"Fitch-Imprints" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fitch Marina)

MARINA FITCH

IMPRINTS


"Would you like to see the cottage?" I asked, then winced. No way the milky-eyed
woman across from me was going to see anything. "Sorry, I didn't --"

"It's all right, dear." Mrs. Grady smiled. She adjusted her upturned face so
that for a moment I thought I must be wrong and she could see. "I'd love to.
Your home has a real warmth. And it smells wonderful. Lavender, isn't it? And
lemon?"

I nodded, then caught myself. "Yes. Lemon wax."

I'd polished the furniture that morning, to impress potential tenants. I glanced
at my living room. The walnut coffee table gleamed, the periwinkle sofa was
remarkably toy-free, the books in the dark bookshelves stood at attention, the
glass hutch winked with the afternoon light. A bowl of dried lavender perched on
the coffee table next to Mrs. Grady. I repressed a sigh. At least she could
smell my good intentions.

But a blind tenant...what were the liabilities? The risks? Would she bum the
place down trying to cook? Break a leg tripping over my seven-year-old's
bicycle?

Well, no harm in showing her the place ....

I rose. "The cottage is in the back."

But Mrs. Grady didn't stand. She leaned over and pulled her immense canvas bag
closer, resting it against her leg. She reached in and pulled out a lap desk,
then stirred the contents of the bag. Soft clunks and thumps accompanied her
search. She fished out several blocks of wood of various sizes. Nesting the
blocks between the desk and her stomach, she felt along the side of the bag for
a flap. She withdrew a sheet of white paper and set it on the desk.

"Now where did I...?" she murmured. "Oh, yes. Of course."

She reached into the pocket of her flowing green jacket and produced a black ink
pad. She opened it, setting it on the corner of the desk.

I lowered myself onto my chair.

And watched as the blind woman selected a block, then turned it over to ink the
rubber attached to the bottom. With great care, she stamped out a picture.

I scooted closer. A scene appeared: a California ranch house with a small
cottage behind, both enclosed by a picket fence laced with roses; stepping
stones leading from house to cottage; flowers; three birch trees. I held my
breath. My house, my yard --

Mrs. Grady stamped a woman in jeans with her hands on her hips. Me.

"How did you -- ?" I clamped my mouth shut. "Were you born blind, Mrs. Grady?"

"Hmm? Oh, no. I lost sight when I was five." Her fingers crept over the page,
smearing the last image stamped, a birch tree. She frowned, gazing sightlessly
at the hutch. "There's something missing," she said. She rummaged through her
canvas bag. "There!" she said, fishing out another wooden block.

Mrs. Grady inked the stamp, then slapped the image on the paper. A little girl
appeared in front of the woman, her head cocked defiantly.

Just then the front door banged open. Andrea streaked past, flinging her books
at the couch before careening toward the kitchen. "Mom, I'm home!" she called.

"Whoa! What was --" I began, then decided to forego our usual ritual. "Andrea,
come here, Pumpkin," I said. "I want you to meet someone."

She came-- half-eaten snickerdoodle in hand. I gave her my best stink eye.
"Andrea, what did we talk about?" I said, trying to keep my voice even. Hard to
do, with my throat tightening around the words. "You can have fruit, carrots, or
crackers after school. No cookies."

She popped the rest of the snickerdoodle in her mouth.

"Well, I guess there'll be no more cookies in this house for the next two
weeks," I said.

Andrea shrugged.

I counted five. It was just a cookie. "Mrs. Grady, this is my daughter, Andrea."

Mrs. Grady touched the little girl stamp. She smiled. "Hello, Andrea. A pleasure
to meet you."

"Hi," Andrea said. She peeked at the picture on Mrs. Grady's desk,

then knelt beside her. "Wow. Did you do this?"Mrs. Grady chuckled. "Yes, I did."

"But -- "Andrea's eyes grew wide. She looked at me.

"Don't be afraid to ask me anything, child," Mrs. Grady said. "But what?"

"But you can't see, can you? How did you know where to put everything?" Andrea
leaned closer. "Do you have a dog?" she whispered. "More says we have to wait,
but if you have one .... "

"No," Mrs. Grady said, touching her forehead to Andrea's. "I haven't really
needed one. Do you think I should get a dog?"

"Everybody should have a dog," Andrea said gravely.

Mrs. Grady nodded, a hint of smile twitching the comer of her mouth. She pulled
a stamp from her jacket pocket, inked it and pressed it to the paper. A face
peered out of the cottage window. Hers.

My qualms about her winked out -- disappeared -- like a star falling.

The next day I came home from the office to find a crumpled scrap outside the
front gate. I opened the paper, smoothing it. The picture, done with stamps and
colored markers, showed a moving van pulling out of my driveway. Mrs. Grady's
smiling face appeared in the cottage window.

I unlocked my front door, then peeked at the cottage. Mrs. Grady's silhouette:
glided past the little windows. Busy arranging things no doubt. After I got
dinner started, I'd see if she'd like to join us for supper.

If she'd like to join me, at any rate. Andrea was at Brownies. Jenna's more,
Linda, usually dropped her off around five, but sometimes Linda invited Andrea
to dinner. Tom, Jenna's dad, would be there. Good. The more time Andrea spent
with an intact nuclear family, the better. The more time. she spent with a
father figure, the better ....

While the corn chowder simmered on the stove, I returned to the sliding glass
door. The sun set. No lights went on in the cottage. Mrs. Grady's shadow fused
with the dusk.

At ten after five, Andrea burst into the house, a sheaf of papers in her hand.
The papers skimmed the coffee table, her sweater rocketed over the sofa, one
shoe rolled under the hutch. "More, I'm home!"

I opened my arms wide and intercepted her. "Whoa! What was that?" I said,
reciting my part of the ritual.

She pressed against me. "A fruit bat!"

A fruit bat -- she'd never been a fruit bat before. I hugged her and let her go.
"Good thing I bought bananas," I said. "After you put your things away, I'd like
you to ask Mrs. Grady to join us for dinner. It'll be ready in twenty minutes."

"Okay," she said. She gathered everything m except the shoe under the hutch--and
tossed it in her room. I shook my head. I hoped Mrs. Grady liked fruit bats.

Apparently she did. I had to fetch tenant and daughter forty minutes later.

Light glowed in the cottage windows. The door swung open at my knock.

The cottage had been transformed. A four-room mother-in-law unit, it boasted a
full bath, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room. Most tenants set up a small
table in the living room, along with entertainment center, sofa, and coffee
table. Mrs. Grady had set up a large butcher block table, four chairs, a canning
cupboard, and shelves, lots of shallow, narrow shelves. They stretched from
floor to ceiling, covering every inch of wall space in the living room. Two of
the shelves folded open in a triptych. Through the open bedroom door, more
shelves were visible. All empty.

So far. Boxes covered the floor, each overflowing with rubber stamps.

"Hi, Mom," Andrea said, sorting through a box. She picked out a stamp of a dog
with a lobster clipped to its tail. "This one's great," she said.

Mrs. Grady held out her hand. Andrea set the stamp on her palm. Mrs. Grady ran
her fingers over the rubber. A smile dimpled her cheeks. "Oh, yes. I was in a
silly mood when I bought that one." She twisted a little, facing me. "Is it time
for dinner, dear? I so lose track of time when I'm with my stamps."

"More soup, Mrs. Grady?" I asked, reaching for her bowl.

Mrs. Grady sighed. "Oh, land, another bite and I'll burst. Thank you, dear. What
a wonderful welcome!"

"And now dessert," Andrea said, eyeing me hopefully. "Mom makes the best
snickerdoodles in the whole world."

"Remember what happened yesterday?" I said.

Andrea's face crumpled. She pushed herself to her feet and began gathering
silverware and bowls. She stopped at the kitchen door. "Fruit bats need lots of
sugar," she said.

"Not when they sneak it without asking," I said. That funny knot formed in my
throat. I tried to ignore it. "Any homework?"

Andrea returned to gather the last of the dishes. She shuffled around the table,
head drooping. I knew what she was doing, but it doubled the knot in my throat
anyway. "I have to think up three questions for the bat lady," she said. Her
voice was a woeful hush. She dragged an unused knife from the table, then
plodded toward the kitchen. "Ms. Richter says we're getting pictures of our
fruit bat soon."

"Her class adopted a fruit bat," I explained to Mrs. Grady.

"She's a lovely child," Mrs. Grady said.

I wadded and unwadded my napkin. "Yes, she is. I just wish .... "

"You just wish you could give her more," Mrs. Grady said.

"Yes, I do," I said. And I caved in. "Andrea, Pumpkin, why don't you put some
snickerdoodles on a plate and bring them out for Mrs. Grady. And one for
yourself. But remember -- no more sweets after school."

When Andrea returned with the plate of cookies, she rewarded me with a huge
smile -- a huge, smug smile. I gave her a warning look, then patted her bottom.
"Homework," I said.

Mrs. Grady and I sat quietly after she left. Then I cleared my throat and pushed
the snickerdoodles closer to Mrs. Grady. "Cookie?" I offered.

Mrs. Grady took one. She tilted her head, a thoughtful look on her face. "What
more do you want for her?" she asked. "What's missing?"

