A Canvas of Years

I’m sitting here, staring at the blank canvas in front of me, and I have no idea what to do.


It always happens like this. I get an idea, something beautiful that buds and flourishes in my brain, and I run upstairs, grab a canvas, sit down at my easel to start the newest painting. And there, with a koala calendar towering over me and old laundry tossed about my room, I lift my brush, thinking, It will be a masterpiece.

People will frame it in galleries and come from all over the world to see the miraculous young artist. They will remember me and this fabulous work of art for year, no, decades! For centuries! They will never forget Oracle Ruthford!

And then I’ll look at the paper again, and that blossoming idea will start to wilt, and I think, I’ll never bring it to life. It’s just a dumb idea that can’t stick to paper, it’s a ridiculous waste of time...

I get up, put away my paints, slink away to do my homework.

Now I’m sitting here again, abstract patterns of dragons and horses fading from my mind, slumped over an easel in my messy room, just silly Oracle with her silly ideas and her silly dreams.

I have a lot of things I never finish. Like when I was in sixth grade, I started designing a barn for my little sister’s toy horses. And in seventh, I gave it up for a magazine destined for world dominance, which I called the Imaginazine. I wrote one page before I realized how expensive it would be to produce, especially since our faithful printer guzzled ink only to burp out half-printed pages as long as three days after the command was given.

I get up and put my pencil in its case. This one canvas, a small white square, has resided on my easel for three months now, completely empty except for a swirly signature that took me days to perfect. The signature that will be on my future world-changing paintings, if they ever get painted...

The next day, school is terrible, like always. My worst enemy, Lucy, and her boyfriend catch me in the hall.

“Oh, it’s Oracle! Hey, what’s my future today?”

“I predict that you’ll be run over by a school bus and three weeks later, I’ll still be here, trying to think of something nice to say at your funeral.”

Lucy winces. “Ooooh, man, Oreo, that was cold. That was an icicle in my heart.”

She limps away, faking it all.

I can’t help pushing people away. I’d just rather sit at my desk, draw the only thing my brain is willing to let me come up with- a penguin with a mustache and top hat that resides on every other page of my math notebook- and slink down the hall to my next class, a quiet little Oracle in the middle of everything.

By the way, I hate my name. It’s not my fault, though. When my mom first saw me, she said “Oh, look at those eyes and that face! She’s going to be a wise one some day!” All cheery and flowery and fake, like always. And my dad, being a sociopath and a psychologist, suggested that I needed a fitting name, something unique and bold to make me a better person.

Well, they can keep coming up with their big, bold names, but as for me, I’m legally changing it first thing when I get out of high school.

When I get home, my mom isn’t there. She’s out with her new boyfriend, Tim.

Dad’s at his own house. My little sister, Golda, is mashing crayons into the table.

Mom will have a fit when she sees that. The baby, Josephine, who I hate more than Brussels sprouts and tank tops, snores in her crib. By now, I can usually expect to come home and see Mom gone, Golda pouting, and a little note reminding me to feed dear little Josie and also the cats and Rufus the dog, and that “Mommy and her friend” will be back by seven.

She literally calls herself “Mommy” in front of us. I don’t know why. As far as I

know, I’ve never called her that, and Golda has started addressing her by her first

name, Julia. Julia Woodworth when she’s mad. MOTHER!!! when she’s about to start

throwing things.

I feed Rufus and the cats, put a pacifier in Josie’s mouth so she won’t start

hollering when she wakes up, and head upstairs to stare at the blank canvas that’s

taunted me for months now.

Another thing I like to do is come up with names for groups of things- like a

bunch of grapes or a school of fish, but I come up with ones that haven’t been

grouped yet, or at least whose group names don’t satisfy me.

An explosion of teenagers. A galaxy of billboards. Blah, blah, blah. It’s the

most useless habit I’ve ever developed, but it’s fun.

It’s a Friday, so I toss my homework in a corner. I’ll get to it later. A new idea is

building up in my head.

My mom and Tim get back. Josie is still asleep, the stupid lump. She’s not my

full sister- her dad is one of my mom’s ex-boyfriends, Frank or Fred or something.

Around the time that Josie was born, Frank-or-Fred was in a car, driving off a cliff,

where his car had gotten out of control on the way to visit his “friend”, Suzette.

My mom climbs up the stairs, calling for me. She finds me slumped in front of

the blank canvas.

“Honey, did you make dinner?”

“Yeah, there’s mac and cheese in the microwave... except I accidentally forgot

to make extra for Tim.”

She frowns at me. “Oh, honey...”

I pick up the paintbrush. “I’m painting! Can’t you see I’m painting?”

She wanders away, looking hurt.

I’m not painting. Of course I’m not painting.

That night, I stay up for hours. Not because I’m thinking, but because I’m not,

because little Oracle has “insomnia and can’t fall asleep at night unless she’s got

something to think about.”

The next morning is Saturday, but my dear worthless brain doesn’t know that,

and I wake up at six a.m. Someone’s come in and placed a cat at the foot of my bed.

