Fourteen-year-old Helen Chalouf fluffed her blonde finger
curls, smoothed her pencil skirt, and skipped out of Munsonville Inn, the
latest stop on her parents’ full-scale “capture John Simons” tour. She was more
than ready for a root beer float at Sue’s Diner, ecstatic to leave the stuffy
dining room, where the latest John Simons 78 RPM played on the new victrola,
and dying to flip through the latest edition of “Film Fan,” currently tucked
under her arm.
A bell jangled when she
opened the diner’s door, announcing her arrival. Male heads swerved in her
direction and nodded in greeting and approval. She acknowledged them with a toss
of her pretty head and a half smile as she scanned the room. Counter or table? Five
men sat at the counter, munching triangular sandwiches or slurping coffee and
smoking cigarettes. Helen’s parents always warned her of the dangers of sitting
alone at a counter full of men. Helen worried more about the passive taste of
tobacco in her ice cream. Besides, she needed room for both the float and the
magazine. So she sauntered to an off-center table, settling into the west-facing
chair, the better to survey and be surveyed. Finally, she set her magazine in
front of her, smoothing the wrinkles from the cover.
“Root beer float,” Helen
told the pony-tailed young waitress before the waitress opened her mouth to
ask.
The waitress nodded,
scribbled, and scurried away. Helen leisurely leafed through the pages until
she came to the spread in the center: The Private Life of Willy Baxter.
Helen barely noticed when
the waitress returned with her float; she’d sunk that far into the exclusive
interview with photos that showcased Willy’s dreamy eyes. As Helen alternately sipped
the cold drink through the straw and sucked each fizzy frozen bite off her
spoon, she absorbed Willy’s early dreams of medical school, his journey to
Hollywood, and why he preferred blonde-haired woman above all others. Willy wasn’t
some old stuffy pianist, Helen thought as she traced his black and white image
with an adoring index finger, a has-been who’d crumble to ash if the spotlight
shone too brightly on him. Willy was real, relevant talent. Helen rudely set
her elbow on the tabletop and leaned her cheek on her palm, gazing past the
constraints of the diner into her future as Mrs. Willy Baxter.
“Like my wall?” a gruff
voice said.
Helen’s arm slid onto her
lap, and her face grew hot as she jerked into present time and place. An old
man with a droopy face stood patiently at her left, leaning on his cane and
waiting for her reply.
“Your wall? What wall?”
she asked, bewildered, darting her eyes around the room.
She saw it as soon as the
words left her mouth. The entire west wall was covered with an array of colors,
swirls, and jots – typical of childish scribblings – on random pieces of
cardboard, lined notebook paper, the blank side of circulars, paper napkins,
and backs of old envelopes.
“Yes, my wall.” He
gestured with his free hand. “Take a closer look.”
The man tapped his way
across the room. Helen quickly slurped the rest of her float, grabbed her
magazine, and reluctantly followed him, annoyed that he pulled her from such
pleasant imaginings. The pictures, fastened in place with yellow cellophane tape,
were even more hideous up close. The young artist was obviously too sheltered,
judging by his choice of subject matter. Helen’s eyes roamed over drawings of coat
hooks, cottages, chair backs, cigarette lighters, a halved apple, an upside
down mop, pots on stove burners, the back of an alarm clock, partially open
boxes, silhouettes of birds in the sky, tinned food on counters, a flower bud,
clouds, a tree stump, a toad, scattered wildflowers in the grass, customer
meals arranged for serving…
Whatever hatchling – or
hatchlings – sketched and sloppily colored these crude images with number two
pencils and cheap crayons clearly lacked any artistic abilities. As in none.
Zero. Zilch.
Helen opened her mouth to
say so, but the man with the cane turned to her, beaming with pride. “My boy
Steve made these. They’re impressive, aren’t they?”
Her laugh rang out before
she realized it. Delusion obviously infected all of Munsonville. Well, she
could squelch it – even as her parents would greatly profit from it.
“Impressive?” Helen
snickered. “They’re terrible, even for a child.”
The old man’s expression
didn’t change. “Do you really think so?” He held out his hand. “Name is Barnes.
Sam Barnes. You may call me Sam. Welcome to my diner.”
Helen accepted the
handshake with even less enthusiasm than Sam had offered it – and he was very
unenthusiastic, too, engaging her with a forced politeness. Well, he should
have left her alone with Willy Baxter.
