Three questions struck Monica at once: Springtime? What’re you talking about? And who are you? She asked none of them. What she said was, “Is something wrong?” Three questions struck Monica at once: Springtime? What’re you talking about? And who are you? She asked none of them. What she said was, “Is something wrong?”
The girl didn’t answer immediately. First she looked back to the shadowy interior of the studio, then over Monica’s shoulder to the lemon tree, then back to meet Monica’s eyes. “I … but you … I guess you’re not … but I …” Her face reddened as she stammered. Finally, she blurted out, “What’re you doing here, anyway?”
“I live here,” Monica said crisply. “Do you? In the studio, I mean?”
“No.” The girl edged toward the open door. “But I’m a friend of the man who does. And right now I’m trying to get Sopa to come outside.”
“Sopa?”
“Sopa’s the cat that lives here. But she’s going to starve to death if I don’t get her out of there.”
“Why? Doesn’t he feed her?”
“He would if he was here.” The girl bent over in the doorway once more and began her wheedling little lullaby. “Sopita, Sopita, Sopita, ven, ven, ven acá.”
Monica walked to a spot behind her and looked over her shoulder. Inside the studio, not two yards away, sat the cat. She was a calico patchwork cat, orange, brown, and black. Her yellow eyes stood out like headlights as she stared, unmoving, at the girl.
“Why don’t you just go pick her up?” Monica whispered.
“Not Sopa. I’d get clawed to death.”
Monica shrugged. “What makes you think she’s starving?”
“Because.” The girl straightened up and sighed. “Because she’s been locked in there for almost a week.”
“Maybe she ate mice. My cat Willy used to catch them.”
“Not Sopa. She’d starve to death first. She won’t even eat canned pet food. What she really goes for is people food, especially soup. And not canned soup either.”
Monica grinned. “Is that why she’s called Sopa?” The girl grinned, too, and nodded. “How does she like her soup?” Monica asked. “Kind of warm? Like the leftovers in a plate?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because I happen to have soup. Homemade. And even if she wasn’t starving, she’d love Rosa’s soup.”
“Who’s Rosa? Your mother?”
“Uh-uh. Our housekeeper.”
“Your what?”
“I mean she was our housekeeper,” Monica said and felt the blood rising to her face. “Do you want the soup or don’t you?”
“Okay. Sure. We can give it a try.”
Monica went quickly up the steps. In just a few minutes she returned with a cup of vegetable soup in one hand, a saucer in the other. “Willy always liked slurpy stuff out of a saucer,” she said and knelt by the studio door. She poured some soup into the saucer, edged it onto the threshold, and got up. The cat, she was sure, had not moved a muscle, had not even blinked, while she did that. She took a couple of steps back and said, “Maybe if we leave her alone, she’ll eat.” She turned to the girl. “My name’s Monica. What’s yours?”
“Toni. Really Antonia. Antonia Almayo. How come you know so much about cats?”
“Not ‘cats.’ Cat. Just Willy. He was kind of fat and friendly, but he sure hated to have people close when he ate.”
They turned and leaned against the garage doors and stared at the cat, who had yet to move. Monica’s eyes were on Sopa, but she was seeing Willy. She was seeing the fish pond, too—the fish pond without fish because of Willy. And beyond the pond she saw the reds and pinks of the azaleas that bordered the back lawn on Parkview Place. A lump pushed into her throat, leaving an empty, hollow place in her chest that she knew was homesickness. She recognized it because it had happened, too, when they went to Washington, D.C. Of course, there the excitement had quickly filled the empty place. But here there was nothing to—here there was just plain nothing. She gave a quick little shake of her head. Enough of that. She was here, and, little as she liked it, she’d have to get used to it.
“Look, look!” Toni whispered. “She’s going to eat.”
The patchwork cat was at the wooden threshold. She bent over the saucer, peered at them with appraising golden eyes, then took a tentative slurp. She shot another look at them, and then returned to the soup.
“I gave her just a little bit,” Monica whispered. “When she’s done, we’ll drag the saucer out a foot or two and fill it again.”
By the time the cup of soup was gone, Toni had pulled the studio door closed, Monica had moved to sit on the lowest of her back steps, and Sopa was eating from the saucer close to her feet.
Toni, who stood a couple of yards away, watched the cat with disbelief. After a while she said, “Do you think you could take care of Sopa for a while? She’s obviously taken a liking to you.”
“Not me. It’s the soup.”
“It’s both,” Toni said firmly. “She hardly ever makes friends.”
Monica reached down and scratched the cat behind the ears. “So how long would I have to take care of her?”
“Until El Pintor comes back.”
