A car, Marcus said. The Silverado, she said. Marcus picked up a brush. Okay, he said. Show me what you're thinking.
She showed him. She had a whole vision. The specific blueg gray color of the truck he'd been working on, the tread pattern on the tires, a small detail on the hood she'd observed from weeks of watching him work that Marcus hadn't even realized she'd memorized. She directed and Marcus executed, and they argued gently about the right shade of blue for approximately 4 minutes, which was the most purely normal thing Marcus had done in years. At 2:45, Mrs. Holloway called the afternoon to close.
She stood at the front of the gymnasium and thanked everyone for coming and said something about what events like this meant for children's confidence and sense of security. And Marcus wasn't fully listening because Ava had climbed up slightly to lean her shoulder against his arm while she held the still damp painted frame. Not dramatically, not consciously, just with the easy unthinking comfort of a child who has decided she fits against this particular person. He did not move. She held the frame in both hands and looked at what they'd made.
And Marcus looked at it too, and it was slightly crooked, and the blue wasn't quite right, and it was the best thing he'd made in 7 years. They were walking toward the parking lot at 3:10 Ava between them with the frame held careful and flat in front of her when Naomi said quietly, "He might not let this go." Marcus had been thinking the same thing. "I know," he said. "He doesn't want her," Naomi said. And the way she said it, not angry, just worn through on the fact of it, told him she'd spent a long time getting to a place where she could say that plainly.
He wants to be the one who decides. That's different, but it still causes damage. I know that, too, Marcus said. Naomi looked at him. I'm sorry you got pulled into that.
Today was supposed to be It was a good day, Marcus said. She stopped walking for half a step. You don't have to say that. I know I don't," he said. It was still a good day.
She looked at him for a moment longer than was probably either of them had planned. Then Ava said from 3 ft ahead of them. "Are you guys coming? I don't want to get the frame wet if it rains." And they both started walking again. Marcus pulled out of the parking lot at 3:22.
Ava was in the back seat holding the frame on her lap, talking about what she was going to do with it. She decided it should go in the garage, not her room, because that's where it made the most sense. Marcus looked in the rear view mirror. She was completely serious about this. "You want to put a painting in my garage," he said.
"It's a painting of the Silverado," she said. Like this explained everything. "It should be near the Silverado." "The Silverado has been picked up," Marcus said. "It's gone." "Oh, a beat." Well, the next car then. Marcus looked at the mirror again.
She was completely untroubled by the amendment to her plan. Just incorporated it and moved on. He drove. He dropped them off at Delwood at 3:45. Ava climbed out with the frame and said formally, "Thank you for coming." Like she was closing a board meeting.
Then she disappeared inside. Naomi stood at the foot of the porch steps. She looked at Marcus and she said, "Can I ask you something? And I need you to be honest." Okay. He said, "Why did you agree to this?" She said, "The real reason, not not the polite version, the real one." Marcus stood on the front walk of her house on Delwood Street on a Saturday afternoon in October with the light going golden through the trees.
And he thought about it honestly. Because she said she'd be okay, he said finally. And I believed her. And that bothered me. Naomi was quiet.
A kid who's actually okay doesn't have to tell you she is. He said she was trying to give me an out. An 8-year-old was managing my feelings so I wouldn't feel guilty about saying no. He paused. I've been on the other side of that.
When someone's trying to make themselves smaller so you don't have to feel like the person who walked away, I don't have any interest in being that person. Did something complicated. She pressed her lips together, looked at the porch. "She hasn't been this calm in months," she said. Her voice was careful.
"Since you started letting her sit in the garage." "I didn't know that's what was changing her. I thought it was school or therapy or just growing up. But when she comes home from the garage, she's different, steadier." She looked at him. "She's herself." Marcus didn't say anything for a moment. Naomi," he said.
"I need to tell you something." She straightened slightly like she was bracing. "I'm not in a position to be something I'm not." He said, "I can't promise things I don't know yet. I don't know what this is. I don't know what I'm doing or what the right way to do it is. I've been alone for 7 years and I'm good at it now.
And I don't fully trust the part of me that wants to be anything else." He paused. But I'm not going to stop showing up. Not because I agreed to something, because I'm choosing to, and I'll keep choosing it until I can't. He looked at her. But you need to know what you're working with, which is a man who is trying to figure something out in real time and might not always get it right.
Naomi looked at him for a long moment. The October light was in her eyes. Marcus, she said, I've been alone for 6 years with a child whose father chose himself. I know exactly what the wrong kind of man looks like. A pause.
I also know I've never in my life heard a man say out loud what he just said to me. Marcus wasn't sure what to do with that. I'll call you about next week, she said. If that's all right. That's all right, he said.
She went inside. Marcus stood on the front walk for an extra 30 seconds for no reason he could fully explain. And then he walked back to his truck and drove back toward the shop. I didn't go home. He went to the shop, changed into his work clothes, turned the lights on, and started on 014 accord that had been waiting 3 days for him.