Draw Me A Picture (3 page)

“Well, for five dollars I suppose I can purchase it for you,” he stated, counting out the bills.

Though she hadn’t breathed in over a minute, Michelle forced her arms to move; carefully, she unpinned the portrait, wrapped it swiftly and tied the twine. Looking up again at the man she held the package up to him; their eyes met a second time.

William Montgomery had--reluctantly--allowed his mother to guide them over to a street artist. The huddled figure sat against the building next to a simple cardboard display, pen and ink drawings pinned to it. Some of the pictures weren’t bad but his mother pointed to the one in the top corner; his own face looked back at him. The portrait was very good. William looked curiously down at the artist, sitting so small on her mat with her back to the building. The girl’s odd, beautiful eyes struck him as she looked up from under her dingy hat; they shone out from her fair skin like greenish-gold gemstones. He’d never seen their equal.

She was a young woman, far too young to be out here peddling drawings--in William’s opinion. He felt instantly glad she had the sense to dress so plainly, lest she attract the wrong kind of attention. She’d caught his notice, however and he was drawn right in. Questions hovered on the tip of his tongue as he counted out the money. Why was she out here? Where was her family? When she lifted her eyes again to his--holding out the wrapped portrait--William decided to get a better look at her. Instead of taking the picture, he clasped her wrist and gently pulled her up to stand.

Michelle felt like she was in some kind of dream. The man just reached out, took her hand and made her stand up, and she didn’t say even one word in reprimand. Up close the man was even better looking, if that were possible. Unlike most of the 'british' men she’d seen on TV he was tall and broad-shouldered. He seemed to be scrutinizing her just as closely.

Giving the young woman an encouraging smile William pressed the money into her slender hand. The young woman's gloves were stained and worn. He felt a strange urge to cover her hands with his own and keep them warm. His mother spoke up.

“You’re very talented, my dear,” she said softly. Glancing at the woman Michelle felt comforted by the kind look in her eyes. The woman possessed blue eyes like her son's, though a little paler in hue.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” she managed to say, resisting the temptation to bite her lip.

The woman lifted a gloved hand and touched Michelle lightly on the side of her face; the gesture was natural and concerned, but it caught Michelle off guard.

“So young,” the lady said, smiling sadly. Michelle blinked; she struggled not to cry… not in front of them.

“We should go, Mother,” William, said, sobering. He saw the young woman stiffen at his mother’s touch; he knew his mum meant it kindly, but there were times he’d seen homeless people flip out. This girl was pretty and shy but she could easily be mentally ill. His mother looked up at him and nodded.

“Please take care of yourself, my dear,” she said, looking back at the young woman. Michelle just nodded, stupidly; her tongue seemed frozen. William and his mother began to walk away, Michelle left staring after them; she saw William bend down a little towards his mother.

“You have to be careful; the homeless here are very touchy about their lifestyle.” His words, though quietly spoken, drifted back to Michelle’s ears. Wound up already, her emotions brimmed over and something in her snapped.

“I am NOT homeless!” she yelled after the retreating pair.

They stopped walking at once, looking back at her in surprise. Michelle felt her face flame, but the embarrassment merely fueled her outburst. “I live in a nice hotel!” she continued. A few pedestrians stopped and stared, too. “I just can’t find work! I’m a CPA! I went to Stanford! And I... take care of myself just fine!”

Tears welled up, blurring Michelle’s vision; William's surprised expression, however, stood out with startling clarity. Shame hit Michelle like a slap in the face;. Flinging the dollar bills over the heads of the crowd, she turned around, seeking an escape. Grabbing her things in one swift movement, Michelle darted headlong into the throng of moving people, weaving among them in the opposite direction as William and his mother. Though no one followed her, she did not stop running until she reached the Waldorf’s back alley. Samuel was not on duty, and Michelle was glad of it; she knew she appeared distraught and didn’t feel like explaining herself at the moment.