I sighed. "Nothing much, just a father. Greg died when she was a year old. Which
means she misses out on all the father-daughter stuff, being the apple of some
man's eye. I give her all the love I can, but father-daughter bonds .... "

I pressed my lips together. "It's hard on her. Even the kids from divorced
families get to see Dad. And some days are harder than others. The school just
had a father-daughter dinner. Her friends kept griping about 'having to go to
that thing with Dad.' She would have loved to feel put out."

"Has she asked you for a father?" Mrs. Grady held the snickerdoodle in both
hands. "You have dated?"

"Oh, I've dated." I made a face, thinking about the last one. "Barney with a
wig," that's what Andrea called Jared, which wasn't exactly true. He was
artificially sweet -- cloying -- but he wasn't purple.

I reached for a cookie, snapped it in half. "Andrea says she doesn't want any
dad, she wants the right dad. Which is fine with me. So, since I won't be giving
her a dad anytime soon, I try to be more of a friend to her. I try to see things
her way, cut her a little more slack. It seems only fair."

Mrs. Grady nodded, her milky eyes conveying a vast distance. Even her voice
sounded far away. "Is it?" she asked.

I stood by the walnut coffee table and sorted the mail. Bills for Andrea and me
-- I tossed those on the coffee table. A small package bearing a change of
address sticker for Mrs. Grady. I smiled at the return address. Rubberstilzkin
....

"Mom, I'm home!" Andrea called, hurling her books at the couch before dashing to
the kitchen.

I tossed another bill on the coffee table. "Whoa! What was that?"

"A herd of turtles!" Andrea said, reappearing with an apple in her hand.

The phone rang. Andrea backed into the sofa and sat on her math book.

I studied her, letting the phone ring twice more. Then I went to the dining room
to answer it. "Hello?" I said.

"Hello, Ms. Hill?" a harried voice said. "This is Ms. Richter, Andrea's
teacher?"

I moved to the left so I could see Andrea. She dropped her gaze, staring at her
knees. "This is Carolyn Hill," I said. "What can I do for you, Ms. Richter?"

"Andrea's been acting out in class again," Ms. Richter said. "Today she decided
she wasn't interested in our math lesson so she left the classroom. My aide
found her two blocks from the school, sitting on a bench waiting for a transit
bus. With the photo of our adopted fruit bat."

"I see," I said. Andrea peeked at me. I gave her stink eye. She looked away.

"I don't think you do," Ms. Richter said. "She cut the photo from the bulletin
board with a pocketknife. Did you know she had a pocketknife?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "It was her father's. She's not supposed to
have it at school."

"Well it's here. You need to keep better track of it. We haven't got funding for
a metal detector."

Ms. Richter and I talked about the problem for a few minutes, then I hung up. I
walked into the living room. "Where is your father's pocketknife?"

"Ms. Richter took it," Andrea whispered.

"Good," I said. "I think we'll let her keep it for a while. Care to explain why
you left class today?"

Andrea squirmed in place, grinding the math book into the sofa. "We were doing
division again and I know division --"

"Not an excuse. When you're in class, you do as the teacher tells you-"

"But Ms. Richter was reviewing it for the dummies and I already know-"

"A little review won't hurt you. And I don't ever want to hear you call anyone a
dummy again. Understand?"

She kicked the coffee table leg. "Yes."

"Good." I rolled the tension from my shoulders, glad to be done with the whole
thing. "I'll be right back. I'm going to take Mrs. Grady her mail."

Andrea's eyes lit up. "Can I take it?"

She'd been over there every day this week .... "Not this time," I said.
"Besides, I hear you've got some math to catch up on."

"But Mom --" "Just do it," I said.

She tilted her chin and gave me her best stink eye -- only a tenth as effective
as mine, but coming along nicely. "Needs work," I said. "I'll be back in a
minute."

I hadn't been to the cottage since Mrs. Grady moved in the week before. "Hello,
Carolyn," Mrs. Grady said, answering my knock. "I was expecting Andrea. She's
not ill?"

"No, she's doing her home -- " I stopped. An exhibition of tiny pictures covered
the walls. Across from me were plants -- trees, flowers, grasses, leaves, vines,
even cacti. Mixed in were stones and fences, ponds and bridges, road signs --
all the stuff of landscapes. A portrait gallery graced the wall next to the
plants. Eleanor Roosevelt grinned at me; Beethoven glared.

I shook my head. "I've never seen so many rubber stamps."

Mrs. Grady backed into the cottage, gesturing for me to follow. "And you won't
see half of them if you don't come in."

There were animals (a tiger crouching, a frog in Edwardian finery), birds (a
flock of flamingoes, a pelican with an eye patch), bugs (an ant carrying an
invisible load, two flies sitting down to breakfast), and things, all kinds of
things. Cars and planes, cooking utensils, computers, musical instruments, a
fire hydrant ....

"You could create an entire world," I said.

Mrs. Grady walked over to the animals and brushed the wooden blocks with her
fingers. She chose one, then handed it to me. "It's been done," she said.

I looked down at the stamp. A tabby cat held the Earth between its paws.

Mrs. Grady giggled. Her cheeks pinked like a child's. "When I'm feeling
irreverent," she whispered, "I call it the God stamp."

"Well," I said, touching her hand with the package, "I hope you have room for
more."

"Always room for more," she said with relish. She took a pair of scissors from
the canning cupboard and opened the package. "Oh, good," she said, pulling out
two stamps. She felt the robber, then set the stamps on the table: two birds
practicing handwriting and a man with an umbrella being blown away.

I glanced at the table. Three plastic stack trays stood in one comer, the middle
one completely empty, the top one overflowing. The bottom tray held one sheet of
paper. More paper scattered across the desk, each page covered with stamped
impressions. On one, a little girl jumped over and over, stamped in a bouquet of
colors. I touched a magenta girl --

"Would you like to do a picture?" Mrs. Grady said.

"No, I -- maybe some other time."

"Andrea's done quite a few already," Mrs. Grady said, reaching for the stack in
the top tray. "But she's only completed one." She set the papers in front of me.

Andrea's "pictures" were largely experiments. On several she had stamped images
at random as if curious to see how they really looked. Smearing marred many of
the images, grid-like framing haunted others. She tended toward animals and
toys-- a red wagon had been repeated over and over on one page -- with two pages
devoted to dogs. Newfoundlands, boxers, fox terriers, retrievers, every dog
imaginable. It seemed Mrs. Grady had an inexhaustible supply of canines.

Mrs. Grady handed me the last three sheets. Suddenly the "pictures" became
pictures. Or, I should say, the same picture...with variations.

Andrea had followed Mrs. Grady's lead and stamped out our house and yard. She
had used most of the same stamps, but instead of the petulant little girl she
had substituted a girl holding a stick above her head.

And she had added a dog. Three different dogs. A collie romped in the first
picture, a daschund gamboled in the second, a mastiff drooled in the third.

I touched the little girl. Laughing, the gift brandished the stick, leaning back
slightly as if the dog might jump on her to get at the prize. My heart ached.
She'd wanted a dog for so long. I'd promised her, many times, that when she was
old enough, we'd get one. A medium one. No barking rats and no goliaths. I
pressed my fingers to the tiny, printed face. "Oh, Pumpkin," I whispered.

Then Mrs. Grady handed me the picture from the bottom tray. It was the same
picture, but this time a golden retriever sported with the girl while a woman
watched, smiling. The picture had been done in colored inks, everything
carefully tinted with markers and color pencils.

"She asked me to stamp out the house and yard," Mrs. Grady said, brushing her
fingers across the page. "But I told her, no, all of it had to come from her."
She turned those milky eyes on me. "Just as it must come from you. dear."

I tapped the picture. "Can I -- may I keep this?"

Mrs. Grady took the picture and slid it into the bottom tray. "Not this one,"
she said. "It needs to sit in the tray just a bit longer. And you, what do you
want? What will you stamp?"

I straightened and looked around the room. Images crowded around me like
expectant children. I shook my head, overwhelmed. "I don't know," I said.
"There's too much to choose from."

"It's not too much, dear," Mrs. Grady said. "It's choice. Don't be afraid to
make the wrong choice. The right choice will find you." She scrunched her nose
at me, a kind of conspiratorial wink. "And in the meantime, experiment. Have
fun."

I rubbed the back of my neck and fumbled open the gate. I had just enough time
to take a quick shower before Andrea got home --

The golden retriever bounded to meet me. I stepped back. The dog danced around
me, barking and wagging his tail. I patted his head.

"Where did you come from?" I said, then glanced at the cottage.

The door opened and Mrs. Grady stepped out, my surprise mirrored in her face.
"Did you get a dog, dear?" she said.

"I don't know," I said. "I mean, he was just here."

"Oh, my land!" Mrs. Grady gasped. "It's never happened this quickly before. Not
with other people's pictures. I only put it in the tray two days ago. Must be
those new inks .... "

The dog licked my hand. "He's probably lost," I said, stroking one of his ears.
My fingers brushed a collar. "Here. He's got tags. This'll tell us where he
belongs."

I squatted beside the golden retriever, choking on his breath. His tags jangled
as I sorted through them -- rabies, license, ID. I turned the ID tag toward me.
"Here we go," I said. "His name is Chester and he lives at --" I looked up at
Mrs. Grady. "He lives here. Mrs. Grady, you didn't...?"

