They had begun to chatter to each other as they passed the large pharmacy window with its large display of mouth-watering tarts, colorful selection of candies and every kind of chocolate one could imagine. Neither had any money so they lingered only a while pointing out their favorites, then moved a long.

After they’d left Main street and crossed the highway by the red-painted walking bridge, they turned up Crescent Avenue. The air turned cool in the shade of the elm, hickory and oak archway lining the street. Passing Emerson’s they peeked over the picket fence to see if their miniature poodle, Cancer, (named for the sign not the disease) was about, but he wasn’t.

Mrs. Winter, the oldest person they knew, sat rocking in a chair on her front porch while her grandson pulled weeds from the tidy flower beds. He looked up when Josie and Matthew passed and waved.

Between Mrs. Winter’s house and their own lived the Richmonds, the Gathers, the Fitzsimmons, the Bintners and the Lees. All the homes were older, sturdy structures, painted neatly in warm, cozy colors, with shutters and trim that cleanly and brightly accented the homes. Flowers beds were filled with riots of color and lawns were a crisp, manicured green with no dandelions.

At the end of the block on a small, dry swatch, was the Taratova home. It was white with black shutters. Some paint was peeling along the trim but it was otherwise well kept. The porch was small; no room for a swing. An aging Horizon hatchback sat in a gravel drive along the side of the house. The lawn, though not completely brown, was not the vibrant green the rest of the neighborhood sported and was scattered with polka dots of yellow.

Josie held a hand up to Matthew as they approached the front step. “I’ll go first,” she whispered. “Go take care of your bird.” Matthew nodded and walked around the side of the house.

When he was gone, Josie walked softly up the steps and across the porch. She gazed through the screen door, cupping her hands around her eyes. Her eyes tracked around the dim room; the afghan folded neatly over the back of an overstuffed arm chair; a pillow tucked into each corner of the sofa; the t.v. turned off. She pulled open the screen door slowly and stepped into the room. Looking behind the front door she noted her mother’s sweater hanging from the hook.

She listened for a moment, cocking her ear toward the back of the house. Nothing. Crossing the front room she entered a hall and leaned into the kitchen doorway on her right. The faucet dripped. The refrigerator hummed. Light streamed through the open back door. All four yellow vinyl chairs were pushed in around the yellow Formica topped table.

Josie sighed. She felt her throat begin to tighten. Taking a fortifying breath she returned to the dark hall and treaded deeper into the house. The two bedrooms on the left were the children’s. The door on the far right was the bathroom. The door at the very end of the hall was her mother’s. The hall seemed to become a long tunnel. The blood pumped loudly in her ears and the walls seem to thicken around her.

Sometimes she and Matthew would take this walk together, holding each others hands, their grip becoming tighter as they went. Sometimes though, Josie took on the burden herself. As she arrived at the door, she raised her hand and softly knocked. When there was no answer, Josie’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. Squeezing her eyes shut and saying a little prayer she knocked on the door again, this time more loudly. “Mama?”

From behind the door she heard a hoarse, “Come in.”

Turning the knob, Josie let the door creak open. There lying on her side on top of the bedspread her mother struggled to sit up as her daughter entered the room. “I was only napping,” she explained.

“I know,” Josie said as she scanned the room.

“I promise, I was only napping. Now help me up.” She held out a hand and Josie took it, and pulled as her mother’s swollen legs lifted up then flopped down at the side of the bed as she came to a seated position. As her mother exhaled Josie caught a whiff of her breath and was convinced her mother was only napping.

Relief flooded through Josie and her body nearly sagged as the tension left. Sadly, Josie looked at her mother. She had the brightest blue eyes, but set in the folds of fat around them they didn’t seem nearly as beautiful as Josie knew they were. Her mother had grown so enormous that it amazed Josie what her mother did accomplish every day. She cleaned four houses a day, five days a week. She kept her own simple home as neat as she could, and she kept her children clothed and fed. As dearly as she loved her children, at the end of the day, her cravings would catch up to her. But, not today it would seem.