I look up, and there’s Golda, curled up on the carpet with another cat eating her hair.

She likes to sleep on the floor of my room. I tolerate her. Golda’s always been a little

weird, anyway.

I tug the soft gray lump off my bed. His claws remain stuck in the blanket, but

he lifts his furry head, yawns, and meows a request. They want to be fed. I pick up

the other cat and carry him downstairs, setting him down in the kitchen, where I pour

hard brown kibbles into the metal bowls and top off their water. Old Rufus shuffles

into the kitchen, blinking at me with his droopy brown eyes. I feed him too and sit

down at the table with a bowl of Cheerios.

The sky is pale gray. A few birds are chirping now, and fat drops of dew roll

down the petals of the roses that Frank-or-Fred planted last year. A stray cat, ragged

and dark, staggers down the road outside. I watch him as he stops to drink from a

clogged storm drain, chews on a splinter from the railing on the neighbor’s steps,

settles down on the grass, a dark patch in the peaceful pale gray.

Another cat, a handsome tabby, charges out the door and leaps down the steps,

snarling and hissing. The dark splotch leaps up, yelping, and rushes away from the

bristling offender. The tabby, plump and glossy, watches as the weary traveler

continues down the road.

An air raid of cats.

Rufus nudges my hand, leaving a line of slime on my pajama pants, like a snail

trail. He wants to go for a walk.

He’s an old, fat dog, part bloodhound and part Rottweiler, and his bony

haunches are scarred from his past, most of it still a mystery to us. We found him

on a traffic island. When we drove closer, he jumped into the bed of the truck like a

natural, and he’s sat there ever since.

I go to get his leash. He watches me, thick tail thumping against the door.

By the time we get out the door, the thick, muffling fog has descended on our

neighborhood, sprinkling tiny drops onto me and Rufus. It’s peaceful, the way the

gray creates a quiet little dome away from the bright, sunny blue that will soon break

through. But already the sun is starting to burn away the top layers, and a few rays

are breaking through, glorious gold streaming through private gray. Out of the corner

of my eye, I see a faint rainbow, the neighbors’ sprinklers mixing with the mist and

sunlight.

Rufus has found something. He digs through a pile of moldy leaves, snuffling,

and produces a long-dead squirrel, roadkill by the looks of it, a few scraps of matted

fur clinging to a broken, bloody body. A black beady eye peers at us, dull and glassy.

“Drop it, Rufus!”

The squirrel thumps to the ground, landing in the soft muck. The eye does not

blink. Rufus drips slobber onto the asphalt.

We walk back home, just as Tim’s sports car pulls out of the driveway. He

waves at me. “Happy Shebat, Orrie!”

He said it wrong. And he should know by know that nobody calls me Orrie.

Besides, while my grandma came from Israel, we dropped the whole religion thing

long ago.

Rufus growls at the glossy red car as it zips down the street.

The stray cat is back, tripping into our yard and settling under a tree. Rufus

doesn’t bat an eye. He’s used to cats now. I send him in and crouch down to get a

better look at the cat.

It’s a tom, small and scrawny with lumpy, dark gray fur. Fleas hop on and off

him. He has unusual eyes, one blue and one yellowish-green. A small, neat nose,

ragged whiskers, part of one ear bitten off, and his whole body is scarred and

misshapen. He looks young, maybe three or four. He has a serious overbite, and his

jaw is crooked. Part of his tongue pokes out of his mouth and a few broken teeth are

showing. A ring of thinner fur around his neck indicates that he had a collar once, a

too-tight collar, and when I hold out my hand, he sniffs it eagerly, then licks my palm,

looking for food. He’s very skinny. His ribs jut out from his matted fur.

I make a little clucking sound, and he hobbles forward. “Merrrl?”

He’s holding one of his back legs awkwardly. It’s tucked under his belly, like it

would be if he were lying down, but he’s not. He keeps it bunched up even as he

walks.

He butts his head into my hand.

“Hang on, kitty, I’ll get you some food.”

I run inside, praying that he’ll stay put- not that he can walk very quickly with that

leg- and fill a paper bowl with cat food. I bring it outside, and he’s already smelled it.

He dances at my feet and I set the bowl down under a tree. He inhales the food and

crawls into my lap, purring like the rusty old washing machine in the basement, and

beams at me adoringly. This was definitely a housecat at some time, and a special

one too. He knows what it’s like to be loved.

I pet him gently, trying to get a better look at his leg. “You know what, cat, I

think I’d better take you to the vet. I think you need a checkup. And maybe you need

to get neutered too. You wait here, okay?”

I walk back into the house. “Mom? Can we take this stray cat I found to the

vet?”

“I’m curling my hair right now, sweets. You can go by yourself. I trust you.

Take Golda with you, okay?”

Her automatic response. She probably doesn’t hear the rest of my question,

just the can I go, can we go, I need to go somewhere, which triggers something in her

brain and she says sure, sure, just everybody get out of the house, okay! Have fun!

I’m technically still fifteen, but my grandpa taught me to drive soon after I turned

thirteen, so it’s no biggie. Besides, I look like a seventeen-year-old.