Mrs. Grady sniffed. "Certainly not, dear. Not without asking you."

I stood. "Well, he's licensed. I'm going to call the SPCA."

Chester followed me to the house and flopped in the flower bed beside the step.
Only it was no longer a flower bed. The marguerites I had planted there years
ago had disappeared, replaced by a worn, Chester-sized furrow. Two ceramic
dishes butted up against the step, one empty and coated with brown meal, the
other mineral-crusted and half full of water.

I stared at the dishes, then at Chester. Chester grinned, tongue draped between
his lower teeth. "Don't go anywhere," I said, and hurried into the house.

I returned minutes later, stunned. I sat on the bottom step next to Chester. He
put his head in my lap.

Mrs. Grady opened her door. "Well?" she said, but I could tell she already knew.

"He's ours," I said. "I don't know how --"

Andrea squealed and clambered over the gate. Chester snapped up a stick and ran
to meet her. Dropping it at her feet, he barked.

Andrea fell to her knees and threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, More!" she
said, burrowing her face into the retriever's feathery fur. "Where did you find
him? Can I name him?"

I held my breath. "What do you want to call him?"

Andrea touched her nose to the dog's. "Chester."

I breathed out. "Good thing," I said.

That Friday afternoon I went to the cottage to invite Mrs. Grady to dinner.
Andrea -- and Chester -- had been invited to spend the night at Jenna's. Andrea
would also be spending Sunday at the Boardwalk with Jenna's family. I wondered
if, maybe, it wasn't too much. But Tom had offered to include her ....

I glanced at the darkened cottage windows. Steam coated the glass, turning the
windows opaque. I rapped at the door. "Mrs. Grady?" I called.

The door opened. The scent of roast chicken spilled from the cottage. Mrs. Grady
leaned out, her cheeks oven-warmed to a deep rose. "You must be psychic, dear,"
she said. "I was just about to come invite you to dinner. Chicken and broccoli.
And salad. I love those new salad mixes."

I laughed. "I was coming over to invite you."

"Have you started cooking yet?" she said.

"No, not yet."

"Then I win!" She backed into the cottage, gesturing broadly. "Come in, come in!
It's almost ready. If you wouldn't mind straightening the table .... "

"Not at all." I switched on the light and went to the table. Two layers of paper
matted the surface. I looked around for Mrs. Grady. She'd disappeared. "Where
should I put the pictures?" I shouted.

"In the top tray, dear," she called from the kitchen. "They're all Andrea's."

I gathered the papers, curious to see what Andrea had come up with this time.
She had done the yard again, with the golden retriever and the girl playing, and
the mother looking on, but this time a man stood next to the mother. She had
stamped this picture several times, using different men just as she had used
different dogs earlier. She had used a cowboy, a man in a tuxedo, a man in
snorkeling gear, and Michelangelo's David. In one, the mother was talking to a
generic superhero. I set the pictures in the top tray and picked up the last
one.

A little girl and her mother stood in the middle of the page, fenced in by the
picket and climbing rose stamp. The pickets pointed to the edges of the paper,
as if they had been laid on the ground. The little girl looked scared .....

I shivered.

Mrs. Grady came in with two plates loaded with silverware. "Dinner's almost
ready," she said, setting the dishes on the table. "Did you see Andrea's
drawings?"

I set the picture in the tray. "Yes. It looks like she's auditioning dads."

Mrs. Grady chuckled, wiping her hands on her apron. "It does, doesn't it? She
said she just wanted to 'try it on,' see how it felt." Mrs. Grady's chuckle
settled into a smile. "And she liked it well enough to try it on several times.
But the last one -- that's the important one."

"The one where she's fenced in? Trapped?" I chafed my arms. "That's not what I
want for her."

Mrs. Grady tilted her head. "Oh? Well, there's nothing to stop you from stamping
what you want after dinner."

"No, no, no," Mrs. Grady said, taking the dirty plates from my hands. "You just
sit here and stamp. I'll do the dishes." She arched her eyebrows at my intake of
breath. "No protests. I insist. It's what I want."

"I'd be happy --"

"You can wipe the table down, that's what you can do. Then go pick out some
stamps. Paper, ink, all that stuff is in the canning cupboard."

So I wiped down the table. Then I approached the shelves. So many images. I
scanned each section, drawn to some stamps, amused by others. I kept coming back
to one in particular: a garden gate, slightly ajar. I picked it up three times,
carried it around, then put it back.

I ignored the picket and rose stamp. The scared girl's eyes pleaded with me
whenever I walked past her shelf. I turned her around so that the rubber faced
out.

I concentrated on Andrea, then went around the room gathering the "everything" I
wanted for her: a computer, a college degree, books, toys, food, people --
everything and anything I could think of. I added several heart stamps for love.
I passed over the gate several times. Finally, I took it to the table.

First I stamped a little girl surrounded by mountains of people and things. I
frowned. Something wasn't right. I stamped out a different version.. Still off.
I did two, three more, adding or subtracting elements. In one, people and hearts
crowded the girl. In another, the people stood on one side of her, the things
mounded on the other. In the last, hearts circled everything. I sat back, a lacy
heart stamp in my hand, inked and ready.

Was this really what I wanted for Andrea? Possessions? I mean, I wanted her to
be comfortable. Friends? Of course, but Andrea already knew how to make and keep
friends. Accomplishments? Well, yes. And love, although she already had that in
plenty. But something was missing --

Mrs. Grady set two mugs of peppermint tea on the table. She sat down, pulling
one of the mugs into her hands. She held it, her fingers fencing it in.

I stared at her hands and thought about Andrea's picket fence. I didn't want
Andrea to feel restricted, I didn't want her to feel limited -- not by me, not
by the father she never knew, not by anything. I wanted her to be free.

I reached for the fuschia ink pad and stamped the silhouette of a little girl
jumping, arms flung wide, in the middle of the page, with nothing around her to
confine or frighten her. Then I sat back. "That's it," I said, reaching for the
tea.

But it wasn't, I could feel it.

Mrs. Grady set down her mug and collected my pictures. She ran her fingertips
over each one. She nodded and clucked -- until she came to the girl jumping.
Sweeping her hand across the page, she frowned, then swept the picture with her
open palm. "Which stamps did you use on this one?" she said.

I handed her the stamp of the girl jumping.

She felt the rubber, the ink staining her fingers. She murmured, then set the
papers in the middle tray. "These aren't finished. Maybe next time --"

I retrieved the drawing of Andrea free. "What about this one?" I asked.

Mrs. Grady touched it. Her lips pursed. "Are you sure?"

Doubt crept through me. "I think so."

She hesitated. "We can try it, dear," she said, placing the drawing in the
bottom tray. "We can always remove it."

Sunday morning I walked to the corner market for a newspaper. As I walked the
block and a half home, my thoughts kept returning to Andrea's picture and mine.
Since Friday night, my doubts about both pictures had grown. I opened the front
door, mulling the whole thing over on the way to the kitchen. Maybe I should do
another picture, a different one --

I froze. Andrea sat on the kitchen floor, crumbs dribbling from her chipmunked
cheeks, a large French knife in her hand. Five broken cookies dotted the
linoleum like cow pies. Chester nosed one away from Andrea's foot and ate it.
Andrea raised the knife, its wide, triangular blade gleaming, then brought it
down with a slash. A cookie exploded in two. A deep scar rent the linoleum. It
was not the first. Andrea raised the knife again --

I grabbed her wrist. "What are you doing?" I roared.

Chester darted for cover under the kitchen table.

Andrea jerked upright, chewed once and swallowed. Her voice escaped in a
crumb-clogged mumble. "Chester and I were hungry."

I pried the knife from her hand and set it on the counter. "You are not to play
with that knife. You are never to play with that knife. Or any other knife."

Andrea pulled away, gaze fixed on me. "But the cookies were too big. Chester'
was eating them too fast --"

I jerked her to her feet. '"And that's another thing. The dog does not eat
cookies or any other people food --"

Someone knocked on the front door. "Yo! Anybody home?"

I stiffened. Jenna's dad, Tom, coming to take Andrea to the Boardwalk.

I looked at Andrea. Her eyes pleaded with me. This acting out, as Ms. Richter
called it, was getting worse. Leaving school, playing with knives...I glanced at
the gashed and curling linoleum. A line had to be drawn somewhere --

But she'd been looking forward to the Boardwalk all week, counting the days till
Sunday. She'd get to spend the day with Jenna and Tom, with a father, maybe not
her own father, but a father. The one thing I couldn't give her ....

"Hello?" Tom called. "Carolyn? Andrea?"

My shoulders sagged. "Go on," I said. "Don't forget your sweatshirt. We'll talk
about this later."

Andrea nodded, then bolted for the door.

There would be no talk later. We both knew that.

The next day at work I got another call from the school.

"There's been an accident," Mr. Harbin said.

"Dear God." My stomach shrank to a cold, hard fist. "Is Andrea okay?"

The principal's voice grew crisp. "I wouldn't say that."

