After 15 years I’ve come back to paint and eat lunch with Mr. B and his cancer. The house, the neighborhood, locked in time. I know I’ve changed, now looking at thirty. He blinks at me, standing in the doorway in his robe, surgical tape like a gaudy necklace, plastic wrist I.D. Something dark crawled into his throat to stay. I’m standing in my painter whites, brush in hand, as Mrs. B. smiles tightly, invites me in.

We sit at the dented aluminum kitchen table, the plaid yellow pattern familiar though it seems smaller. Mrs. B tucks a paper bib into the V of his robe, hands him a cup of coffee and says, “There.” His thumb and forefinger tremble as he pinches the gauze curtain that clings to his throat like a masquerade beard. He tugs on the surgical tape and mimics her mouthing There, there.

“So, you really like painting?” she asks, voice pleasant with hostess surprise, gaze locked on me suddenly realizing I’m a man. “We always thought you and Carl would go into business together, didn’t we dear.” From Elementary to sophomore year, Carl would pitch, I’d catch. He learned early to throw a curve; I knew what pitches to signal. Mr. B. smirks at something far away, reaches as if he might pull a cigarette from the thin, gray air.

* * *
I was the oldest of ten. By the fourth delivery—James—Dad would post his chart of chores, “You three are old enough to help out.” I’d devised an escape. I got Mom to arrange for me to stay at Carl’s while she was in the hospital. Joe and Rebecca, numbers two and three, resented me for my desertion. Though I felt guilty, it was a relief to escape Dad’s iron-clad schedules. From number five through ten, Mom would go into labor, and I would pack enough underwear, socks, and shirts for a week at Carl’s.

Mrs. B was finicky, fussy. One morning I was in the tub—Mom’s eighth baby, I was twelve—and I forgot to lock the door. In a black, lace bra, she tiptoed in, said, “Just ignore me hon. Finish soaping,” as she painted her eyes and smacked red lipstick once, twice, on a pink tissue.

That night, Carl told me he was adopted, told me to keep it secret; he wasn’t supposed to know, said he found a picture of his birth mother in Mrs. B’s unmentionable’s drawer. He wanted to show me, but the phone rang and I had a new brother, Peter. “A little boy!” Mrs. B. loved announcements.

Mr. B. smiled, popped a lit cigar in my mouth, one for Carl. I coughed and watched Mrs. B. turn red, scolding; she pointed us to the garage, “Go!” Mr. B. was most comfortable by a Plymouth, leaning on the hood, picking at the paint. We puffed, and he spoke as if we were poker buddies, “You ever see an afterbirth, boy? Baby looks like it’s been rolled through a rainbow mess. Our cat used to eat hers on the farm.” Then, “How about a pizza, boys? Celebrate.”

* * *

After each birth Dad and I would paint one of the B’s rooms as a Christian gesture. Green for James, yellow for Jack, for the twins, Martha and Mary, we painted the bathroom, custom color trim: pink and purple. Dad sat on the stool, dipped his head for a view under the vanity. “There,” he pointed, his voice firm, a sound that subdued; “Get your brush, take care of that holiday.”

“Nothing like Catholic rhythm to keep the house in shape,” Mr. B. mused the day after Allison, number ten, was delivered C-section.

* * *
We’re eating fish, pink trout that stares past me at some crack in the wall, and rolls, pastry white. The centerpiece dish is a pastel mix of after-dinner mints; lavender, olive, an exotic shade of burgundy. “Your father was so good with colors,” she says with a schoolgirl sigh; “Maybe we should paint the bedroom blue. Or Violet. The Virgin of Chartre loved violet, such a fluid color.

My water suddenly looks dirty. Like a gravy, fear spreads across my plate. Mr. B chokes down each bite as I try not to picture what slides down that gutted canal. “Do you—” He wants to speak, tries to squeeze air into the sliced and mangled words. Mrs. B. rests her fork, tines down, hands ready to pantomime.

“Go ahead, hon, I’ll help.” He swats at her with his bib, once, twice. She persists. “Do you, do you have, oh, he must be asking if you have any children—” The China plates bounce, silverware rattles as his fist hammers the table. Picking mints from the floor, me kneeling next to her, Mrs. B. stares at each mint, admiring the color, stops humming long enough to ask, “So, how are Paul and Jack and Peter and—”

* * *
Carl’s bedroom smells stale, and dead moths are three rows high on the sills. Above the dresser, a crucifix adorned with withered palm fronds. Carl’s handmade clash clay ashtray from 6th grade is filled with pennies, buttons, and coupons torn from Chesterfield wrappers. It totters unevenly on his carved initials. There’s a picture of our championship softball team taped to the mirror. It’s curling at the corners. Maybe that’s when the depression set in. He’s standing next to me, already three inches taller. He might have hit six-three, six-four. With a screwdriver, I pop a gallon of paint, inhale deeply the creamy factory aroma laced with a hint of oil.

As I bend to dip my brush, Mrs. B. tip-toes in as if afraid she’ll wake someone. Draped in a black kimono, her trailing gold scarf flutters as she swoops, hovers. Her blood red fingernails dig at my elbow and she whispers, “White. Just paint it all white.”

 

Ed McManis’ work has appeared in more than 80 publications. He, along with his wife, Linda, have published esteemed author Joanne Greenberg’s (I Never Promised You a Rose Garden) memoir, “On The Run”. Little known trivia fact: he holds the outdoor free-throw record at Camp Santa Maria: 67 in a row.