What Came From the Stars (5 page)

He could fix it.

For a moment, Tommy thought that maybe he should not touch anything at all, like Mrs. MacReady said. But the painting was so rucca, he couldn’t help it. He uncapped most of the plastic cups and picked up the brush. The cottage was ridiculous. There were all these little curlicues and decorated windows. A mountain cottage would not have little curlicues and decorated windows. He used the black paint to cover what Mr. Zwerger had done on the cottage, and then covered the black with a rusty brown, and then some gray, and blended it all together so the cottage looked like it had been standing against the mountain winds for a long time. Then he decided that the goat looked ridiculous too. He wasn’t moving at all. Tommy dipped his brush into the gray again and took some of the white and then he redrew the goat until the goat was chewing and looking kind of thoughtful as goats do. Tommy adjusted the goat’s beard to make him look a little, oh, jaunty.

Then he turned to the mountain, which looked ridiculous too. No one would build a cottage here if the mountain looked like that. He dipped the brush into the dark green and tinged it with some umber and he repainted the mountain so the peaks were low and round and the grass green and bowing under a brisk breeze.

Then he drew in the suns, and he got the light, light blue of the sky right. He stepped back, then painted in the short shadows of the cottage and the goat, and was stepping back again to see if the angles worked when Mr. Zwerger came into his office.

There were more than a few moments of absolute silence.

Tommy Pepper watched Mr. Zwerger’s face.

He figured that Mr. Zwerger would be pretty happy. After all, the painting had been so rucca. So rucca it was almost fah. And now—if Tommy did say so himself—it was about as illil as any painting could get. Anyone could see that.

Except, apparently, Mr. Zwerger.

“What did you do?” he said.

“I finished it,” said Tommy.

“I’ve been working on that painting for two years,” said Mr. Zwerger.

“And now it’s done,” said Tommy.

“What happened to the mountain?”

“It needed—”

“And the cottage? Do you have any idea how long it took me to paint the curlicues on that cottage?”

“But they were—”

“Months!” said Mr. Zwerger.

Tommy decided that he would not point out how ridiculous the cottage had looked.

“And what is the goat doing?”

“He’s chewing the grass.”

Mr. Zwerger leaned in closer. “It looks like he’s really chewing it.”

Of course, Tommy thought.

Mr. Zwerger took off his glasses.

“He really is chewing it.”

Tommy nodded.

“His mouth is moving.”

Tommy nodded again.

Mr. Zwerger turned from the painting and looked at him. “How do you make his mouth move?”

Tommy was stunned. Wasn’t it obvious? “You paint thrimble,” he said.

“Thrimble?”

“Thrimble,” Tommy said again. Everyone in the world knew this. Why didn’t Mr. Zwerger?

Mr. Zwerger looked back at the painting. “How did you do this all so quickly?”

Tommy shrugged. He had no idea.

He wished that Mr. Zwerger could be glad the painting wasn’t rucca anymore. But he wasn’t sure that Mr. Zwerger was glad.

“Thrimble?” Mr. Zwerger said again.

Tommy nodded.

Mr. Zwerger walked over to his desk, still looking at the painting. He bumped into the corner and didn’t notice the papers that fluttered down. Tommy picked them up and put them back on the desk while Mr. Zwerger sat down.

“I suppose you use some sort of computer chip,” he said.

“For what?” Tommy said.

“For the thrimble thing.”

Tommy decided to nod. It seemed easier.

Mr. Zwerger looked at Tommy, then at the painting, then back at Tommy. He coughed once. “I understand there was some trouble on the bus today.”

Tommy nodded.

“Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin fell down the aisle of the bus?”

Tommy nodded again.

Mr. Zwerger looked at the painting. Then he turned back to Tommy.

“Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin fell down the aisle of the bus?”

More nodding.

“Did you push her?”

“I didn’t...”

Mr. Zwerger turned back to the painting.

“...push her.”

Mr. Zwerger stood up and walked to the painting. “It really does look as if that goat is chewing something,” he said.

“Grass,” said Tommy.

“It must be grass,” said Mr. Zwerger.

“I didn’t push Cheryl Lynn,” said Tommy.

“What?” Mr. Zwerger looked at Tommy again.