The knot in my stomach cinched tighter and tighter as he explained. Andrea had
taken the French knife to school. A boy in her class, Kirby March, saw it in her
backpack and asked to see it. Andrea told him to wait till lunch, then the two
of them crossed the field to the pepper tree where no one could see them. They
hacked at the tree's knobby bark, then decided to climb to the lowest branch and
see if they could saw off a limb. Andrea climbed up first, the knife between her
teeth. The yard duty teacher spotted her and shouted. Andrea took the knife from
her mouth to answer, then slipped and fell. The knife tumbled from her hand --

My heart pounded. Not her arm, not her face, I prayed.

-- slicing through Kirby's sneaker, lopping off two toes.

My stomach unknotted. Guilt tainted my relief.

"Andrea says the knife is hers," Mr. Harbin said.

"No -- it's -- no," I stammered. "My God, what kind of idiot do you think I am?
She's seven years old! Nobody hands a seven-year-old a knife!"

"I thought she might be exaggerating," Mr. Harbin said. The brittleness left his
voice, replaced by a more patronizing tone. "Ms. Hill, I've talked to Ms.
Richter and the school psychologist about Andrea's recent fascination with
knives. We've decided not to contact CPS at this time ...."

I lowered my head to my fist. Child Protective Services. Dear God.

"...upset right now," Mr. Harbin concluded. "I'd like you to pick her up as soon
as possible." He paused. "Ms. Hill?"

I had to clear my throat twice. "I'm coming," I said.

Andrea cried the entire trip home. "He almost died!" she wailed. "No, Pumpkin,
he didn't," I said, pulling into the driveway. I was caught between an urge to
scold and a desire to comfort. Andrea needed both. "Kirby lost his toes, but he
didn't almost die."

Andrea's sobs doubled. I switched off the ignition and pulled her into my arms.
"Andrea," I said, "someone got hurt very badly. Someone could have died. But
they didn't.

"She calmed a little.

"You need to learn from this," I said. I tipped her face to mine. "Did you? What
did you learn?"

"Not to -- not to take- knives to school." She sniffed. "Mom? Can I call Kirby
and tell him I'm sorry?"

I hugged her. "Of course, you can. Think, maybe, you should apologize to his
parents, too?"

She went rigid and pulled away, shaking her head. Terror widened her eyes.

I sighed. "All right," I said, ruffling Andrea's hair. "I'll do it. Come on.
We've got a call to make." I opened the front gate. "Why did you take the knife
to school, Pumpkin?"

She sniffed. "'Cause I wanted to feel safe."

I stopped, my mind filled with the image of a girl and her mother in an enclosed
yard. Not enclosed as in trapped. Enclosed as in safe.

I gripped one of the pickets to steady myself. "You go on ahead, Pumpkin. I need
to talk to Mrs. Grady."

Andrea nodded and sculled her way to the house. I followed the stepping stones
to the cottage. Mrs. Grady met me at the door. "Is something wrong, dear?" she
said. "You're home so early."

"Can you -- " I held my breath. "Would you take my picture out of the bottom
tray?"

Relief softened her features. "Certainly, dear."

"Thanks," I said. "I'll explain later."

"No need to explain," Mrs. Grady said. "Just come by tomorrow."

I went straight to Mrs. Grady's after work the next day. It was Brownie day.
Andrea wouldn't be home till five. Chester followed me to the cottage, yapping
and bouncing, his body wriggling with each wag of his tail.

Mrs. Grady opened the door before I knocked. "There you are!" she said. "I've
been expecting you. Ready to do another drawing?"

My cheeks warmed. "Yes. Yes, I am."

Mrs. Grady nodded once. "Good. Andrea was quite put out when I refused to slip
her latest picture into the bottom tray. I told her we needed to wait for you."

I stared at her. "What? When?"

"Sunday. After she carne home from the Boardwalk." Mrs. Grady opened the door
wide, ushering Chester and me inside. Chester scrabbled at Mrs. Grady's feet,
licking her ankles. Mrs. Grady bent to pet him. "You little scamp. Would you
like a dog biscuit? Hmm?"

I took a deep breath. "Would it be all right -- may I see Andrea's drawing?"

Mrs. Grady straightened. "No," she said. "You may not." She clucked at Chester.
"Let's go in the kitchen, Chester, and whip up a little something for dinner.
Wouldn't want everyone to go hungry. Oh, and, Carolyn? Remember to use the
stamps you're drawn to, dear."

I went to the shelves to find the garden gate.

Mrs. Grady opened the cottage door. She clucked to Chester, then the two of them
went outside. "Andrea, honey, your mother's inside,"she called. "Why don't you
show me the garden. Mmm, it smells like Spring!"

My own stamped garden glowed with Spring -- with vibrant marker inks and the
soft shading of color pencils. I reached for a tube of iridescent glitter glue
and added dew drops to the roses, then sat back to consider my finished drawing.

A picket fence with climbing roses enclosed a grassy field. Unlike Andrea's
fence, mine had a garden gate, slightly ajar. Monsters crowded outside the fence
at the left end of the enclosure, while inside a mother and daughter held hands.
Fewer monsters crowded outside the fence toward the middle. Here the mother and
daughter, older now, walked together but separate. At the right end of the page,
one lone monster waited outside the fence, a bulbous creature with a silly
smile. The mother stood on the inside of the gate and waved. Her daughter, a
young woman, waved from outside the gate.

I touched one of the roses. Glitter came away on my finger.

Two sets of footsteps stomped in place outside the cottage door. "It is getting
chilly!" Mrs. Grady said. "Let's see if your mother's done."

The door opened. Andrea wriggled past Mrs. Grady and launched herself at me.
"Mom, I'm home!" she said, burrowing into my arms. Her nose pressed against my
bare arm, cold as a dime in January.

"Whoa!" I said. "What was that?"

Andrea giggled. "A hungry person!"

"Two hungry people," Mrs. Grady said. "Did you finish, dear?"

"Just 'rarely," I said. "But I'm not sure how it's going to work."

Mrs. Grady walked over to the table. Her fingers skimmed the drawing. A smile
bloomed on her face. She drew her hand away, her fingertips sparkling with
glitter as if she'd touched magic. "Somewhere inside, you know," she said, "or
you couldn't have done this."

She slid the drawing into the bottom tray along with one of Andrea's.

The next day, I sat on the couch with the mail in my lap, separating the bills
from the junk mail. The door flew open and Andrea rocketed into the living room.
Her arm shot out, then recoiled -- without tossing her books at the sofa. "Mom,
I'm home!" she called, disappearing into the kitchen.

"Whoa!" I said, dropping a bill on the coffee table. "What was that?"

"A White's tree frog!"

I looked up, then shook my head. A tree frog. I finished sorting the wheat from
the chaff and tossed the chaff away. I took the bills to the kitchen --

And caught Andrea sneaking two macaroons.

"That's it," I said, extending my hand. "No more cookies for a week."

Andrea pretended to be contrite. She handed me the cookies.

I opened a drawer and pulled out a plastic vegetable bag. Dropping the macaroons
in the bag, I reached for the cookie jar and emptied it into the bag. Then I
left the kitchen, headed for Mrs. Grady's.

Andrea trailed after me, mouth agape. "Mom?"

I knocked at the cottage door. Mrs. Grady opened it. "Hello, dear," she said.
"Mmm, something smells good .... "

I set the bag in her hands. "We won't be eating cookies at our house for the
next week. I was wondering if you'd like some macaroons."

"Oh, I love macaroons," Mrs. Grady said, dipping her hand in the bag.

"And please," I said, "don't give any to Andrea. She can't have any cookies till
next Wednesday."

Andrea's jaw dropped even more.

Mrs. Grady took a bite of macaroon and murmured. "Wonderful!" She nodded
solemnly. "No sweets for Andrea. I understand."

And suddenly, so did I. I wet my lips, then felt my own eyes widen. That
tightness in my throat...gone. So were the guilty arguments that usually filled
my head at moments like this. I hadn't even thought, I'd just acted --

I turned to Mrs. Grady. She beamed at me. "Come in," she said. "I'd like to show
you Andrea's drawing."

My hand shook as I accepted the paper. Andrea had repeated her picture of the
girl and her mother in the yard. But this time the little girl wasn't afraid.

Mrs. Grady and I developed our own ritual-- tea on Brownie day. One week Mrs.
Grady ushered me into the cottage, an amused smile just touching her lips.
"Andrea did another drawing yesterday," she said. "I think you should see it."

Sure enough, a new drawing rested in the bottom tray. I grasped the back of the
nearest chair. Excitement and apprehension tingled through me. Andrea had known
what we both needed the last time, but still, placing my life in the hands of a
seven-year-old ....

"What is this one about?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

Mrs. Grady grinned. "She's auditioning fathers again."

Placing my love life in the hands of a seven-year-old, I amended. "And who did
she choose? Not the superhero, I hope."

"No, not the superhero." Mrs. Grady took the drawing from the tray. "She did
something interesting. She couldn't decide, so she stamped several images on top
of each other. Watch for a snorkeler who owns a tuxedo, likes country western
music, and looks like Michelangelo's David."

"Not bad," I admitted, scanning the people shelf. "But I think I better stamp my
own version."

"Remember to use the stamps you're drawn to, dear," Mrs. Grady said.

I smiled. Just what I needed -- a guy who looked like a garden gate.