It was not until she’d reached the sanctuary of her room that Michelle fully realized what had taken place. Collapsing on the floor, she caught her breath and began sobbing. Her behavior stuck out as appalling; making a scene was not in her nature, let alone running away like a spoiled child. Michelle felt mortified, in the ultimate sense of the word. Not only did she yell and throw money at the man she’d been hoping to impress, but his mother was there to witness her unhinged behavior. Well, she knew that if William was wondering whether or not she was mental, he knew what to think now.

Hanging her head, Michelle allowed her tears to flow unchecked.

“Oh... my... stars. I’m such an idiot,” she said, pressing her fists against her forehead. William wouldn’t want anything to do with her now, she was sure of it, and she’d only just found out his name. Sighing, Michelle wiped her eyes on the corner of her coat. Staring at the edge of the worn garment, she decided to take off her things; she carefully put them away and started the water going in the shower. She got out a towel automatically and stepped into the bathroom. Letting hot water pour over her Michelle was assailed by sobering thoughts.

She knew she couldn’t go back there; sitting at the same corner would be unwise. Thanks to her brave effort at being seen he blue-eyed man was aware of her presence. If she went back he might yell at her for scaring his mother, or something. Even if he said, or did, nothing, Michelle knew she wouldn’t be able to bear him passing by each day knowing she’d so royally screwed up her chance at making a good first impression.

“Ah well,” she thought, her eyes shut. “It’s not like he would’ve asked me out anyway. I’ll find another corner.” Enshrined in melancholy, Michelle sank down to the floor. “Hopefully, he’ll forget all about me.”

She sat in the shower for a long time.

BEHIND HIS mahogany desk William Montgomery stared out the windows of his office. He did not really see the splendid view outside. A pensive look marred his features; his blue eyes appeared troubled. Neat piles of papers sat on his desk, unnoticed. The altercation with the pretty street artist at lunch bothered him and he couldn’t escape the urge to do something.

Like most people would have been he was startled by the girl’s outburst, but her look of embarrassment struck him like an arrow. For the entire lunch hour following his mother had done nothing but say she hoped the young woman was alright, where was her family, etc; she was mortified that they might have inadvertently caused the “poor girl” additional suffering. She wondered if the girl really had gone to Stanford and if so, what was she doing selling drawings on the street. After seeing his mother to a cab, William returned to the corner; the girl was nowhere to be found.

Standing, William walked over to a window and stood, his hands clasped behind his back. Grimly, he pondered why he’d assumed the young woman was homeless. The idea apparently insulted her. To be sure she was sitting on the street, but she wasn’t panhandling; her clothes were worn but they were clean and she did look as though she took care of herself. Perhaps it was her jobless condition; once she admitted she’d seen him each day, it was easy to draw the conclusion that the girl was otherwise unemployed. Maybe it was just her stained, drooping hat.

William smiled, recalling the girl’s lovely eyes looking up from under the brim of it. The sky might as well have opened, and poured a single ray of sunlight down on her face. Though slight, the young woman possessed a haunting beauty that William could not shake from his mind; not that he tried. He appreciated a bona fide distraction the same as any man, let alone a lovely mystery-girl; one whom might need rescuing. Perhaps she would return to her corner; it was also probable that she may never come back.

“Perhaps she wants to be found,” William murmured, looking down; his window went all the way to the floor, offering a substantial view of the streets, far below. As he stared as the moving cars, he wondered about the girl. Why was she out there? The young woman certainly didn’t like her unemployed situation and was clearly mortified at being called ‘homeless’.

The heated words she shouted earlier came floating back to him; William returned to his desk. When angered, people usually give out far more information than they intend to.

“A nice hotel... CPA... Stanford,” he said, as if reciting notes in a meeting. In his profession, remembering all the minute details meant the difference between losing a client and making the deal of the century. Picking up the phone, William decided that if the mystery-girl could draw an exact portrait of him without even meeting him, he could find her with just a bit of effort.

Taking out his cell, he dialed his mother’s number.

“It’s William. Fine. Is there a name on the back of that portrait you got today? Yes, I’ll wait.” He tapped his foot on the wood flooring, impatient to put a name to the face in his mind. “Yes? Got it…” William wrote something on a nearby notepad. “Thank you. No, no… I’ll be working late. Alfred will drive you to the station. You as well. Get plenty of rest. Good bye.”