Sam snapped his finger on
the first drawing. “So tell me. Why is this terrible?”
“The line quality is poor
and hastily drawn,” Helen blurted without thinking, automatically repeating the
words Helen’s own art teacher dropped on her before she and her parents
embarked on their tour.
“I see,” Sam said
thoughtfully, gaze glued to the wall. “But the composition is remarkable, don’t
you think?”
“Not really.”
Sam frowned as his eyes
swept over the scrawls “Maybe you’re standing at the wrong angle.” He faced her
again, this time with a genuine smile. “Try stepping back a few paces.”
“Changing the angle won’t
change my opinion.”
“Are your parents as
narrowminded as you?”
Helen blinked at the
abrupt change in topic. “My – parents?”
“Yes, Edward and Florence
Chalouf.”
“How…how do you know
them?” Helen stammered, taken back that this strange man knew her parents’
names. She hadn’t even sat at the counter!
“I don’t know them. I
know of them. They spent the morning talking to Briana Miller.” He grinned slyly.
“For their book?”
That grin rankled her.
“That’s right, Sam,”
deliberately ignoring the fact that he was ancient, and she was only fourteen. Quickest
way to kick him into place, she decided. “We are touring the country, talking
to anyone with firsthand accounts of John Simons.”
“That’s an expensive
undertaking.”
“Oh, we have plenty of
money.” Helen shrugged as if she never concerned herself about money. “Metropolitan
Oil Company is sponsoring them.”
“Well, then, they should
talk to him.” Sam pointed to a table in the rear corner, where a short, hunched
man with heavy, thick-rimmed black glasses and dark hair slicked to one side
was twirling spaghetti onto his fork and reading a newspaper. Beside his plate
sat a pipe.
Helen sniffed. “Why
should they talk to him?”
“Dr. Rothgard’s parents
knew John Simons and often visited him at Simons Mansion when Bryony was alive.”
“Where are his parents
now?”
“Dead,” Dr. Rothgard boomed
in a cold voice, which cut through – and then silenced – the chatter of the
other patrons.
Helen rewarded him with her
best icy stare. She knew his type. They encountered it in every town, people so
hungry for publicity that they begged for it. “Then, good doctor, they won’t be
interested in talking with you. Their book is for firsthand accounts only.”
“I see.” Dr. Rothgard set
his fork down and closed his newspaper.
“Look, mister, I’m sure
your parents told you many stories, maybe even fascinating stories. But my
parents can’t put just any story in their book. The stories can only come from
firsthand accounts. That is the only way to verify them. Accuracy is especially
important to my parents – and to their sponsor.”
“I see.” Dr. Rothgard lit
his pipe and puffed reflectively. “And how will your parents verify Briana’s
information, to ensure its accuracy?”
Helen
flushed at his arrogance and persistence. Anyone else would slink away by now.
She looked to Sam for help. But Sam was now leaning on the counter, chatting to
a customer. The other patrons had paused their eating to watch the show.
“I
guess Briana knew what she saw,” Helen shot back. “Besides, my parents are very
perceptive. They know when sources are lying if that’s what you’re implying.”
Dr.
Rothgard puffed in silence. She sure showed him! But then he rose and shuffled
across the room – all eyes following each movement – until he reached Helen.
“Perceptive, eh?” he
asked, monitoring her closely. “Perception is a rare, exquisite quality. A pity
– or perhaps a blessing – more people aren’t perceptive.” He waved his hand
over the artwork, but his gaze never left her face. “Perhaps you inherited your
perception from your parents.”
“Don’t even try insulting
me! Anyone with half an eyeball can tell these doodlings are ugly.”
“Yet, you’re the only
person in this room with that viewpoint.”
“Are you surprised? Perception
picks up subtle details most people never notice.”
“Such as?”
“Details right in front
of your nose!” Helen tossed her head again. “I know things about you most
people don’t – just by looking at you!”
“What might those details
be?”
A slight cunning appeared
in his green eyes. Helen blinked and shook her head. Nope, just plain green
eyes. She’d sparred with him too long. Time to end it.
“OK, mister, since you
asked for it, here goes! You’re a man who likes long walks – exceptionally long
walks, miles and miles of walks – deep into the woods. So there!”
A hush spread through the
room.
Dr. Rothgard lowered his
pipe, pausing either in stupefaction or for effect; Helen couldn’t decide.