Josie handed her mother her slippers. “I’ll start supper,” she said as she left the room. Her mother’s blue eyes followed Josie down the hall. When Josie turned into the kitchen, she reached in to the pocket of her blouse and pulled out a small chocolate bar. Her jowl quivered as a tear fell down her cheek. She crushed it in her meaty fist, the wrapper popping open on one end.

When the three of them had finished giggling, Millie stood on the top step and surveyed the remaining light. “No more painting today,” she said and headed to the carriage house to put away her supplies.

This greatly disappointed Josie. The envy that had been snuffed by the twinkling of an aspiring artist came roaring back to life. Josie shot her brother a look warning of impending revenge. Her eyes were so heated and her posture so poised for the kill one could almost see the pointed green tail of envy swish from beneath her skirt.

Matthew was not unfamiliar with this side of his sister’s perpetually shifting personality. If he waited long enough (and it usually wasn’t very) it would change. He rolled his eyes at her and stuck out his tongue.

Just as Millie turned back, as if by a trick of mirrors the look disappeared, Josie's posture relaxed, the tail recoiled, Matthew’s eyes returned to center and his tongue looked as if it were only licking his lips.

“Would the two of you like to come back tomorrow?”

Simultaneously they turned to her with twin innocent smiles. “We’d love to,” said Josie, speaking for the both of them. “But we have church first. Will that be okay?”

“The same time tomorrow would be fine. If it would help, I could pick you up and meet your mother.”

Josie and Matthew exchanged a look that did not go unnoticed by Millie. She chose to ignore it and instead waited for a response.

“Uh, our mother won’t be home. She has to…stay after church,” Josie answered.

“Oh, well then I can pick you up all the same.”

“No thank you. We like to walk.”

“Same time tomorrow then.”

Millie walked them to the carriage door and knelt down before Matthew. “Will you bury him tonight?” she asked. He nodded. “Remember where you bury him. I’ll make a marker for him, and you can take it with you tomorrow.”

With a nod he said softly, “I will.”
“Thank you for the soda, Millie,” Josie added.

“’Til tomorrow then.”

The children walked along quietly for several minutes. Matthew was pensive waiting for a cuff up side the head or a scathing lecture on the place of younger brothers. Neither came. Instead, Josie talked idly about the weather, school and whether or not she should wash her hair tonight.

Matthew wasn’t fooled. He was sure she was only lulling him into thinking he was safe, so he broached the subject himself. “I didn’t know she was going to paint me,” he said meekly, hoping just bringing up the subject didn’t garner him the expected cuffing.

“I know,” she said coolly.

“So…we’re okay?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she said drawing out the syllables.

“Oh.” Matthew knew the longer she held on to the impulse for revenge the worse it would be. If there were anyway he could draw it out now, he would. “Maybe she’ll paint you tomorrow.”

“What if she doesn’t?”
“I’ll ask her to.”

“No, Matthew. Don’t embarrass me by doing that.”

“Maybe I won’t go.”

“You have to.”

“You can leave me at the corner, and I’ll just wait there,” Matthew suggested.

“That won’t work either. Someone will see you.”

Matthew thought for a moment and then decided it all just wasn’t worth it. “What ever you do to me, you’ll get the switch and you know it,” he threatened.

“Who said I was going to do anything?” Josie asked.

Matthew was sure he saw a flash of green behind her.

Several minutes lapsed while Millie painted Matthew’s inspection of the limp bird. When the light faded and the silence had finally parted Matthew’s thoughts he looked up quzzically. Scrambling to his feet he asked, “What are you doing?”

“You made a beautiful painting, Matthew. Would you like to see?” Millie replied.
Matthew walked cautiously over to where Millie was seated and Josie was kneeling beside her. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect or whether or not he’d like what he saw. He was also concerned that Josie was going to swat him. She was the one who was supposed to be the model after all.

Millie held the water color and the sketch side by side for him to see. His eye brows shot up high on his forehead. “That’s me?”