MARINA FITCH

IMPRINTS


"Would you like to see the cottage?" I asked, then winced. No way the milky-eyed
woman across from me was going to see anything. "Sorry, I didn't --"

"It's all right, dear." Mrs. Grady smiled. She adjusted her upturned face so
that for a moment I thought I must be wrong and she could see. "I'd love to.
Your home has a real warmth. And it smells wonderful. Lavender, isn't it? And
lemon?"

I nodded, then caught myself. "Yes. Lemon wax."

I'd polished the furniture that morning, to impress potential tenants. I glanced
at my living room. The walnut coffee table gleamed, the periwinkle sofa was
remarkably toy-free, the books in the dark bookshelves stood at attention, the
glass hutch winked with the afternoon light. A bowl of dried lavender perched on
the coffee table next to Mrs. Grady. I repressed a sigh. At least she could
smell my good intentions.

But a blind tenant...what were the liabilities? The risks? Would she bum the
place down trying to cook? Break a leg tripping over my seven-year-old's
bicycle?

Well, no harm in showing her the place ....

I rose. "The cottage is in the back."

But Mrs. Grady didn't stand. She leaned over and pulled her immense canvas bag
closer, resting it against her leg. She reached in and pulled out a lap desk,
then stirred the contents of the bag. Soft clunks and thumps accompanied her
search. She fished out several blocks of wood of various sizes. Nesting the
blocks between the desk and her stomach, she felt along the side of the bag for
a flap. She withdrew a sheet of white paper and set it on the desk.

"Now where did I...?" she murmured. "Oh, yes. Of course."

She reached into the pocket of her flowing green jacket and produced a black ink
pad. She opened it, setting it on the corner of the desk.

I lowered myself onto my chair.

And watched as the blind woman selected a block, then turned it over to ink the
rubber attached to the bottom. With great care, she stamped out a picture.

I scooted closer. A scene appeared: a California ranch house with a small
cottage behind, both enclosed by a picket fence laced with roses; stepping
stones leading from house to cottage; flowers; three birch trees. I held my
breath. My house, my yard --

Mrs. Grady stamped a woman in jeans with her hands on her hips. Me.

"How did you -- ?" I clamped my mouth shut. "Were you born blind, Mrs. Grady?"

"Hmm? Oh, no. I lost sight when I was five." Her fingers crept over the page,
smearing the last image stamped, a birch tree. She frowned, gazing sightlessly
at the hutch. "There's something missing," she said. She rummaged through her
canvas bag. "There!" she said, fishing out another wooden block.

Mrs. Grady inked the stamp, then slapped the image on the paper. A little girl
appeared in front of the woman, her head cocked defiantly.

Just then the front door banged open. Andrea streaked past, flinging her books
at the couch before careening toward the kitchen. "Mom, I'm home!" she called.

"Whoa! What was --" I began, then decided to forego our usual ritual. "Andrea,
come here, Pumpkin," I said. "I want you to meet someone."

She came-- half-eaten snickerdoodle in hand. I gave her my best stink eye.
"Andrea, what did we talk about?" I said, trying to keep my voice even. Hard to
do, with my throat tightening around the words. "You can have fruit, carrots, or
crackers after school. No cookies."

She popped the rest of the snickerdoodle in her mouth.

"Well, I guess there'll be no more cookies in this house for the next two
weeks," I said.

Andrea shrugged.

I counted five. It was just a cookie. "Mrs. Grady, this is my daughter, Andrea."

Mrs. Grady touched the little girl stamp. She smiled. "Hello, Andrea. A pleasure
to meet you."

"Hi," Andrea said. She peeked at the picture on Mrs. Grady's desk,

then knelt beside her. "Wow. Did you do this?"Mrs. Grady chuckled. "Yes, I did."

"But -- "Andrea's eyes grew wide. She looked at me.

"Don't be afraid to ask me anything, child," Mrs. Grady said. "But what?"

"But you can't see, can you? How did you know where to put everything?" Andrea
leaned closer. "Do you have a dog?" she whispered. "More says we have to wait,
but if you have one .... "

"No," Mrs. Grady said, touching her forehead to Andrea's. "I haven't really
needed one. Do you think I should get a dog?"

"Everybody should have a dog," Andrea said gravely.

Mrs. Grady nodded, a hint of smile twitching the comer of her mouth. She pulled
a stamp from her jacket pocket, inked it and pressed it to the paper. A face
peered out of the cottage window. Hers.

My qualms about her winked out -- disappeared -- like a star falling.

The next day I came home from the office to find a crumpled scrap outside the
front gate. I opened the paper, smoothing it. The picture, done with stamps and
colored markers, showed a moving van pulling out of my driveway. Mrs. Grady's
smiling face appeared in the cottage window.

I unlocked my front door, then peeked at the cottage. Mrs. Grady's silhouette:
glided past the little windows. Busy arranging things no doubt. After I got
dinner started, I'd see if she'd like to join us for supper.

If she'd like to join me, at any rate. Andrea was at Brownies. Jenna's more,
Linda, usually dropped her off around five, but sometimes Linda invited Andrea
to dinner. Tom, Jenna's dad, would be there. Good. The more time Andrea spent
with an intact nuclear family, the better. The more time. she spent with a
father figure, the better ....

While the corn chowder simmered on the stove, I returned to the sliding glass
door. The sun set. No lights went on in the cottage. Mrs. Grady's shadow fused
with the dusk.

At ten after five, Andrea burst into the house, a sheaf of papers in her hand.
The papers skimmed the coffee table, her sweater rocketed over the sofa, one
shoe rolled under the hutch. "More, I'm home!"

I opened my arms wide and intercepted her. "Whoa! What was that?" I said,
reciting my part of the ritual.

She pressed against me. "A fruit bat!"

A fruit bat -- she'd never been a fruit bat before. I hugged her and let her go.
"Good thing I bought bananas," I said. "After you put your things away, I'd like
you to ask Mrs. Grady to join us for dinner. It'll be ready in twenty minutes."

"Okay," she said. She gathered everything m except the shoe under the hutch--and
tossed it in her room. I shook my head. I hoped Mrs. Grady liked fruit bats.

Apparently she did. I had to fetch tenant and daughter forty minutes later.

Light glowed in the cottage windows. The door swung open at my knock.

The cottage had been transformed. A four-room mother-in-law unit, it boasted a
full bath, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room. Most tenants set up a small
table in the living room, along with entertainment center, sofa, and coffee
table. Mrs. Grady had set up a large butcher block table, four chairs, a canning
cupboard, and shelves, lots of shallow, narrow shelves. They stretched from
floor to ceiling, covering every inch of wall space in the living room. Two of
the shelves folded open in a triptych. Through the open bedroom door, more
shelves were visible. All empty.

So far. Boxes covered the floor, each overflowing with rubber stamps.

"Hi, Mom," Andrea said, sorting through a box. She picked out a stamp of a dog
with a lobster clipped to its tail. "This one's great," she said.

Mrs. Grady held out her hand. Andrea set the stamp on her palm. Mrs. Grady ran
her fingers over the rubber. A smile dimpled her cheeks. "Oh, yes. I was in a
silly mood when I bought that one." She twisted a little, facing me. "Is it time
for dinner, dear? I so lose track of time when I'm with my stamps."

"More soup, Mrs. Grady?" I asked, reaching for her bowl.

Mrs. Grady sighed. "Oh, land, another bite and I'll burst. Thank you, dear. What
a wonderful welcome!"

"And now dessert," Andrea said, eyeing me hopefully. "Mom makes the best
snickerdoodles in the whole world."

"Remember what happened yesterday?" I said.

Andrea's face crumpled. She pushed herself to her feet and began gathering
silverware and bowls. She stopped at the kitchen door. "Fruit bats need lots of
sugar," she said.

"Not when they sneak it without asking," I said. That funny knot formed in my
throat. I tried to ignore it. "Any homework?"

Andrea returned to gather the last of the dishes. She shuffled around the table,
head drooping. I knew what she was doing, but it doubled the knot in my throat
anyway. "I have to think up three questions for the bat lady," she said. Her
voice was a woeful hush. She dragged an unused knife from the table, then
plodded toward the kitchen. "Ms. Richter says we're getting pictures of our
fruit bat soon."

"Her class adopted a fruit bat," I explained to Mrs. Grady.

"She's a lovely child," Mrs. Grady said.

I wadded and unwadded my napkin. "Yes, she is. I just wish .... "

"You just wish you could give her more," Mrs. Grady said.

"Yes, I do," I said. And I caved in. "Andrea, Pumpkin, why don't you put some
snickerdoodles on a plate and bring them out for Mrs. Grady. And one for
yourself. But remember -- no more sweets after school."

When Andrea returned with the plate of cookies, she rewarded me with a huge
smile -- a huge, smug smile. I gave her a warning look, then patted her bottom.
"Homework," I said.

Mrs. Grady and I sat quietly after she left. Then I cleared my throat and pushed
the snickerdoodles closer to Mrs. Grady. "Cookie?" I offered.

Mrs. Grady took one. She tilted her head, a thoughtful look on her face. "What
more do you want for her?" she asked. "What's missing?"