Finally he asked, “And how did your arrive at that conclusion?”
“It’s easy. Your shoes,
for one. Or should I say boots? Very special boots. Your boots are made with
thick leather and rubber cleats, caked with mud. I noticed that under the table
the moment you started speaking. Not the type of boots a doctor might wear to
see patients.”
“I see.”
“And the cuffs of your
pants are permanently stained with grass.” Helen pointed at the offending
fabric. Dr. Rothgard’s eyes followed. “They stains are faint where someone
tried scrubbing them out – but definitely there.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“You don’t want to hear
anything else I have to say.”
“But I do. I really,
truly do.” Dr. Rothgard took a step forward. “This is most interesting.”
“Fine. You’re a phony.”
A chorus of objections
rose from random tables. Dr. Rothgard held his hand up for quiet. “Let the
little girl talk.” His gaze never left her face. “What led you to that
conclusion?”
“Your fingers are dusky,
like my grandpa’s before he died. It’s a sure sign you’re lacking hemoglobin. So
you’re a doctor who can’t fix himself. And your black hair is colored with hair
dye. This tells me you’re older than you try to appear. That makes you a phony.
You are the very last person my parents want to interview. You’re not a
firsthand report. And you’re a phony.”
“I see.” Dr. Rothgard
resumed puffing.
Helen suddenly felt
herself relenting. Maybe she was too hard on him. After all, he was just a
country bumpkin doctor amusing himself by toying with her mind, a consolation
for failing at buying himself fame on John Simons’ name.
“I’m not trying to brag,”
Helen said, softly but with great authority, hoping she sounded sympathetic to
his position. “But my parents are skilled in human motivation and behavior.
They have an uncanny ability to notice details. I picked it up from them.”
“I see. Well, it’s not
the first time cognitive bias has led to ruin. Vicki, I’m ready to settle my
bill.”
. A lanky, gap-toothed
woman with frizzy hair scurried to the cash register. Helen’s sympathy fled;
her cheeks flushed, and her chest tightened; and she forgot decorum and grabbed
his arm. “What do you mean,” Helen hissed, “by ‘cognitive bias?’”
Dr. Rothgard gently
extricated himself and reached for his wallet. “You saw what you wanted to see.
You drew the conclusions you wanted to draw. Cognitive bias.” He opened his wallet and removed a crisp five
dollar bill.
“Which means what?”
Helen demanded hotly.
Dr. Rothgard pointed to
the art wall. “One picture is worth a thousand words. Or in this case, one good
interview is worth a thousand stories.” He called out with a wave, “Sam, I’ll
return mid-week.”
Sam returned the wave
with a smile, and Dr. Rothgard strolled out the door, which jingled its farewell,
leaving Helen to stand like a fool, gaping like an idiot. What just happened? How
did she lose to this creep? Helen stopped the waitress on her way to the
kitchen. “What is he talking about? What did I miss?”
With a benevolent smile,
the waitress led Helen to the middle of the room and off to one side but still
in full view of the artwork. “Do you see it?” she kindly asked Helen.
“See what?”
“The smile in every picture.
That’s why Steve drew them. Each item, if you look closely, has the semblance
of a face. A smiling face.”
The waitress headed
toward the kitchen. With a loud HUMPH, Helen folded her arms and studied each
photo. The screws on coat hooks. The alignment of windows and doors on the cottages.
The carvings in the chair backs. The emblems on the cigarette lighters. The halved
apple with its seeds. The nails and open space in the upside down mop. The
arrangement of pots on stove burners. The cutouts on the back of the alarm
clock. The flaps on the partially open boxes. The silhouettes of birds in the
air. The ordering of tinned food on counters. The pieces of the open flower bud.
The positioning of clouds in the sky. The rotted pieces of wood on the tree
stump. The open-mouthed toad. The way wildflowers scattered over the grass. The
customer meals arranged on trays for serving. Smiles in every drawing.
Now that Helen saw it,
she couldn’t unsee it. She glanced at the closed door, where Dr. Rothgard had exited
just minutes ago. Then she tossed her head and stomped out of the diner. A
child’s drawings had nothing in common with her parents’ book. And they had
nothing to do with her keen assessment of Dr. Rothgard. He was nothing more
than a stupid, attention-seeking idiot. Helen congratulated herself for putting
him into his well-deserved place.
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