Nodding, Millie said, “Well, it’s a likeness of you. It’s not finished though. I’m thinking it would look better in chalk. What do you think?”

“Chalk? I don’t know…” He wrinkled up his nose.

“Not school chalk. Art chalk. I think I’ll play with this later.” Millie stood and clipped the art work to a board running above her work bench. As she did this she asked, “What happened to your bird?”

“He died,” Matthew said sadly.

“I’m sorry. What are you going to do with him?”

“I thought I’d bury him. I didn’t want him to fry on the sidewalk.”

“That’s kind of you,” Millie said. Turning around she said, “C’mon. Let me get you two some sodas.”

Josie was relieved. She’d thought she’d been forgotten for her brother and the resentment was starting to creep back. Artist or model it was still her idea to come. She was the one who was issued the invite; not Matthew.

They followed Millie to the back of her house and up the steps through the screen door into a small enclosed porch that led into her kitchen. She opened the icebox and pulled out two bottles of Coca Cola, icy cold. With a bottle opener she popped the caps, handing a bottle to each of them. She reached back into the ice box and repeated the process for herself. They all returned to the steps. Matthew sat on the bottom, Josie on the second step and Millie on the top.

Quietly they savored the first fizzy, icy cold swallows. “What made you want to be an artist,” Josie finally asked.

Millie grimaced. “It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

“Oh I don’t believe that. Not someone like you!” Josie was astonished that someone as lovely as Millie Radmask thought she was only talented at one thing.

“It’s true. Sometimes God gives people all the tools they need to survive and succeed. They may be better at one or two of them than they are at other things, but they can pretty much do a little bit of everything. That’s nice enough, I guess. But for other people He pours everything He’s got into one special talent. That’s what He did with me.” She took a sip of her soda, and then held the cool glass against her neck.

“Which do you think He did with me?” Matthew asked.

“I don’t know, Matthew. That’s between you and God still.”

“I know,” Josie said. “You are terribly talented at making my life a bear!” As soon as she said it she wished she could take it back. She was sure Millie would scold her so she braced for it. It never came.

Instead, Matthew said with his eyes crinkled up and his head shaking, “That’s not a talent. If it were, it would come from the devil not God.”

“Maybe,” Millie said. “But maybe Matthew makes your life - more challenging to make your talent stronger,” she suggested.

Josie and Matthew thought about that for a few moments, then at the same time said, “Nah!”


When the three of them had finished giggling, Millie stood on the top step and surveyed the remaining light. “No more painting today,” she said and headed to the carriage house to put away her supplies.

This greatly disappointed Josie. The envy that had been snuffed by the twinkling of an aspiring artist came roaring back to life. Josie shot her brother a look warning of impending revenge. Her eyes were so heated and her posture so poised for the kill one could almost see the pointed green tail of envy swish from beneath her skirt.

Matthew was not unfamiliar with this side of his sister’s perpetually shifting personality. If he waited long enough (and it usually wasn’t very) it would change. He rolled his eyes at her and stuck out his tongue.

Just as Millie turned back, as if by a trick of mirrors the look disappeared, Josie's posture relaxed, the tail recoiled, Matthew’s eyes returned to center and his tongue looked as if it were only licking his lips.

“Would the two of you like to come back tomorrow?”

Simultaneously they turned to her with twin innocent smiles. “We’d love to,” said Josie, speaking for the both of them. “But we have church first. Will that be okay?”

“The same time tomorrow would be fine. If it would help, I could pick you up and meet your mother.”

Josie and Matthew exchanged a look that did not go unnoticed by Millie. She chose to ignore it and instead waited for a response.

“Uh, our mother won’t be home. She has to…stay after church,” Josie answered.

“Oh, well then I can pick you up all the same.”

“No thank you. We like to walk.”

“Same time tomorrow then.”

Millie walked them to the carriage door and knelt down before Matthew. “Will you bury him tonight?” she asked. He nodded. “Remember where you bury him. I’ll make a marker for him, and you can take it with you tomorrow.”