“When’ll that be?”
A troubled frown clouded Toni’s face. “I don’t know. That’s the trouble.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Monica said. “I’ll watch her. She’ll hang around here, anyway. Cats are pretty territorial.”
“That’s really nice,” Toni said. “Thanks. Now I’ve got to get back.”
“No, you don’t!” Monica said and shot up, sending Sopa streaking to the center of the yard, where she turned and looked speculatively at both of them. “Not until you explain that ‘Springtime’ thing. Unless you want me to think you’re crazy.”
“Maybe I am,” Toni said slowly. Then she cocked her head, took a long look at her, and said, “Come on. Come see what you think.” Pulling a key out of her pocket, she headed for the studio door. She threw the door open.
Monica hesitated. “Is it all right for us to go in?” she asked. Long ago, when she and a friend had walked into a neighbor’s garage uninvited, her father had given her a stern lecture on trespassing. She had never forgotten it.
“Sure, it’s all right,” Toni said. “This is my key. I’ve been cleaning his place since I was ten. At first I did it for nothing, or mostly nothing. Just for the paper and paints and little books he gave me. But pretty soon he said that people shouldn’t sell themselves short. That they should receive pay worthy of their efforts—or something like that. Anyway, he’s paid me ever since.” She tapped Monica on the arm. “Go on. Go ahead.”
Monica stepped inside. She was standing in a high-ceilinged room with a long, narrow table pushed against one wall. On the table were sketch pads neatly stacked, a ceramic bowl filled with paint brushes, upended, and another that held an assortment of art pencils. On the floor, three easels faced the doorway. They held canvases stretched over light wood frames. She gave them only a fleeting glance, because it was the walls that drew her eyes. Paintings, framed and unframed, small and large, all in deep, rich colors, hung below the high windows on all four walls. Some were of people, others of places: a busy street, a doorway, children on swings, a bright little streetcar.
She said, “He really does paint, doesn’t he?”
“This is nothing,” Toni said. “He has stacks of paintings in the garage. Not up on the walls, of course. Just stored neatly so nothing happens to them.”
“Does he ever sell them?”
“I guess so. He has to live on something.”
Monica pointed to a door in the forward wall. “What’s over there?”
“That’s where he lives.” Toni pushed open the door and let her look. “Isn’t this neat?”
It was. Where there were no windows, the walls were filled with bookshelves, and the shelves were filled with books. A narrow bed, covered by a brown-and-beige woven blanket, was under one of the front windows, and under the other was a small table and two chairs. In the corner beyond the table there was a sink, a small refrigerator, and a table-top stove. A couple of brown wicker chairs with beige cushions and two colorful throw rugs completed the furniture.
“You keep it looking nice,” Monica said.
“Not just me. He’s a neat person.” Toni grinned. “In all sorts of ways. Come on,” she said, pulling the door closed, “let me show you ‘Springtime.’” She stopped to pick up some pencil sketches that were lying on the floor by the worktable. “That Sopa,” she muttered. “She’s probably smeared these completely.” She placed the papers on the table.
Monica followed her across the studio to a corner behind the largest easel. A couple of stacks of paintings leaned against the wall.
“I don’t usually mess around this corner,” Toni said, “but this is where Sopa was hiding, so I had to move things.”
“It does smell sort of funny.”
“It stinks,” Toni said. “But, remember, she was in here for days. I cleaned up the mess while I was waiting for her to get friendly. And you know how soon that happened.” As she talked, Toni pulled a painting out from behind the others and positioned it to face them.
It was a portrait of a girl in her teens wearing a long white dress and holding three red roses. The dress was sleeveless; the neckline, cut modestly low, was scalloped. A string of tiny pearls was around her neck, and her hair, light brown and shoulder length, almost hid drop pearl earrings. She was posed in front of pale green shrubbery that had a few just opening white blooms. A tape pressed on the bottom frame said “Springtime.”
Monica gasped. “That’s me,” she said. “But, of course, it isn’t.”
“Do you see why I flipped when I saw you standing holding the red geraniums against your shirt?”
“It’s got to be my mother,” Monica said. “Yes, wait! I remember that dress. We’ve got photographs of her in it. It was some big event like … like—”
“Her quinceañera! That’s what it was, I’ll bet! Was her name Cristina?” Monica nodded and Toni went on, “My mother still talks about Cristina’s quinceañera.”
“I remember now,” Monica said. “That was her fifteenth birthday party, with stuff going on at the church in the daytime and then a big dance at night.” Monica paused. “You mean your mother lived here then, too?”
