Paint the Wind Read Free

sectionsof their coats looked luminous and opalescent, but the dark of their bodies disappeared into the night. From a distance, mother and son became two fractured spirits drifting above the earth .

A GNES M ENETTI, A PALLID VISION OF PROPERNESS, STOOD in the doorway, tapped her cane, and commanded attention. At eighty-eight, her extraordinary posture, substantial chest, and smooth helmet of short white hair gave her the appearance of a giant pigeon. She had a faint white mustache and favored long stretchy skirts, orthopedic sandals, oversized white silk blouses, and always a beaded chain of pearls from which her eyeglasses dangled.
    Maya often tried to imagine what Grandmother’s life had been like before her father died. One of the housekeepers had told her that Grandmother had traveled and gone to luncheons and even volunteered, delivering mealsto the ill and homebound. But Maya had never once seen her leave the property on Altadena Lane.
    â€œGood evening, Grandmother,” said Maya.
    â€œGood evening, child.” She inspected the table, nodded with satisfaction, and sat down. “Morgana, several leaves from the magnolia tree dropped this afternoon. The gardeners don’t come for three more days. After dinner, pick them up and dispose of them. I cannot have foliage on the ground. It’s unsightly and causes bacteria and mold. And I noticed several scratches on one of the patio chairs.…”
    Maya rolled her eyes. The lawn furniture, garden pottery, walkways, yard statues, the exterior and interior of the house, and the great block wall that surrounded the side and back yards had been painted an eggshell white and were repainted at the first hint of wear. Thevan of a local painting contractor was almost a permanent fixture in the circular driveway. On Grandmother’s whims, the workers descended with their equipment to cleanse everything of its brief history, leaving Maya’s world on Altadena Lane the color of bleached sheets.
    â€œCall Blanchard Painting,” Grandmother continued. “They know me well and will be prompt. Have them come out tomorrow and give me an estimate on all of the outdoor furniture.” She picked up a napkin, draped it across her lap, and turned to Maya. “School?”
    A pleasant memory overtook Maya’s common sense and she blurted, “Today Mrs. Webster turned off all the lights in the classroom and let us put our heads on our desks while …”
    Grandmother’s eyebrows arched upward. “I hopethis isn’t something frivolous, Maya. I would hate to think that this school is like all the others.”
    Maya had changed schools eight times in six years and had learned to squelch any mention of friends, field trips, assemblies, or anything that might interfere with class time or homework. Otherwise, a new school would be on the horizon the next day. School would be out for the summer in a few weeks. Maya adored her teacher, and she had just discovered that Mrs. Webster would continue with the class into the next grade. Maya hoped to do the same.
    Her mind searched for something other than the truth. “No, no. Nothing frivolous. Mrs. Webster was actually trying a new educational technique from an important teacher magazine to help us remember our spelling words by having us close our eyes and visualize them, like they do at the National Spelling Bee. She’svery innovative and it was extremely effective. I got one hundred percent on my spelling test.”
    â€œI would expect nothing less. My Gregory, may he rest in peace, was always an excellent student. He never compromised his education, Maya, and you won’t either.” She looked at Morgana. “The meat?”
    Morgana disappeared, reentered with the chuck roast on a serving platter, and placed it in the center of the table, exactly between the two side dishes of green beans and potatoes.
    Maya’s eyes scanned the eating surface for an offending drop of