The Boy Who Could Draw Tomorrow Read Free

the canopy, they turned in under the shade and announced themselves to the doormen.
    "The Coopers, you say?"
    "That's right," Hal answered, startled by the force of the challenge. "We were told the agent from Douglas Elliman left the key for us. With the elevator man, I mean. For 8C?"
    "We have three elevator men on duty," the older of the two doormen said. "If you will wait here while I look into it."
    "Jesus," Hal muttered as the older man walked off and the other doorman moved out to the curb as if eager to ignore them.
    Peggy grinned. "Will you just relax."
    ***
    They hadn't been invited to sit down while they waited, but Sam ran to one of the wainscot chairs that stood to either side of the large mantelpiece that dominated the lobby. He got up onto the chair, took out his pen, and opened his drawing pad to a fresh page. Peggy caught his eye, and then she held a finger to her pursed lips as if to warn him to keep quiet and behave. But that was silly, cautioning Sam. Sam always behaved.
    She was glad she'd thought to bring along his drawing things to keep him busy. On the other hand, she was sorry that she hadn't thought to dress him better. What on earth had possessed her to overlook such a thing? Jeans and a T-shirt just weren't appropriate. Still, he did look cute. Sitting there in that aristocratic chair, Sam seemed to fit right in.
    It was Hal she was worried about. He kept pacing in a little circle, trying to glimpse things out of the corner of his eye—the furnishings that adorned the stately lobby, the ornate mirrors and sconces, the black and white marble tiles that spread over the floor in a checkerboard pattern, the deep shine that had been buffed into them.
    Hal felt like an interloper, a trespasser, a fake. He wanted to weep—to weep because he'd never had this order and security as a child, to weep because no matter how much money he ever made this was not the sort of comfort he could ever just take for granted. When he looked at Peggy and saw her face lifted to the pewter chandelier that hung from the domed ceiling, he knew somehow that her emotional investment in this building, in St. Martin's, in the whole Manhattan scene was not as fraught with psychic pain and danger as his was. She was like a kid in a candy store—he felt infinitely more vulnerable than that.
    He turned to regard his son. Sam seemed right at home, his blue-jeaned legs dangling over the edge of the ancient chair, the boy's shimmering hair falling straight to his wide brown eyes as he bent intently over his drawing pad. But maybe the chair was a reproduction. Hell, this was ridiculous, letting himself feel so goddamned intimidated by a couple of snooty doormen and a lobby that was probably not so hot once you got down and took a really good look at it.
    Jesus, he'd better get a hold of himself. It was wonderful, being here, knowing this was all possible. How changed their lives suddenly were! It was as if everything that had gone before this very moment had been a movie in black and white. But now life blazed across a giant screen in a stupendous rage of color.
    ***
    They talked about it all that night, debating everything from all sides, weighing the thing as methodically as their excitement would let them—how much the owner wanted, how much they could afford to offer, how big a mortgage they'd have to carry, what the whole nut would come to if you figured it by the month. But finally it was all too much for them. Dizzy with questions, crazy with expectation, they fell into each other's arms and made love with a new kind of fury, a fever that pounded in them with racking, joyous violence.
    Sunday, while Peggy got breakfast together and Sam sat with his drawing pad on the floor of the kitchen, Hal telephoned the agent at home and stated the Coopers' terms.
    "I doubt that'll cover it," the agent said.
    "Yeah, well, that's our offer," Hal said, convinced now that they'd blown it, that the whole deal was off. And what happened if the