“No. My father did. But she was at the party. There aren’t many long-time people on this street. Everybody on Lucia comes and goes except the Almayos, the Salcedos, and El Pintor. And now he’s gone.”
“He’ll be back, won’t he?”
“I hope so. We’d better go now.” Outside, she said, “I’ll see you later. I just live down the block. The house with the pots of marigolds.”
After Toni left, Monica stayed where she was, staring at the studio. El Pintor. Who was he? And why was everyone worried because he’d been gone for a few days? Of course, it was strange about Sopa. But maybe he’d thought she was outside when he left. At the thought of Sopa she looked around the yard and found her lying under a shrub, peering at her. “I’ll bring you some water,” she said as she climbed the steps. “Don’t go away.”
She was in the kitchen filling a heavy ceramic bowl with water when she heard the front door opening. “Hi, Dad,” she called and walked into the dining room. “We have a new—” She stopped so suddenly that some of the water spilled over the bowl onto the floor.
Standing in the living room was a young man wearing khaki shorts and a white T-shirt. He was tall and well-built, and as olive-skinned as her father. There was a startled look on his face as he returned her stare.
Monica’s hands grew clammy and her throat choked. What is he doing here? What does he want? Anything can happen in this awful place. She flung the bowl at the man in the living room, spattering water on the dining table and chairs and missing him completely.
“Hey, what’s that for?” the stranger said. “What’s going on? Let me ask who—”
“Get away from me!” Monica cried.
The young man grinned. “Sure. How far?”
Monica felt hot blood fill her face. “I don’t care. Just get out. You don’t belong here!”
The young man took a long look around the two rooms, then said, “Maybe I don’t. Looks like the painting’s been done. El Pintor asked me to do the job before the owner took over—”
“El Pintor!” Monica said crossly. “All I hear is ‘El Pintor.’ Well, the owners have taken over, so you can leave now.”
The stranger bent over, picked up the pieces of the bowl, and placed them on the coffee table. “I’m sorry if I scared you,” he said, “but I’m really not dangerous.” He started for the door.
Monica sighed a sigh of relief. Then, at a sudden thought, shouted, “Not so fast! You have our key!”
He held up the key with his thumb and forefinger. “I do, don’t I? It belongs to El Pintor,” he said, placing it on a chair cushion. “I’d appreciate it if you’d return it to him.” With that he stepped through the door and pulled it closed behind him.
When her father returned, Monica met him at the door with the story of the intruder.
“Well,” her father said, “so Mr. Mead was going to have the house painted for us. That was thoughtful.”
“Maybe painting wasn’t it at all, Dad. Maybe that guy just needed an excuse to get into the house.”
“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t believe that young man, Monica,” her dad said quietly. “He had El Pintor’s keys, didn’t he? That’s certainly enough for me.”
“Oh, Dad, you trust everybody. What’s with this El Pintor, anyway? Who is he?”
“Who is he?” Her father put the packages in his arms down on the seat of one of the living room chairs and turned back to her. “Nobody really knows. Your mother told me that he showed up here one day when she was just a baby.”
“Maybe he was a tramp,” Monica said. “A … a vagrant.”
“Maybe. But don’t be so quick to judge. There’s probably more to his story—and to him.”
Thinking of the paintings she had just seen, Monica nodded. “I guess there’d have to be if they let him hang around for more than thirty years.” She sat down on the couch. “Okay. So tell me.”
He made room on the chair beside his packages, sat, and said, “I don’t have much to tell. And what I do came to me second-hand, really third-hand. Because your mother could not have been aware of this at the time it happened. All I heard is that your grandparents felt sorry for him. They let him hang around and eventually move into the garage.”
“That wasn’t very smart, was it?”
“The way Cristina told it, her parents decided giving Mr. Mead refuge was the smartest thing they ever did.” Her father paused and scratched his head. “I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “They didn’t exactly let him live with them, but they certainly did the next closest thing. The studio was just a shack then, and they let him have it. Little by little, your grandfather and Mr. Mead built up the old shack into what it is now. And he’s been here ever since. Rent-free. No questions asked.” He stood up and picked up his packages. “Now you know as much of his history as I do. I can add that he is one of the most trustworthy individuals I’ve come across. I’ve always called him Mr. Mead, but to everyone in this neighborhood, he’s known as El Pintor.”
When her father left, Monica sat staring out of the living room window. Would she ever get used to living here? On the street an ancient pickup truck loaded with well-used household furniture lumbered toward the end of the block. Across the street the little boys with their barking dogs once more hurtled their skateboards up and down the sidewalk. And right beside her house, hidden behind the studio’s grape-colored door, lay a troublesome mystery called El Pintor.