With a nod he said softly, “I will.”
“Thank you for the soda, Millie,” Josie added.

“’Til tomorrow then.”

The children walked along quietly for several minutes. Matthew was pensive waiting for a cuff up side the head or a scathing lecture on the place of younger brothers. Neither came. Instead, Josie talked idly about the weather, school and whether or not she should wash her hair tonight.

Matthew wasn’t fooled. He was sure she was only lulling him into thinking he was safe, so he broached the subject himself. “I didn’t know she was going to paint me,” he said meekly, hoping just bringing up the subject didn’t garner him the expected cuffing.

“I know,” she said coolly.

“So…we’re okay?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she said drawing out the syllables.

“Oh.” Matthew knew the longer she held on to the impulse for revenge the worse it would be. If there were anyway he could draw it out now, he would. “Maybe she’ll paint you tomorrow.”

“What if she doesn’t?”
“I’ll ask her to.”

“No, Matthew. Don’t embarrass me by doing that.”

“Maybe I won’t go.”

“You have to.”

“You can leave me at the corner, and I’ll just wait there,” Matthew suggested.

“That won’t work either. Someone will see you.”

Matthew thought for a moment and then decided it all just wasn’t worth it. “What ever you do to me, you’ll get the switch and you know it,” he threatened.

“Who said I was going to do anything?” Josie asked.

Matthew was sure he saw a flash of green behind her.

“Just leave it, Matthew. It’s not yours and I don’t have time to put up with your shit today,” the girl was saying as she walked away from her brother who was squatted down on the sidewalk closely inspecting a dirty, wadded up blue bandana.
“But Josie, there’s something’ in it!” the boy cried.
Josie just walked on, her nose in the air, superior to her younger boy sibling. Her spine was straight, chest with budding little breasts thrust forward. She stopped when she reached the light post, her shoulders sagging. Shaking her head she turned around to see Matthew still hunkered down next to the bandana. With a pout he looked over his shoulder and pled with his eyes for her to wait. She stamped her foot in the haughty way she’d acquired at the age of twelve and one half. “Well, hurry up. Are you scared of it or somethin’?”
“No!” he denied. “I’m not scared, but there is something in it. All wrapped up like.” He turned his attention back to the bandana and held a shaky index finger over it.
Flipping her hair over her shoulder Josie shook her head and sighed dramatically. “We’ll be late. And it’s hot, Matt. I wanna soda, and we can’t have one until we get there.”
Matthew’s little face leaned closer to the bandana with his index finger up near his face until his nose nearly touched it and his eyes crossed. His finger darted away from his face and poked at the bandana. It flew up only about four inches from the ground but with his face so close it was like a rocket. He leapt back and fell on his bottom, his legs sprawled and the bandana and exposed creature between his scabbed knees.

Flopped forward on its beak a baby robin struggled to get upright, but it was much too weak. It was no where near old enough to be out of the nest and yet here it was, alive, struggling and dying. Matthew reached out to touch it when Josie screamed, “Don’t you dare Matthew Ethan Taratova! That thing’s got diseases and it’s dying anyway.” She jumped down beside her brother and slapped his hand away from the pitiful animal.

“Aw Josie, it needs help. It’s not its fault it’s here. It’ll cook on the sidewalk it’s so hot today.”

“Ewe, Matthew. A cooked bird. Gross! Let’s go!” and she turned and started marching back up the sidewalk.

Matthew eyed his sister, her skinny knobby legs scabbed up with mosquito bites and the hem of her skirt frayed with several loose threads trailing. He looked back at the baby bird. It had stopped moving. Watching closely for any sign of life he finally shook his head and took the bandana in his hand. Checking to make sure Josie wasn’t watching he wrapped the baby bird carefully in the bandana and he stuck the whole package into the deep pocket of his bib overalls.

Running to catch up he yelled, “Josie! I know where we can go instead.”

Josie was already shaking her head. “I told you, I can get us a soda. A cold one too.”

“So where we goin’?”