I sighed. "Nothing much, just a father. Greg died when she was a year old. Which
means she misses out on all the father-daughter stuff, being the apple of some
man's eye. I give her all the love I can, but father-daughter bonds .... "

I pressed my lips together. "It's hard on her. Even the kids from divorced
families get to see Dad. And some days are harder than others. The school just
had a father-daughter dinner. Her friends kept griping about 'having to go to
that thing with Dad.' She would have loved to feel put out."

"Has she asked you for a father?" Mrs. Grady held the snickerdoodle in both
hands. "You have dated?"

"Oh, I've dated." I made a face, thinking about the last one. "Barney with a
wig," that's what Andrea called Jared, which wasn't exactly true. He was
artificially sweet -- cloying -- but he wasn't purple.

I reached for a cookie, snapped it in half. "Andrea says she doesn't want any
dad, she wants the right dad. Which is fine with me. So, since I won't be giving
her a dad anytime soon, I try to be more of a friend to her. I try to see things
her way, cut her a little more slack. It seems only fair."

Mrs. Grady nodded, her milky eyes conveying a vast distance. Even her voice
sounded far away. "Is it?" she asked.

I stood by the walnut coffee table and sorted the mail. Bills for Andrea and me
-- I tossed those on the coffee table. A small package bearing a change of
address sticker for Mrs. Grady. I smiled at the return address. Rubberstilzkin
....

"Mom, I'm home!" Andrea called, hurling her books at the couch before dashing to
the kitchen.

I tossed another bill on the coffee table. "Whoa! What was that?"

"A herd of turtles!" Andrea said, reappearing with an apple in her hand.

The phone rang. Andrea backed into the sofa and sat on her math book.

I studied her, letting the phone ring twice more. Then I went to the dining room
to answer it. "Hello?" I said.

"Hello, Ms. Hill?" a harried voice said. "This is Ms. Richter, Andrea's
teacher?"

I moved to the left so I could see Andrea. She dropped her gaze, staring at her
knees. "This is Carolyn Hill," I said. "What can I do for you, Ms. Richter?"

"Andrea's been acting out in class again," Ms. Richter said. "Today she decided
she wasn't interested in our math lesson so she left the classroom. My aide
found her two blocks from the school, sitting on a bench waiting for a transit
bus. With the photo of our adopted fruit bat."

"I see," I said. Andrea peeked at me. I gave her stink eye. She looked away.

"I don't think you do," Ms. Richter said. "She cut the photo from the bulletin
board with a pocketknife. Did you know she had a pocketknife?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "It was her father's. She's not supposed to
have it at school."

"Well it's here. You need to keep better track of it. We haven't got funding for
a metal detector."

Ms. Richter and I talked about the problem for a few minutes, then I hung up. I
walked into the living room. "Where is your father's pocketknife?"

"Ms. Richter took it," Andrea whispered.

"Good," I said. "I think we'll let her keep it for a while. Care to explain why
you left class today?"

Andrea squirmed in place, grinding the math book into the sofa. "We were doing
division again and I know division --"

"Not an excuse. When you're in class, you do as the teacher tells you-"

"But Ms. Richter was reviewing it for the dummies and I already know-"

"A little review won't hurt you. And I don't ever want to hear you call anyone a
dummy again. Understand?"

She kicked the coffee table leg. "Yes."

"Good." I rolled the tension from my shoulders, glad to be done with the whole
thing. "I'll be right back. I'm going to take Mrs. Grady her mail."

Andrea's eyes lit up. "Can I take it?"

She'd been over there every day this week .... "Not this time," I said.
"Besides, I hear you've got some math to catch up on."

"But Mom --" "Just do it," I said.

She tilted her chin and gave me her best stink eye -- only a tenth as effective
as mine, but coming along nicely. "Needs work," I said. "I'll be back in a
minute."

I hadn't been to the cottage since Mrs. Grady moved in the week before. "Hello,
Carolyn," Mrs. Grady said, answering my knock. "I was expecting Andrea. She's
not ill?"

"No, she's doing her home -- " I stopped. An exhibition of tiny pictures covered
the walls. Across from me were plants -- trees, flowers, grasses, leaves, vines,
even cacti. Mixed in were stones and fences, ponds and bridges, road signs --
all the stuff of landscapes. A portrait gallery graced the wall next to the
plants. Eleanor Roosevelt grinned at me; Beethoven glared.

I shook my head. "I've never seen so many rubber stamps."

Mrs. Grady backed into the cottage, gesturing for me to follow. "And you won't
see half of them if you don't come in."

There were animals (a tiger crouching, a frog in Edwardian finery), birds (a
flock of flamingoes, a pelican with an eye patch), bugs (an ant carrying an
invisible load, two flies sitting down to breakfast), and things, all kinds of
things. Cars and planes, cooking utensils, computers, musical instruments, a
fire hydrant ....

"You could create an entire world," I said.

Mrs. Grady walked over to the animals and brushed the wooden blocks with her
fingers. She chose one, then handed it to me. "It's been done," she said.

I looked down at the stamp. A tabby cat held the Earth between its paws.

Mrs. Grady giggled. Her cheeks pinked like a child's. "When I'm feeling
irreverent," she whispered, "I call it the God stamp."

"Well," I said, touching her hand with the package, "I hope you have room for
more."

"Always room for more," she said with relish. She took a pair of scissors from
the canning cupboard and opened the package. "Oh, good," she said, pulling out
two stamps. She felt the robber, then set the stamps on the table: two birds
practicing handwriting and a man with an umbrella being blown away.

I glanced at the table. Three plastic stack trays stood in one comer, the middle
one completely empty, the top one overflowing. The bottom tray held one sheet of
paper. More paper scattered across the desk, each page covered with stamped
impressions. On one, a little girl jumped over and over, stamped in a bouquet of
colors. I touched a magenta girl --

"Would you like to do a picture?" Mrs. Grady said.

"No, I -- maybe some other time."

"Andrea's done quite a few already," Mrs. Grady said, reaching for the stack in
the top tray. "But she's only completed one." She set the papers in front of me.

Andrea's "pictures" were largely experiments. On several she had stamped images
at random as if curious to see how they really looked. Smearing marred many of
the images, grid-like framing haunted others. She tended toward animals and
toys-- a red wagon had been repeated over and over on one page -- with two pages
devoted to dogs. Newfoundlands, boxers, fox terriers, retrievers, every dog
imaginable. It seemed Mrs. Grady had an inexhaustible supply of canines.

Mrs. Grady handed me the last three sheets. Suddenly the "pictures" became
pictures. Or, I should say, the same picture...with variations.

Andrea had followed Mrs. Grady's lead and stamped out our house and yard. She
had used most of the same stamps, but instead of the petulant little girl she
had substituted a girl holding a stick above her head.

And she had added a dog. Three different dogs. A collie romped in the first
picture, a daschund gamboled in the second, a mastiff drooled in the third.

I touched the little girl. Laughing, the gift brandished the stick, leaning back
slightly as if the dog might jump on her to get at the prize. My heart ached.
She'd wanted a dog for so long. I'd promised her, many times, that when she was
old enough, we'd get one. A medium one. No barking rats and no goliaths. I
pressed my fingers to the tiny, printed face. "Oh, Pumpkin," I whispered.

Then Mrs. Grady handed me the picture from the bottom tray. It was the same
picture, but this time a golden retriever sported with the girl while a woman
watched, smiling. The picture had been done in colored inks, everything
carefully tinted with markers and color pencils.

"She asked me to stamp out the house and yard," Mrs. Grady said, brushing her
fingers across the page. "But I told her, no, all of it had to come from her."
She turned those milky eyes on me. "Just as it must come from you. dear."

I tapped the picture. "Can I -- may I keep this?"

Mrs. Grady took the picture and slid it into the bottom tray. "Not this one,"
she said. "It needs to sit in the tray just a bit longer. And you, what do you
want? What will you stamp?"

I straightened and looked around the room. Images crowded around me like
expectant children. I shook my head, overwhelmed. "I don't know," I said.
"There's too much to choose from."

"It's not too much, dear," Mrs. Grady said. "It's choice. Don't be afraid to
make the wrong choice. The right choice will find you." She scrunched her nose
at me, a kind of conspiratorial wink. "And in the meantime, experiment. Have
fun."

I rubbed the back of my neck and fumbled open the gate. I had just enough time
to take a quick shower before Andrea got home --

The golden retriever bounded to meet me. I stepped back. The dog danced around
me, barking and wagging his tail. I patted his head.

"Where did you come from?" I said, then glanced at the cottage.

The door opened and Mrs. Grady stepped out, my surprise mirrored in her face.
"Did you get a dog, dear?" she said.

"I don't know," I said. "I mean, he was just here."

"Oh, my land!" Mrs. Grady gasped. "It's never happened this quickly before. Not
with other people's pictures. I only put it in the tray two days ago. Must be
those new inks .... "

The dog licked my hand. "He's probably lost," I said, stroking one of his ears.
My fingers brushed a collar. "Here. He's got tags. This'll tell us where he
belongs."

I squatted beside the golden retriever, choking on his breath. His tags jangled
as I sorted through them -- rabies, license, ID. I turned the ID tag toward me.
"Here we go," I said. "His name is Chester and he lives at --" I looked up at
Mrs. Grady. "He lives here. Mrs. Grady, you didn't...?"

