October 6, 2007
Leah came carrying an empty portfolio. I had put out two cups before she arrived. She noticed them, took off her coat, and asked where the drawer was.
“We can have coffee first.”
“I'd rather look.”
She had cut her hair since I last saw her. A small thing, but I had missed the decision and the first day of living with it, when a person looks different even to herself. I wanted to say that it suited her. Instead I explained which cupboards Peter had already emptied.
The back drawer stuck halfway. Leah lifted its left side, and it opened. She remembered the trick without thinking. I had been pulling harder for days.
There were folded aprons, a dry glue stick, and a green folder with a corner softened by water. Leah took the folder first and held it against her stomach.
“Those are personal.”
“I haven't opened it.”
That was true. I was relieved to have one clean answer.
From beneath the aprons she drew a flat packet wrapped in brown paper. The original winter poster lay inside, its black branches drawn in a different ink from the finished lettering. At the bottom, where the printed version carried the shop's name, two small letters had been rubbed almost out of sight.
L.H.
Leah brushed a loose crumb of paper from the corner.
“I thought he'd thrown this away.”
“So did I.”
She looked at me. “You knew it was here once?”
I remembered putting the packet in the drawer. I had been clearing the counter after an argument, making room for a rush job, performing that household magic by which a thing could disappear without anyone having to say it was gone.
“I put it away.”
“You told me you couldn't find it.”
“Later, I couldn't.”
The explanation sounded as poor aloud as it had sounded reasonable in my head.
She laid the original beside the display proof. The printed copy was smaller and warmer in color. A crease divided the book's open pages, making the window seem to close.
“Why did you agree to this label?” she asked.
“I used the old anniversary leaflet. I wasn't thinking about each piece.”
“You were thinking about somebody.”
I sat on the stool by the drawer. It had been Dad's stool, then anyone's stool, and now it was another object we would have to decide about.
“I wanted people to remember him kindly.”
“I remember him kindly sometimes.”
That surprised me more than an accusation would have. Leah could still see the man who taught her to mix ink and bought her the expensive paper she had been afraid to ask for. I had assumed that if I stopped defending him, no one would remember those things.
“He could have been proud of you,” I said, “and said so.”
“He was proud of me. As long as being proud didn't change whose name went underneath.”
She slipped the original into her portfolio. My hand moved before I had decided to reach for it.
“We need that for the display.”
“You need to ask.”
I drew my hand back.
“May we borrow it?”
“Not today.”
Outside, Peter was dragging an empty pallet away from the loading door. He called to ask whether we wanted sandwiches. Leah said no, thank you, and I realized she had planned a visit short enough not to require a meal.
I asked whether she would let me photograph the drawing. She considered it, then shook her head.
“I want to know what you'll say about it first.”
“I'll send you the label.”
“Before you print it.”
“Before.”
She took the green folder and the portfolio. She left a packet of blank drawing paper that had been hers, saying Ruth might be able to use it. The gesture was small and practical. I nearly spoiled it by calling it generous.
When she had gone, I poured away the untouched coffee. On the inventory card I wrote: Original drawing with Leah. Permission not granted.
There was nothing mysterious about those words. They told me where a thing was and what I could not do with it. For the first time that morning, I knew exactly what to do next.