and his mother, who seemed to Whalen's practiced eye to be exhibiting more than the usual first-day-of-school maternal separation anxieties. Maybe she knew about the—ah, should he say, inducement—that had secured Sam's admission and was feeling a little embarrassed. Not that this was the first time such a thing had happened, God knew. It just didn't usually happen with such an unimportant family.

For her part, Peggy read not a bit of the thoughts that were running through the man's mind. She hadn't given much thought to the matter of Sam's getting into this place so effortlessly and at such a late date—she had a genius on her hands, it seemed, and she'd just have to get used to the fact that his path was bound to be radically different from that of ordinary kids.

Suddenly she felt him tugging at her skirt, and realized that it was time for him to enter the august portals of St. Martin's and begin his very first day of school. "Oh, Sam," she said, bending down to give him the briefest of hugs—no need to humiliate him in front of all his little macho schoolmates. "You have a wonderful day, you hear? I can't wait for a full report."

He disengaged himself as quickly as possible and turned to enter the school. In the dim recesses of the school's foyer she spotted a tall, imposing woman who seemed to be waiting for him—was it his teacher, perhaps?—but the light wasn't clear enough for Peggy to make out her features. Suddenly filled with feeling—her first and only child was taking one hell of a big step today—Peggy took a deep breath to steady herself, then marched resolutely down the street towards the subway.

***

By afternoon Peggy's characteristic ebullience had returned in full force. The jitters and dread that had dominated and all but spoiled the morning had lifted entirely. She reminded herself of their excellent luck, of all the wonderful things that had been happening to them, all the things she and Hal had to be thankful for. Peggy even forgot about the drawings and what they might portend.

She worked at her art board finishing up the sketches for the next round of windows, and then, since Bloomingdale's was paying for it, she grabbed a cab down to the East Village and from there to SoHo to see what trends were breaking ground. After checking out various hip places to see if the gays were styling anything new, she called her office to say that she was on her way to pick up Sam at school.

She was heading for the subway when she passed a tiny jewelry shop. The window was draped from top to bottom with tiers of wildly bizarre costume pieces. She stood and studied the display for a time, and then she went inside.

It was no more than a cubbyhole—and with Peggy inside, there was hardly room for the fat man, too. He sat on a stool in the middle of the floor and made no effort to move. He was glaring at Peggy, and she glared right back, taking in the shaved head, the iron choker with the black plastic swastika hanging from it, the buttonless vest that did nothing much toward covering the milky, shirtless chest, the black tights, the tiny silver earrings, both pinned through the same spongy earlobe.

"I like your stuff," Peggy said, motioning with her head toward the window.

The man said nothing. He plucked a cigarette from behind his ear, tapped it on the back of his hairless wrist, and made a sort of wet, kissing sound in the air.

"You design it yourself?"

The man did not answer until he had lighted the cigarette and taken a series of quick, small puffs, which he then expelled in a long needle of smoke. When he talked, it seemed to Peggy that the voice came from somewhere behind his head.

"Listen, dumpling, you here to shoot the shit or buy?"

Peggy was used to this sort of thing. She'd been getting hunches out of the artsy-craftsy districts of the city long enough not to be thrown by the fuck-you manners that went with the fuck-you styles of the S & M and punk-rock designers.

"I'm with a department store," she said matter-of-factly.

"Baby," the fat man said, "like we're
all
with a department store, you dig? I mean, it's the American thing, right?"

Peggy gave him the knowing smile he wanted, and then she pressed her point.

"Really," she said, "if you're the designer, I'm interested. I'm with Bloomingdale's."

The fat man's manner changed abruptly.

"You buy for Bloomie's? You do their glitter?"

"Their windows. But sometimes I suggest things I like. Are you the designer?"

The fat man's face flattened into a look of excruciating boredom.

"Some Spic kid does the junk."

"Could I have his telephone number?"

The fat man took another swift succession of shallow puffs, then blew out the same remarkable needle of smoke.

"Lady, I don't have the faggot's telephone number. Some kid; what difference does it make? He goes to Pratt, is all I know. Infante, Richie Infante or some shit like that. I just sell the crap."

He eyed her peevishly, as if she was the cause of all his troubles.

"Now if you're interested in some good stuff . . ."

She could see him waiting for her to bite.

"Jewelry?" Peggy said.

"Yeah, jewelry," the fat man said. "You think I'm dealing pills? Like, dig, I used to do the counter bit at a real swank outfit uptown, and, you know, I've still got some friends in the business. Strictly legit, you understand—but like I can arrange certain things. You interested?"

Peggy was about to say no, that she didn't wear much in the way of jewelry and that, moreover, she didn't make it a practice to buy stolen goods—but then she remembered something and decided it wouldn't hurt to ask.