I call Golda. Eight minutes later, she appears at the top of the stairs with oven

mitts and a cat carrier. My weird little sister, always prepared. She’s almost ten, and

as far as I can remember, she’s never said a word to me. To my mom and dad and

Frank-or-Fred and Tim, sometimes. Me, never. I honestly forget that she can even

talk, sometimes.

“Are you ready?”

She turns around. “Julia! My sister and I are going now!”

She never calls me by my name, either. I think it’s because she feels sorry for

me, having a name like Oracle. I mean, Golda is bad enough.

We walk outside. The cat mews pitifully. Golda gasps a little. From fear or

excitement or sadness, I can’t tell.

We don’t need to use the oven mitts. The cat sees the carrier and his bent-up

tail perks. He marches right in and curls up, oblivious to his fate.

I drive out to the nearest vet’s office, a quiet little place buried in trees. There

are five doctors there. Our favorite is Doctor Marissa, the head of the place. She has

a rescued parrot named Marigold who hollers swear words at all her patients. They

hand out earplugs at the front door. Golda takes three.

Dr. Marissa greets us at the desk. “Hello, Oracle! Hello, Golda!” She sees the

cat, grinning at her from the cage, and doesn’t skip a beat. “Hello, little fella!”

 She leads us into the room where they do checkups. There’s only one, and

also an emergency room. I set the carrier on the metal table, and the cat spills out,

beaming at us. I swear, he hasn’t stopped smiling since I picked him up. It might just

be the overbite, though.

“So, who is this?”

Golda and I look at each other. Golda speaks up first.

“My sister says this is Mr. Friendly.”

Mr. Friendly... not what I’d have picked, but it suits him.

Mr. Friendly smiles at us. He likes the name, too.

Dr. Marissa nods. “All right, girls, I’m just going to take a quick look at Mr.

Friendly here, and then we’ll do some X-rays. I can definitely see that there’s

something wrong with his leg.”

She checks all over him, running her fingers through his fur and frowning as

fleas bounce out onto the table, listening to his heart and breathing, checking his eyes,

his ears (later announced to be the nastiest ears she’s ever seen), his nose, and

finally his mouth, the crooked jaw and weird teeth and sandpaper tongue. He purrs

the whole time, even when she feels his injured leg and pokes him with a needle.

Finally, she takes some X-rays in another room which we’re not allowed to enter.

“Well, girls, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that our Mr.

Friendly appears to be in mostly good health, aside from an infection in one of his ears

and some serious breath problems. The bad news is about this leg injury here. It

looks to me like his leg was run over by a car or motorcycle. It’s been sitting for a

while, and while trying to mend, the bone began to grow out towards his skin. This

might be because he was constantly walking and running on it, maybe right after the

accident. Basically, this means that sooner or later the bone will break through his

skin, which will not be pretty. He probably won’t be able to use that leg again, and a

serious infection could also start up. So, pretty much the only option is to amputate

the whole leg.”

Golda looks at me. I look at Mr. Friendly. He’s already been walking on three

legs for what looks like a while. It probably wouldn’t make much of a difference to him.

I look back at Dr. Marissa. “Yeah, let’s do that. And I think he needs to be

neutered, too.”

She nods. “That was the right choice, Oracle. I can promise you he’ll be back

on his feet within a week. We’ll need to keep him a few days, though. Until

Wednesday, I’d say. And he’ll go home with some pills- just antibiotics and stuff that

he’ll need to take for a while. Is that okay?”

We agree. Mr. Friendly purrs. Marigold swears.

Dr. Marissa scoops the cat back into his crate, lifting his front paw to wave at us.

Mr. Friendly does not say goodbye, but he gives us a ferocious smile. Dr.

Marissa brings him into the back room and comes back out. We pay her- only a

hundred bucks, which might seem like a lot, but it really isn’t. Not for a leg amputation

and a neutering. I have way more than that- allowance saved up over years- in my

own bank account. To top it off, Marigold pulls herself together and squawks

goodbye, and the cheerful receptionist gives us cat-shaped erasers.

Golda’s quiet during the drive home. I talk to her about my painting problem

and Mr. Friendly and the fog that morning and Rufus’s slime trails. When we pull into

the driveway, Golda walks over to the chipped garden gnome, George, and kneels

down next to it.

“Tell my sister that the canvas doesn’t want to paint itself because it’s a lazy...”

She starts spouting swear words there, then gets up, brushes off her pants, and walks

inside without me.

I wander upstairs and sit down in front of the stubborn white canvas. She’s

right; it doesn’t want to paint itself. I need to stop staring at it and just paint whatever

comes to my mind, before it drifts away again. So I grab a memory, dip my paintbrush

in, and start.

While I paint, I think of more group names. A birdcage of swear words. A

garden gnome of secrets. A canvas of memories.

So many things, randomly mashed together, but it makes sense to me.

When Mr. Friendly strolls into the kitchen groomed, flea-bathed, bright-eyed and

three-legged, the cats don’t bat an eye. They’re used to it.

He seems to like the picture hanging peacefully on the wall.