A middle-aged white woman was holding the hands of two young children standing on the lip of the shallow pool, gaping at the ripples. The younger of the two— a toddler with blond, androgynously shaggy hair in a green corduroy jumper— dropped his mother’ s fingers to reach into the water and pull up a tiny fistful of coins. The woman let go of the elder child to pick up the tot and set them upon the ground, yanking open the small hand and scolded them in a fast, high-pitched voice with words that Johnny was unable to discern. What Johnny could make out about the woman was the multiple nervous glances that she cast towards the pair on the bench as the children played.
You and your babies are fine, he thought, hoping the mental message makes its target, the one he is always sending out to the folks who become noticeably on edge from his presence. Johnny got a lot of those looks, and he often wondered what made people more uncomfortable, his size accompanied by an intimidating beard, his blackness, or the shabby look of the homeless that Johnny had stopped trying to mask years ago. Why try to fool? If folks are gonna treat me bad for livin’ on the streets, those aren’ t the folks I’ m lookin’ to impress.
The majority of Johnny’ s attention, however, focused upon a young woman sitting on the bench about 20 feet to Cindy’ s left. His pencil moved languidly over his open notebook( one that he had found the week prior at the public library— he had observed that it remained untouched all throughout the seven hours he spent there, and as it still hadn’ t been claimed when the library announced that it was closing, Johnny slipped the spiral-bound book into his weathered blue Jaysport backpack). The woman he was sketching had her neck bent over a paperback. She wore a thin mustard cardigan against the coolness of the afternoon and a loose white dress with tiny yellow daisies printed over the fabric, which fell just above her crossed ankles. The contrast between the light-colored fabric and her dark skin appealed to Johnny’ s sense of aesthetic, and he wished that the colored pencil set wasn’ t so lacking; he was unable to capture to his satisfaction the rich hues of caramel and mahogany that shifted across her figure from the shadows of the oak leaves above her head and the spots of sunlight filtering through the lush branches.
Every so often the woman smirks, her nostrils flaring slightly, about a line she reads. Must be a good book, Johnny muses. He leans closer to his friend, nudging Cindy’ s arm so she looks up from the depths of her cold cup of coffee where her thoughts were swimming.
“ You’ re closer, can you tell what book that girl is reading?” He asks softly so the young woman can’ t hear.
Cindy jerks her neck left and squints at the small, distant print, then looks forward again, then repeats the process three more times.“ Nah, can’ t tell. You call yourself an artist but you can barely see. You need glasses, old man.”
“ Let me pull out my smartphone and call my insurance company to see if they’ ll cover a new pair,” he says.“ And I don’ t call myself an artist, you do.”
“ I’ m tellin’ ya’, Johnny, you could sell your drawings. They’ re good, as good as anything I remember seeing at the museum downtown.”
He chuckles.“ You’ re sweet, honey. A goddamn liar, but the sweetest of the bunch. Nah, I couldn’ t sell these silly things. Paper’ s got the lines anyway, takes away from the picture. Nah, these are better off hanging on the fridge than a gallery.”
Cindy sets down her paper cup by the two stuffed plastic Kroger’ s grocery bags at her feet, then pulls the notebook from Johnny’ s fingers. She points to the image nearing completion.“ Whatdya mean? The lines ain’ t ruinin’ it.” Her words pause as she fully takes in the sketch.“ Wow, this is really one of your best, Johnny. Could be a photo if I didn’ t know any better.”
Johnny takes the pad back and shrugs.“ Just taking some time and care is all. Certainly have an excess of time.” He hesitates before continuing.“ She also reminds me of my daughter. I painted her portrait a couple of times when she was a kid but by the time she was grown and had a woman’ s beauty I wasn’ t making much art, on account of being too fucked up all the goddamn time. This Thanksgiving marks 12 years since I’ ve seen her.”
Cindy’ s eyes widen and she clutches Johnny’ s arm, ragged fingernails digging forcefully into his grey and blue sleeve.“ Maybe it’ s her!” She whispers hoarsely with excitement.“ Maybe she come lookin’ for her daddy and—
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