“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.