“Miss Millie Radmask,” Josie said.

“Who’s that?”

Josie rolled her eyes. “Do I have to explain everything to you? Millie is an artist. She came to our art class last week, and she said any time I wanted to come to her place to do a sitting she’d give me a soda.”

“Do you just sit? Like a dog?” Matthew asked with a befuddled look on his little sun
burnt face.

Josie stopped walking and turned on her little brother. “No! Ugh! It’s what models do. She want me to be a model for her paintings.”

Shrugging his shoulders Matthew continued on in the general direction Josie had been going. “I don’t know what she wants you to model for. You’re just a girl.”

“Ohhhh…then don’t come then. I was going to share my soda with you, but if you don’t wanna…”

Its was Matthew’s turn to stop. He turned, cocked his head to one side and said in a matter of fact tone, “If I don’t go, you can’t go. You are suppose to be watching me.”

With the challenge out there, Josie knew she was stuck. She closed her muddy, hazel eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them they were serene and calm. “Matthew, I'll let you have more than half the soda if you’ll just come with me to Millie’s house.” And then as an after thought, “Please.”

Matthew shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t care.” He gestured for Josie to lead the way. They walked several more blocks before he said, “Mama will take a switch to you for callin' Miss Radmask by her first name.”

With out missing a beat, Josie said, “Millie said I was to call her that. She doesn’t want to be called Miss Radmask. So there!”

“Mama will still…”

Josie interrupted, “No she won’t!”

“Does Mama know we are going there today?”

“Of course she does.”

But Matthew could always tell when his sister was lying. He didn’t call her on it but stored the information away. It was always handy to have a little ammunition when dealing with Josie.

At eight years old he was small for his age and tended to keep to himself when ever possible. Josie was forever putting him up to one sort of nonsense or another. She was bossy, brash and down right snotty sometimes. Matthew, while not an angel himself, was much more sober and thoughtful than his sister. He didn’t have a lot of friends, though those he did have didn’t mind his quietness. They counted on Matthew to keep their secrets and to figure ways out of the messes they sometimes got themselves into. For his friends, he did this with out compensation. For Josie, payment was nearly always due.

Matthew wasn’t sure what his sister was up to this time, but he was certain by the end of the weekend, she’d be taking the slow march out to the willow tree to pick her switch. He followed quietly behind Josie, occasionally reaching down and patting his pocket gently. The baby bird was still warm against his thigh. He knew it hadn’t stood a chance, but he couldn’t allow its remains to lie on the hot sidewalk in the baking sun.

Checking over her shoulder, Josie made sure her little brother was keeping up. She was certain he could ruin this for her, but she had no choice but to bring him along. When she heard an artist had moved into Haskel she’d had no idea that it could change her life. That’s how Josie thinks of it now; her ticket outta here.
When Millie Radmask had come to her art class as a guest artist, Josie had fallen in love. She was a lithe, willowy woman with her nearly white hair in a pixie cut that tapered around to the nape of her neck. She looked more like a dancer than a painter to Josie. Her cheeks were bright pink against her pale, flawless skin. She wore a long silky scarf covered in bright red posies around her neck and chambray shirt rolled up at the sleeves. Her blue cotton pants were rolled up at the cuffs and she wore moccasins on her feet with no socks. When she spoke, her voice was high and whispy like a bird singing.

At the next corner Josie turned right and then turned again into the alley. She stopped near an old carriage house and waved at Matthew to hurry up. When he finally stood beside her she walked up to the once white, but now grey, carriage house door and knocked. With in moments, the door opened and the angelic face of Millie Radmask.

“Why Josie, you came.” Millie’s smile glowed on a face flush from the heat of the day and lightly smeared with grey and white oil paint.
Matthew was in love.

“I see you brought someone with you,” she said as she bent over and held her long-fingered hand out to Matthew. “I’m Millie. You must be Matthew.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbled and he placed is chubby, dirty hand in hers. Her hand was cool to the touch while his felt warm and clammy. “You’re a painter?” he asked in tiny, croaked voice.

