drawing in the dark

It's Sunday. I'm skipping down the street after church in my green and navy plaid dress with the pleats and the big white collar. Libby's ahead of me. She's always ahead of me. She likes to stand up as fast as she can and turn around to see if she is the first one up after the "Amen." She usually is. It makes mom and dad mad. Secretly, I want to try it, just so I can beat her, but it's church and it's me. I don't do things like that. Especially in church. By the time I hit the big crack in the sidewalk, Libby is up the front path and has put the key in the front door, barging in like she owns the place. She left the keys in the dead bolt. I hate it when she does that. I think she does it just to bug me. I yank on the brass key, shimmying it out of the lock.

Libby is already in the buffet, elbow-deep in the gumdrop bag. As long as she eats all the black ones, that's o.k. with me. I make my way through the swinging doors to the kitchen with the yellow trellis wallpaper and the French tiles on the floor. As I pass, I look at her as if dessert before lunch was absolutely the most distasteful behavior. It is. She could care less and has shoved another mouthful of gumdrops in her mouth. I take the stool from the back entry, revealing the yellow clogs that house themselves underneath. They are left without their cover of stool-shingling, but just for a bit. I reach up to the Triscuts in the cupboard above the microwave. By the time I replace the stool, Libby has snatched the cheese and is cutting perfectly thin slices with the marble cheese cutter. She's really good at that. Once she asked if she could have it. The cheese cutter, that is. She said, "Aunt, B, when you die, can I have your cheese cutter?" Aunt B just laughed and said, "Well, of course you can!" I couldn't believe she asked that. Even if she thought it, she shouldn't have said it. At least not like that.

The mozzarella block is clean shaven. I take the mild cheddar, place it perfectly square on the marble and lower the wire cutter as evenly as I can. I'm frustrated when it comes out thicker on one side. With the ding of the microwave, it's my turn to take my cheese and crackers on their paper towel Magic Microwave ride. They come out perfectly melty; the cheese all bubbly and warm. Just as I sit down at the table, Libby's wadding up her paper towel and going for the frozen bonbons. She's got chocolate on her face, but I decide not to tell her. It mixes well with the conglomerate of gumdrop colors from her burst-in-the-door-binge.

Aunt B walks in and takes her shoes off. She walks to her bedroom and places them on her shoe rack, full of pumps and walking shoes. I'm going to have a shoe rack like that one day. And I'm definitely going to have a pair of red shoes. Maybe even two. Aunt B comes into the kitchen, happy to see we've helped ourselves. She makes her own lunch, something uninteresting like melba toast with blue cheese, and warm honey-lemon water. She always drinks that. I don't know why. But, she gets to use that honey that comes from a the plastic bear. Mom never lets us buy that kind. I've cleared my place at the banquette, picking up every last crumb - Libby's, too. Then, I go to the freezer and take out one bonbon. Only one. I wanted two, but I only took one. It was the polite thing to do, I think.

Fed and satisfied, we've shut all the doors leading to the hallway with Aunt B's desk and her floor-to-ceiling bulletin board full of family photos. There are three photos of me. One from last school year when my parents were out of town on picture day and our baby-sitter did my hair. It looks ridiculous. I hate that picture. Libby grabs a towel and shoves it up and into the crack between the door and threshold of the bathroom door. Light likes to sneak in sometimes, and we want it to be as dark as possible. We've our drawing pads on our laps- the big ones that we got with Aunt B at the printing department at the University. I've stretched myself out on the floor, my legs extended, my back to the study door. That's my spot. It's always been my spot. It's right across from Aunt B. My drawing pad reaches all the way from my waist down to my ankles. I can see my saddle shoes and ruffled church socks poking out from the bottom. I've got a pencil in my hand - a mechanical one - that's the only kind Aunt B uses. They're kind of fancy. And, you never have to sharpen them. I've turned the end so I have just the right amount of lead.

It's pitch black, and quiet, until Libby breaks the silence. "Wait. Are you here? Where are you?" Aunt B's calm voice comes from the door by the bedroom. "Yes, I'm here. Martha, are you here?" she says, waiting for me to answer."I'm here." Aunt B asks if we're ready. She announces we will now begin. This, is our favorite game. Aunt B tells us what to draw, and we draw it, in the dark. In our shadowless studio. Bears, dogs, boys, girls, boats, cars, trees, boys in trees, girls walking dogs. I'm getting o.k. at bears. I just draw two circles for the body, and four for the arms and legs. The rule is, when B rings the bell, we have to stop. No matter what. Even if we're not done. She gets up and turns the light on and we laugh laugh laugh at the silly things we've drawn. None of the eyes end up on the animal's or the people's heads, and sometimes the cars look like they are driving in the air. Aunt B stoops down to look at each of our twiggy, speckled drawings and says something like, "That's marvelous!" She turns off the light and finds her way back to her dark corner. Libby and I flip forward a page on our larger-than-life drawing pads, and, we start all over again. She's seventy-six, but she knows all the best games. I think drawing in the dark is my favorite.