Mrs. Grady sniffed. "Certainly not, dear. Not without asking you."

I stood. "Well, he's licensed. I'm going to call the SPCA."

Chester followed me to the house and flopped in the flower bed beside the step.
Only it was no longer a flower bed. The marguerites I had planted there years
ago had disappeared, replaced by a worn, Chester-sized furrow. Two ceramic
dishes butted up against the step, one empty and coated with brown meal, the
other mineral-crusted and half full of water.

I stared at the dishes, then at Chester. Chester grinned, tongue draped between
his lower teeth. "Don't go anywhere," I said, and hurried into the house.

I returned minutes later, stunned. I sat on the bottom step next to Chester. He
put his head in my lap.

Mrs. Grady opened her door. "Well?" she said, but I could tell she already knew.

"He's ours," I said. "I don't know how --"

Andrea squealed and clambered over the gate. Chester snapped up a stick and ran
to meet her. Dropping it at her feet, he barked.

Andrea fell to her knees and threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, More!" she
said, burrowing her face into the retriever's feathery fur. "Where did you find
him? Can I name him?"

I held my breath. "What do you want to call him?"

Andrea touched her nose to the dog's. "Chester."

I breathed out. "Good thing," I said.

That Friday afternoon I went to the cottage to invite Mrs. Grady to dinner.
Andrea -- and Chester -- had been invited to spend the night at Jenna's. Andrea
would also be spending Sunday at the Boardwalk with Jenna's family. I wondered
if, maybe, it wasn't too much. But Tom had offered to include her ....

I glanced at the darkened cottage windows. Steam coated the glass, turning the
windows opaque. I rapped at the door. "Mrs. Grady?" I called.

The door opened. The scent of roast chicken spilled from the cottage. Mrs. Grady
leaned out, her cheeks oven-warmed to a deep rose. "You must be psychic, dear,"
she said. "I was just about to come invite you to dinner. Chicken and broccoli.
And salad. I love those new salad mixes."

I laughed. "I was coming over to invite you."

"Have you started cooking yet?" she said.

"No, not yet."

"Then I win!" She backed into the cottage, gesturing broadly. "Come in, come in!
It's almost ready. If you wouldn't mind straightening the table .... "

"Not at all." I switched on the light and went to the table. Two layers of paper
matted the surface. I looked around for Mrs. Grady. She'd disappeared. "Where
should I put the pictures?" I shouted.

"In the top tray, dear," she called from the kitchen. "They're all Andrea's."

I gathered the papers, curious to see what Andrea had come up with this time.
She had done the yard again, with the golden retriever and the girl playing, and
the mother looking on, but this time a man stood next to the mother. She had
stamped this picture several times, using different men just as she had used
different dogs earlier. She had used a cowboy, a man in a tuxedo, a man in
snorkeling gear, and Michelangelo's David. In one, the mother was talking to a
generic superhero. I set the pictures in the top tray and picked up the last
one.

A little girl and her mother stood in the middle of the page, fenced in by the
picket and climbing rose stamp. The pickets pointed to the edges of the paper,
as if they had been laid on the ground. The little girl looked scared .....

I shivered.

Mrs. Grady came in with two plates loaded with silverware. "Dinner's almost
ready," she said, setting the dishes on the table. "Did you see Andrea's
drawings?"

I set the picture in the tray. "Yes. It looks like she's auditioning dads."

Mrs. Grady chuckled, wiping her hands on her apron. "It does, doesn't it? She
said she just wanted to 'try it on,' see how it felt." Mrs. Grady's chuckle
settled into a smile. "And she liked it well enough to try it on several times.
But the last one -- that's the important one."

"The one where she's fenced in? Trapped?" I chafed my arms. "That's not what I
want for her."

Mrs. Grady tilted her head. "Oh? Well, there's nothing to stop you from stamping
what you want after dinner."

"No, no, no," Mrs. Grady said, taking the dirty plates from my hands. "You just
sit here and stamp. I'll do the dishes." She arched her eyebrows at my intake of
breath. "No protests. I insist. It's what I want."

"I'd be happy --"

"You can wipe the table down, that's what you can do. Then go pick out some
stamps. Paper, ink, all that stuff is in the canning cupboard."

So I wiped down the table. Then I approached the shelves. So many images. I
scanned each section, drawn to some stamps, amused by others. I kept coming back
to one in particular: a garden gate, slightly ajar. I picked it up three times,
carried it around, then put it back.

I ignored the picket and rose stamp. The scared girl's eyes pleaded with me
whenever I walked past her shelf. I turned her around so that the rubber faced
out.

I concentrated on Andrea, then went around the room gathering the "everything" I
wanted for her: a computer, a college degree, books, toys, food, people --
everything and anything I could think of. I added several heart stamps for love.
I passed over the gate several times. Finally, I took it to the table.

First I stamped a little girl surrounded by mountains of people and things. I
frowned. Something wasn't right. I stamped out a different version.. Still off.
I did two, three more, adding or subtracting elements. In one, people and hearts
crowded the girl. In another, the people stood on one side of her, the things
mounded on the other. In the last, hearts circled everything. I sat back, a lacy
heart stamp in my hand, inked and ready.

Was this really what I wanted for Andrea? Possessions? I mean, I wanted her to
be comfortable. Friends? Of course, but Andrea already knew how to make and keep
friends. Accomplishments? Well, yes. And love, although she already had that in
plenty. But something was missing --

Mrs. Grady set two mugs of peppermint tea on the table. She sat down, pulling
one of the mugs into her hands. She held it, her fingers fencing it in.

I stared at her hands and thought about Andrea's picket fence. I didn't want
Andrea to feel restricted, I didn't want her to feel limited -- not by me, not
by the father she never knew, not by anything. I wanted her to be free.

I reached for the fuschia ink pad and stamped the silhouette of a little girl
jumping, arms flung wide, in the middle of the page, with nothing around her to
confine or frighten her. Then I sat back. "That's it," I said, reaching for the
tea.

But it wasn't, I could feel it.

Mrs. Grady set down her mug and collected my pictures. She ran her fingertips
over each one. She nodded and clucked -- until she came to the girl jumping.
Sweeping her hand across the page, she frowned, then swept the picture with her
open palm. "Which stamps did you use on this one?" she said.

I handed her the stamp of the girl jumping.

She felt the rubber, the ink staining her fingers. She murmured, then set the
papers in the middle tray. "These aren't finished. Maybe next time --"

I retrieved the drawing of Andrea free. "What about this one?" I asked.

Mrs. Grady touched it. Her lips pursed. "Are you sure?"

Doubt crept through me. "I think so."

She hesitated. "We can try it, dear," she said, placing the drawing in the
bottom tray. "We can always remove it."

Sunday morning I walked to the corner market for a newspaper. As I walked the
block and a half home, my thoughts kept returning to Andrea's picture and mine.
Since Friday night, my doubts about both pictures had grown. I opened the front
door, mulling the whole thing over on the way to the kitchen. Maybe I should do
another picture, a different one --

I froze. Andrea sat on the kitchen floor, crumbs dribbling from her chipmunked
cheeks, a large French knife in her hand. Five broken cookies dotted the
linoleum like cow pies. Chester nosed one away from Andrea's foot and ate it.
Andrea raised the knife, its wide, triangular blade gleaming, then brought it
down with a slash. A cookie exploded in two. A deep scar rent the linoleum. It
was not the first. Andrea raised the knife again --

I grabbed her wrist. "What are you doing?" I roared.

Chester darted for cover under the kitchen table.

Andrea jerked upright, chewed once and swallowed. Her voice escaped in a
crumb-clogged mumble. "Chester and I were hungry."

I pried the knife from her hand and set it on the counter. "You are not to play
with that knife. You are never to play with that knife. Or any other knife."

Andrea pulled away, gaze fixed on me. "But the cookies were too big. Chester'
was eating them too fast --"

I jerked her to her feet. '"And that's another thing. The dog does not eat
cookies or any other people food --"

Someone knocked on the front door. "Yo! Anybody home?"

I stiffened. Jenna's dad, Tom, coming to take Andrea to the Boardwalk.

I looked at Andrea. Her eyes pleaded with me. This acting out, as Ms. Richter
called it, was getting worse. Leaving school, playing with knives...I glanced at
the gashed and curling linoleum. A line had to be drawn somewhere --

But she'd been looking forward to the Boardwalk all week, counting the days till
Sunday. She'd get to spend the day with Jenna and Tom, with a father, maybe not
her own father, but a father. The one thing I couldn't give her ....

"Hello?" Tom called. "Carolyn? Andrea?"

My shoulders sagged. "Go on," I said. "Don't forget your sweatshirt. We'll talk
about this later."

Andrea nodded, then bolted for the door.

There would be no talk later. We both knew that.

The next day at work I got another call from the school.

"There's been an accident," Mr. Harbin said.

"Dear God." My stomach shrank to a cold, hard fist. "Is Andrea okay?"

The principal's voice grew crisp. "I wouldn't say that."