He was suddenly shy and looked at the ground. She seemed like an angel, one covered in paint. Her sandaled feet were covered in flecks of paint and as he finally found the courage to look up he saw more flecks on the hem of her ankle length skirt, her denim shirt and even in the bangs of her hair. When he finally looked into her eyes of the palest blue he changed his mind. She wasn’t an angel, but a fairy, and he thought for sure he heard a rapid flutter of wings when she smiled at him.

“I might just have to paint you, too,” she said as she beckoned them into the carriage house.

They walked down the alley way between the old horse stalls that had been swept clean and now stored lawn tools as well as canvases, easels and other paint supplies. Just past the stalls was an open area where in more recent years cars had been parked. The large carriage doors were swung wide open allowing in dappled sunlight. Millie had her easel set up in the archway looking out onto her back lawn where the branches of an old oak tree hovered over her white picket fence. Along the base of the fence daisies were in full bloom. Perched on one of the thick posts separating the panels of the pickets was a tabby cat with his back haughtily turned to them. His tail hung down the post curling just at the end like a ‘j’. He licked his right front paw unconcerned about his audience and occasionally groomed the top of his head with it.

Matthew looked from the cat on the post to the canvas in the archway in awe. It was a mirror image. Even the sun, which peeked through the leaves and highlight the top of the tabby’s head, was perfect. He was further convinced that Millie was something magical.

Josie too noticed how well Millie had captured the scene, but she saw room for improvement. A young girl nestled among the daisies would be a delightful touch she thought, but she didn’t move. She didn’t want to ruin any chances Millie might afford her by being a model.

“I’m almost finished here,” Millie was saying. “Then we’ll see if I can rustle up a soda for both of you. We’ll be getting some late afternoon light right beneath the oak tree soon.”

Turning to her canvas, Millie picked up her palate and brush. With his head cocked to the side he watched as she added high lights to the petals of the daisies. After a few moments he shuffled over to an over turned apple crate and took a seat.

Never taking his eyes off of Millie he took the bandana out of his pocket and rested it on his knee. Josie shot him a horrified look and shook her head at him frantically. His eyes left Millie just long enough to stick his tongue out at his sister. She was mortified.

“Have you had an enjoyable weekend?” Millie asked, interrupting the battle of facial expressions going on behind her.

Josie immediately reverted back to her previously stiff posture and said, “Um, well yes. We helped our mother in the garden this morning. After finishing the lunch dishes we had other chores. Thenwe walked over here to see you.”

“Is it a vegetable garden?”

“Yes. She grows carrots and broccoli and corn and such.”

Millie and Josie discussed the merits of sweet corn. Matthew, realizing that perhaps there was no magic in the actual act of painting, turned his attention to the dead bird. He tried to stretch out the tiny wing, but it was stiff and snapped back. Running a dirty fingernail through the sparse feathers, he wondered what its mother must be thinking. His own mother would be hopping mad if he disappeared, and she didn’t know where he was.

Looking over her shoulder to see why Matthew was so quiet, Millie's eyes lit up. Turning back to Josie she put a paint-stained finger to her lips. She walked over to a shelf and pulled down a sketch pad. Crossing her ankles she gracefully lowered herself to the ground and gestured to Josie to do the same.

As she began to sketch the young towheaded boy, a beam of sunlight shot through the branches of the oak and framed Matthew in golden light. So engrossed in his inspection of the bird, he didn’t notice the conversation had stopped. He inspected the colors of the feathers, the shape and thickness of the beak and the length and texture of the two fragile legs.

Turning to Josie, Millie silently pointed to a box on another shelf and a jar of water on the work bench. Josie rose and quickly brought them to her. Her sketch finished, Millie began to quickly do a rough water color. Watching Millie work, Josie went from annoyance at Matthew to fascination with the developing piece of art. She paid close attention to how Josie selected the colors and loaded the brush; to each stroke and the placement of it; to how she layered the colors. She found her self wishing she could be the painter, the artist and not the subject.