Hanging up, William read the name he’d hastily scrawled, a boyish look of satisfaction crossing his eyes. “Michelle Gregory,” he said, to himself. The name fit her; she looked like a Michelle. Ambling absent-mindedly to the window again, William fingered the paper awhile before folding it and putting it into his pocket. Looking down at the streets, he smiled to himself. He had no idea what he’d say to her if he ever saw her again.

“First,”
he thought,
“I have to find her.”
 

CHAPTER THREE

Michelle settled in at her new corner with surprising ease. No other drawing artists frequented the place, only the occasional food vendor cart and one, aging guitarist named Patrick. The singer’s ‘art’ consisted of warbling through all the Simon & Garfunkle songs he could remember. Michelle was amazed at how many there were; she best liked The Sound of Silence, mostly because it was the only one she knew. Any initial suspicion felt by Patrick was thwarted by Michelle’s daily offering of an apple or orange. He reminded her a little of her grandfather, with his pronounced features and false teeth. Over the ensuing weeks, Michelle allowed him to sit next to her while they ate lunch; Patrick was full of amusing stories and opinions of those whom daily favored him with musical ‘criticism’.

The corner lay several blocks from her old one, in an entirely different direction. Michelle knew she probably would not see William here; she reason that his lunchtime routine was fairly fixed and the new location was too far out of the way to accidentally stumble upon her. Once again, Michelle was lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces, hidden in the swirling bustle of walking, work, lights and food that made up New York City. Her contact with humans now broadened slightly to include noontime conversations with the elderly Patrick. In these small ways, Michelle felt somewhat distracted; she was grateful not to be left alone with thoughts of William.

At night, however, memories of his deep, blue eyes and his last, shocked expression haunted her. Each time these thoughts re-emerged tears of remorse and loneliness fell to her pillow for what might have been. As silly as it was to think on it--and torture herself, the situation left Michelle with a feeling of purely feminine regret. It seemed to her that the streets grew darker each day, the wind blew colder and the passing faces appeared strange and threatening.

Six weeks after she’d left her old haunt, Michelle came home early. It was a good day for selling drawings; she’s finally gathered enough money to buy some warm, winter clothing. After a shower and a fresh change of clothes, she quickly made her way out the Waldorf’s back entrance, intent on heading straight to the nearby Good Will Store. Samuel saw her as she breezed out the door; he walked up to her, his face lit with some secret joy.

“Miss Michelle...” he said, walking over to her. “I hope y’ like Monet.”

Puzzled at his words, Michelle arrested her stride.

“Well, he’s a little old for me,” she said, smiling, “... and deceased... but, yes. I adore his paintings. Who doesn’t?” Samuel chuckled, his teeth sowing brightly in his swarthy face.

“Me,” he said. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I like a nice painting same as anybody but, being dragged around for a whole night lookin’ at art and talkin’ about art isn’t my idea of a good time. Especially on a night the Knicks are playin’.”

“I see,” Michelle said, trying not to laugh. “I take it Mabel likes Monet?”

“Yes, she does,” Samuel said, taking off his cap and rubbing his bald head. “Her sister gave her tickets to some art show at the Guggenheim.”

Michelle’s eyes widened considerably.

“You mean… you have tickets... to the Guggenheim Monet showing?” she repeated, quietly. “Twelve of his actual paintings on display?” Samuel nodded.

“Mabel’s mother has the flu; she called today and wants Mabel to go take care of her for a few days,” he explained, his smile returning. “So... instead of being at some ritzy to-do I get to hang with my boys at the
game. I figured the tickets shouldn’t go to waste, so, why don’t you go... and take a friend?” He held out a small, thick envelope to her with the museum’s logo emblazoned upon it.
 

Michelle looked from it back to the good-natured security guard.

“I would love to see those paintings,” she conceded, “But, this... this is too much, sir. I can’t.”

“You can,” Samuel said, smiling. He pressed the envelope into Michelle’s hand. “I insist. They should be seen by folk who’ll actually enjoy them; that would be you.” Looking down at the tickets, Michelle felt her eyes mist over.