The knot in my stomach cinched tighter and tighter as he explained. Andrea had
taken the French knife to school. A boy in her class, Kirby March, saw it in her
backpack and asked to see it. Andrea told him to wait till lunch, then the two
of them crossed the field to the pepper tree where no one could see them. They
hacked at the tree's knobby bark, then decided to climb to the lowest branch and
see if they could saw off a limb. Andrea climbed up first, the knife between her
teeth. The yard duty teacher spotted her and shouted. Andrea took the knife from
her mouth to answer, then slipped and fell. The knife tumbled from her hand --

My heart pounded. Not her arm, not her face, I prayed.

-- slicing through Kirby's sneaker, lopping off two toes.

My stomach unknotted. Guilt tainted my relief.

"Andrea says the knife is hers," Mr. Harbin said.

"No -- it's -- no," I stammered. "My God, what kind of idiot do you think I am?
She's seven years old! Nobody hands a seven-year-old a knife!"

"I thought she might be exaggerating," Mr. Harbin said. The brittleness left his
voice, replaced by a more patronizing tone. "Ms. Hill, I've talked to Ms.
Richter and the school psychologist about Andrea's recent fascination with
knives. We've decided not to contact CPS at this time ...."

I lowered my head to my fist. Child Protective Services. Dear God.

"...upset right now," Mr. Harbin concluded. "I'd like you to pick her up as soon
as possible." He paused. "Ms. Hill?"

I had to clear my throat twice. "I'm coming," I said.

Andrea cried the entire trip home. "He almost died!" she wailed. "No, Pumpkin,
he didn't," I said, pulling into the driveway. I was caught between an urge to
scold and a desire to comfort. Andrea needed both. "Kirby lost his toes, but he
didn't almost die."

Andrea's sobs doubled. I switched off the ignition and pulled her into my arms.
"Andrea," I said, "someone got hurt very badly. Someone could have died. But
they didn't.

"She calmed a little.

"You need to learn from this," I said. I tipped her face to mine. "Did you? What
did you learn?"

"Not to -- not to take- knives to school." She sniffed. "Mom? Can I call Kirby
and tell him I'm sorry?"

I hugged her. "Of course, you can. Think, maybe, you should apologize to his
parents, too?"

She went rigid and pulled away, shaking her head. Terror widened her eyes.

I sighed. "All right," I said, ruffling Andrea's hair. "I'll do it. Come on.
We've got a call to make." I opened the front gate. "Why did you take the knife
to school, Pumpkin?"

She sniffed. "'Cause I wanted to feel safe."

I stopped, my mind filled with the image of a girl and her mother in an enclosed
yard. Not enclosed as in trapped. Enclosed as in safe.

I gripped one of the pickets to steady myself. "You go on ahead, Pumpkin. I need
to talk to Mrs. Grady."

Andrea nodded and sculled her way to the house. I followed the stepping stones
to the cottage. Mrs. Grady met me at the door. "Is something wrong, dear?" she
said. "You're home so early."

"Can you -- " I held my breath. "Would you take my picture out of the bottom
tray?"

Relief softened her features. "Certainly, dear."

"Thanks," I said. "I'll explain later."

"No need to explain," Mrs. Grady said. "Just come by tomorrow."

I went straight to Mrs. Grady's after work the next day. It was Brownie day.
Andrea wouldn't be home till five. Chester followed me to the cottage, yapping
and bouncing, his body wriggling with each wag of his tail.

Mrs. Grady opened the door before I knocked. "There you are!" she said. "I've
been expecting you. Ready to do another drawing?"

My cheeks warmed. "Yes. Yes, I am."

Mrs. Grady nodded once. "Good. Andrea was quite put out when I refused to slip
her latest picture into the bottom tray. I told her we needed to wait for you."

I stared at her. "What? When?"

"Sunday. After she carne home from the Boardwalk." Mrs. Grady opened the door
wide, ushering Chester and me inside. Chester scrabbled at Mrs. Grady's feet,
licking her ankles. Mrs. Grady bent to pet him. "You little scamp. Would you
like a dog biscuit? Hmm?"

I took a deep breath. "Would it be all right -- may I see Andrea's drawing?"

Mrs. Grady straightened. "No," she said. "You may not." She clucked at Chester.
"Let's go in the kitchen, Chester, and whip up a little something for dinner.
Wouldn't want everyone to go hungry. Oh, and, Carolyn? Remember to use the
stamps you're drawn to, dear."

I went to the shelves to find the garden gate.

Mrs. Grady opened the cottage door. She clucked to Chester, then the two of them
went outside. "Andrea, honey, your mother's inside,"she called. "Why don't you
show me the garden. Mmm, it smells like Spring!"

My own stamped garden glowed with Spring -- with vibrant marker inks and the
soft shading of color pencils. I reached for a tube of iridescent glitter glue
and added dew drops to the roses, then sat back to consider my finished drawing.

A picket fence with climbing roses enclosed a grassy field. Unlike Andrea's
fence, mine had a garden gate, slightly ajar. Monsters crowded outside the fence
at the left end of the enclosure, while inside a mother and daughter held hands.
Fewer monsters crowded outside the fence toward the middle. Here the mother and
daughter, older now, walked together but separate. At the right end of the page,
one lone monster waited outside the fence, a bulbous creature with a silly
smile. The mother stood on the inside of the gate and waved. Her daughter, a
young woman, waved from outside the gate.

I touched one of the roses. Glitter came away on my finger.

Two sets of footsteps stomped in place outside the cottage door. "It is getting
chilly!" Mrs. Grady said. "Let's see if your mother's done."

The door opened. Andrea wriggled past Mrs. Grady and launched herself at me.
"Mom, I'm home!" she said, burrowing into my arms. Her nose pressed against my
bare arm, cold as a dime in January.

"Whoa!" I said. "What was that?"

Andrea giggled. "A hungry person!"

"Two hungry people," Mrs. Grady said. "Did you finish, dear?"

"Just 'rarely," I said. "But I'm not sure how it's going to work."

Mrs. Grady walked over to the table. Her fingers skimmed the drawing. A smile
bloomed on her face. She drew her hand away, her fingertips sparkling with
glitter as if she'd touched magic. "Somewhere inside, you know," she said, "or
you couldn't have done this."

She slid the drawing into the bottom tray along with one of Andrea's.

The next day, I sat on the couch with the mail in my lap, separating the bills
from the junk mail. The door flew open and Andrea rocketed into the living room.
Her arm shot out, then recoiled -- without tossing her books at the sofa. "Mom,
I'm home!" she called, disappearing into the kitchen.

"Whoa!" I said, dropping a bill on the coffee table. "What was that?"

"A White's tree frog!"

I looked up, then shook my head. A tree frog. I finished sorting the wheat from
the chaff and tossed the chaff away. I took the bills to the kitchen --

And caught Andrea sneaking two macaroons.

"That's it," I said, extending my hand. "No more cookies for a week."

Andrea pretended to be contrite. She handed me the cookies.

I opened a drawer and pulled out a plastic vegetable bag. Dropping the macaroons
in the bag, I reached for the cookie jar and emptied it into the bag. Then I
left the kitchen, headed for Mrs. Grady's.

Andrea trailed after me, mouth agape. "Mom?"

I knocked at the cottage door. Mrs. Grady opened it. "Hello, dear," she said.
"Mmm, something smells good .... "

I set the bag in her hands. "We won't be eating cookies at our house for the
next week. I was wondering if you'd like some macaroons."

"Oh, I love macaroons," Mrs. Grady said, dipping her hand in the bag.

"And please," I said, "don't give any to Andrea. She can't have any cookies till
next Wednesday."

Andrea's jaw dropped even more.

Mrs. Grady took a bite of macaroon and murmured. "Wonderful!" She nodded
solemnly. "No sweets for Andrea. I understand."

And suddenly, so did I. I wet my lips, then felt my own eyes widen. That
tightness in my throat...gone. So were the guilty arguments that usually filled
my head at moments like this. I hadn't even thought, I'd just acted --

I turned to Mrs. Grady. She beamed at me. "Come in," she said. "I'd like to show
you Andrea's drawing."

My hand shook as I accepted the paper. Andrea had repeated her picture of the
girl and her mother in the yard. But this time the little girl wasn't afraid.

Mrs. Grady and I developed our own ritual-- tea on Brownie day. One week Mrs.
Grady ushered me into the cottage, an amused smile just touching her lips.
"Andrea did another drawing yesterday," she said. "I think you should see it."

Sure enough, a new drawing rested in the bottom tray. I grasped the back of the
nearest chair. Excitement and apprehension tingled through me. Andrea had known
what we both needed the last time, but still, placing my life in the hands of a
seven-year-old ....

"What is this one about?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

Mrs. Grady grinned. "She's auditioning fathers again."

Placing my love life in the hands of a seven-year-old, I amended. "And who did
she choose? Not the superhero, I hope."

"No, not the superhero." Mrs. Grady took the drawing from the tray. "She did
something interesting. She couldn't decide, so she stamped several images on top
of each other. Watch for a snorkeler who owns a tuxedo, likes country western
music, and looks like Michelangelo's David."

"Not bad," I admitted, scanning the people shelf. "But I think I better stamp my
own version."

"Remember to use the stamps you're drawn to, dear," Mrs. Grady said.

I smiled. Just what I needed -- a guy who looked like a garden gate.