“I didn’t push Cheryl Lynn down the aisle of the bus.”

“Of course you didn’t. I’m not accusing you, Tommy. I just want to know what happened.” He looked back at the painting. “I can’t believe how quickly you did this. Did anyone help you?”

Tommy shook his head.

“No one at all?”

“No,” said Tommy.

Mr. Zwerger reached his hand out as if he was about to touch the paint. “It’s so...” Then he shook his head and turned back to Tommy. “Whatever happened on the bus, you’ve made a mess here. Why don’t you take those cups of paint and the brush and wash them all out in the boys’ bathroom. Be sure to get the caps clean, and don’t let the paint dribble over the edges of the cups. Here, you’d better take the whole box.”

Tommy did.

Mr. Zwerger turned back to the painting. “He really looks like he’s chewing something,” he said.

Tommy Pepper headed to the boys’ bathroom. He wasn’t sure he had done exactly the right thing with Mr. Zwerger’s painting. But when he thought about it, he couldn’t imagine doing anything else. He wondered how it might have looked if he had painted the mountain after First Sunset. If he had painted the mountain just after First Sunset, then it would really have been illil. He could have brought out the long shadows of the hills, and the lamplight flickering in the cottage window, and maybe the goat stamping his foot because of the cool breezes. And the mountain could have that kind of orange glow that mountains take on after First Sunset, when the light from Hengest is so slanted.

He opened the door to the boys’ bathroom. No one else was there. He set the brush and the box of paints on one of the sinks and then looked up into the mirror. He saw the blank ceramic wall of the bathroom reflected behind him. Wide. White. Not really rucca, but certainly unfere.

Tommy Pepper smiled and picked up the brush.

Tommy brought the clean cups of paint and brush back to Mr. Zwerger. The principal was sitting in front of the painting. Tommy put the box down quietly on the table beside the easel and left, closing the door gently.

When he got to Mr. Burroughs’s class, everyone looked up and started to laugh—except Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin.

“We were beginning to think Mr. Zwerger might have executed you,” said Mr. Burroughs.

“That’s what we were hoping,” said Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin.

Tommy sat down at his desk.

“We’re working on the circulatory system,” said Mr. Burroughs. “So, Tommy, why don’t you open up your book to page one hundred and fifty-two? Later, I’ll catch you up on what we’ve already done.”

Tommy nodded.

“Too bad he didn’t execute you,” whispered Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin.

“Too bad you were born,” Tommy Pepper whispered, and opened his book to the circulatory system.

He sighed. He tried again to count how many days until Christmas break. He flipped through to page one hundred and fifty-two, where there was a picture of a man wearing only his arteries and veins. Tommy stared at the picture. He felt his chain go warm. He picked up a pencil. He put it down. He was sure Mr. Burroughs would not be happy if he drew in
Science Today!.
But maybe, with a couple of strokes, he could show how the blood was rushing through all those arteries and veins—how it got pumped out bright red from the heart and then gushed to every part of the body, right to the fingertips, and then slowly got bluer and bluer until it ended up, kind of tired, back in the heart. It wouldn’t take much. All he’d have to do—Tommy picked up the pencil—all he’d have to do is to start right—Tommy put the pencil down and reached into his desk for his pencil box and opened it and found the red pencil and the blue pencil—to start right where the blood came out from the heart—like this—and show where it was going—like this—and then how it got into the fingertips—like this—and...

Tommy felt his chain grow very warm. He drew quickly.

Then Tommy felt Mr. Burroughs standing next to him.

He looked up.

Mr. Burroughs was looking at the picture of the man wearing only his arteries and veins.

Mr. Burroughs’s mouth was open. Very open.

Mr. Burroughs ran his hand through his hair.

He leaned down toward Tommy’s book.

“Tommy,” he said, “I can see the blood moving.”

Of course, Tommy thought, and sat back, a little surprised, when everyone in the classroom, including Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin, crowded around his desk.

“Thrimble?” Tommy said weakly.

And that was when an office runner brought a note into the classroom and handed it to Mr. Burroughs—who looked at Tommy. “Mr. Zwerger wants to see you again,” he said. “Something about the boys’ bathroom?”

That afternoon, Tommy and Patty decided they would skip the bus and walk home again. They walked hand in hand, and Patty stayed very close. When they came to a corner and waited for the light, she leaned her head against him.

“You had a hard day, didn’t you?” said Tommy.

Patty nodded.

They walked along Water Street again. Tommy looked out beyond the stretch of land at the other side of the harbor, out to the hazy horizon. The air was as calm as the ripples of the water, and he picked up a stone and chucked it past where the waves tipped over themselves. He could feel the stone flinging through the air, and the plunk of its splash was loud, and he could see—he really could—he could see it slowly spinning and heading down to the darker, colder water. He could see the shiny eyes of the little fish that watched its slow drop. He could see it settle among the sand and seaweed and brown muck and the beds of mussel shells with seaweed caught in their sharp edges. He could see it begin its long, slow wait against the push and pull of the tide.

Patty pulled at his hand and he looked down at her. She was watching him carefully.

“I’m all right,” he said.

She took both of his hands in hers.

“Really,” he said, “I am. But you know a good thing to do when we’ve both had a hard day?”

Patty smiled.

They went up the street to the coffee shop and Tommy ordered two hot chocolates, one with extra whipped cream, and they sat at a table by the window and they sipped and they watched shoppers walk by and tourists looking for Plymouth Rock and someone putting up posters for the Plymouth Fall Festival. And then Patty got a straw from the front counter and she put it in her hot chocolate and she looked at Tommy and she started to blow bubbles—big chocolate bubbles—and Tommy laughed.

He laughed as hard as he could.

Because Tommy Pepper couldn’t show Patty how as soon as she had blown her first chocolate bubble, he heard his mother’s voice saying, “Not in public, you doughnut brain!” and how he missed her like he would miss the planet.

When they got back home that afternoon, Tommy and Patty saw a new and much bigger
PILGRIMWAY CONDOMINIUMS! COMING VERY SOON! SALES OFFICE NOW OPEN AT LUMPKIN & ASSOCIATES REALTORS
sign. Beyond it, bright yellow flags on bright yellow stakes divided the sand down by the shore. Another row of flags followed the scrub pines toward the front of their house and cut the dune into squares.

“What do you think they’re for?” said Tommy.

Patty shook her head and they went up the railroad-tie steps.

Their father was not in the house. No easel set up in the living room.

Tommy made a honey and peanut butter sandwich and cut it in two while Patty poured the milk and fussed at the blue floral linoleum and then the red floral linoleum. Then they went out to the first railroad tie to wait for their father and watch the waves come in.

But they didn’t watch the waves. They watched the fluttering yellow flags.

Their father came home when the shadows started to get long and the sky turned the dark yellow that, Tommy thought, wouldn’t be there if Hengest were still up. He was carrying a roasted chicken and a bag of sides and he bustled into the house and didn’t look at the yellow flags and didn’t talk about the yellow flags and didn’t even seem to hear when Tommy asked about the yellow flags.

He carved at the chicken—not well. “We’d better eat this before it gets cold,” he said.

“Dad,” said Tommy.

“Let me finish, Tommy.”

“What are the yellow flags for?”

“I’m almost done here.”

He wasn’t. He was making a real mess of it.

“Dad.”

His father put the knife down and looked at Tommy and Patty. He looked at them a long time. “Your mother loved this place,” he said finally.

They waited.

“She loved it more than anywhere else on earth.”

Waited.

“It feels like we’re about to lose her all over again.”

That night, Tommy lay in his bed, twirling the green and silver chain around and around his finger. It was very warm.

He imagined all those yellow flags marking deep holes that bulldozers and dump trucks and huge loud machines with huge loud scoops would dig. Then he imagined the sides of the holes made into concrete walls, and then the steel frames coming out of them, and then the shingled roofs, and the vinyl siding, and the windows, and the flower boxes and mailboxes and garbage cans and people moving into the PilgrimWay Condominiums. He imagined his own house looking like a shed in someone’s backyard. The dune, the beach, the waves, the smiling horizon out of sight.

Then Tommy held his chain, and imagined something else.

And in the morning, when they woke and went down the dune to do the dawn, all the yellow flags were gone.