Draw Me A Picture (4 page)

“I’m eternally grateful to you both,” Michelle said, meaning every syllable. Patting the young woman on the shoulder, Samuel put his cap back on and straightened it.

“I’ll take warm beer over wine any day,” he said, plaintively. Michelle smiled.

“Indeed,” she said. “I hope you have a wonderful time.”

“You too, Miss Michelle.” Michelle took his hand and shook it; Samuel wasn’t the hugging type, but then neither was she. The middle-aged security guard turned back to his duty, giving her a small salute. Michelle returned his wave and jubilantly resumed her errand, which was now infused with added incentive. It would feel odd to walk closely among strangers, all evening and in one room but the prospect of seeing those particular paintings... to gaze at them as long as she wanted stole away any feelings of reserve. Now, if she could just find something to wear...

The woman behind the Good Will counter looked bored with life; she took no notice of incoming customers and continued reading her magazine. Michelle secured a cart and passed the counter with an inward glee; nothing was going to dampen her excitement. There were just a few shoppers; the hour was yet early. Slowly and carefully, Michelle perused racks of coats with a savor only the unfortunate know. This particular store had access to some of the finer neighborhoods in the city and was thereby able to stock its shelves with mostly quality items. Feeling thick wools and fluffy fleeces, Michelle thought it was tragic that the affluent men and women whom donated these fine items probably didn’t have a clue how much happiness their cast-off clothing brought.

“If they only knew,”
she thought, shaking her head. “
At least the clothes aren’t being thrown out or put into storage, where no one can use them.”
 

A hint of bright blue caught Michelle’s eye. Buried between a tawny, fringed monstrosity and a black dinner jacket hung a long, rich-blue pea coat. Digging it out, Michelle looked over every inch of it with a critical eye. The wool was thick and exquisite; there was a small tear in the right sleeve and some of the dark blue buttons were missing; it came down past Michelle’s knees. It was perfect. Michelle knew she had buttons enough to replace the missing ones, but she was more concerned with the coat’s price; it was well made and it had certainly cost a pretty penny brand new. Flipping over the price tag, Michelle breathed a sigh of relief. For twelve dollars, she could be the proud owner of a very nice, warm coat.

Happily, she put it in her little cart. For a few dollars more, she found a new set of warm, white fleece gloves and a fluffy, white, fleece beret. Thick socks were found, warm leggings and thermals. Wool sweaters were available in abundance and Michelle quickly found two that would service her well. Having found all her necessary things, Michelle made her way towards the check-out. The dress rack, however, beckoned; Michelle did not resist.

“Just a look,” she thought, a smile playing around her mouth. It had been such a long time since she’d had an occasion to dress up for.

After a half hour of careful searching, she found a long, pale pink gown, the color of slightly blushing roses. It had a low, square neck and long, slim sleeves; it looked almost medieval. Though it was not brand new, Michelle decided after dry cleaning and a few judicious alterations, it would look very well.

“I’m glad I kept a pair of heels,” she thought with satisfaction. Slowly, she walked to the check stand with her treasures. Standing in line, Michelle tapped her foot with a huge smile on her face; she could not wait to get home.

Once back in her hotel room, she turned the pink gown inside out and tried it on. It felt a little stiff, like it had been recently starched; a few alterations were necessary and dry-cleaning. At her mother's insistence, Michelle had taken sewing classes as a teenager, at  a local fabric store. Right now, she was very glad she had taken them; with a bit of skill, and restraint, even a second-hand dress could become an elegant gown. Smiling, Michelle thought of the Cinderella movie and chuckled at the thought of mice and birds altering a dress. She threaded a needle with light pink thread, unconsciously humming a Disney song.

An hour later, Michelle clipped her thread and took out the last pins from the gown; hanging it up, she  started mending the coat sleeve coat. Carefully pinning the torn sides right-side-together, she selected strong , thick thread somewhat close to the coats' blue hue. With the aid of a thimble, she pulled the needle in and out of the fabric in a series of tiny 'whip' stitches. Satisfied the repair seam would not unravel, Michelle began clipping the existing buttons from the coats' bright, blue surface.

Digging in her sewing basket, Michelle located an old, metal, hinged box that had once contained bath-salts. It was filled with hundreds of buttons of every shape and size. Her Gramma Betty had started the ‘button box’ when she was a young bride; it was passed down to Michelle’s mother and then to herself. After searching several minutes, Michelle found some antique, silver-plated buttons with thistles embossed on them, all tied together with thread. There were more than enough of them to replace the coat’s buttons. Sewing these on Michelle felt unusually industrious.

With care she hung her pink gown and the newly-mended coat on hangers. Leaving her room she took the stairs down to the first level, making her way to the laundry. A Mrs. Carlyle was section manager there. Michelle had met her briefly when she first came to live on the second floor; since the young guest hardly used the laundry service Mrs. Carlyle did not mind taking the two items along with the evening dry-cleaning.

Thanking her, Michelle jogged back up to her floor and did the rest of her laundry herself. She spent a happy hour putting away the new clothes. As she closed the armoire’s doors, relief washed over her like a warm tide; winter’s rage and icy threats seemed lessened already by the simple shield of warm clothing. Michelle gave in to closing her blinds, turning on her CD player and waltzing around her room for a few minutes. Chuckling softly at herself, Michelle shut off the music.

“Once in awhile, one must dance,” she murmured.

THE FOLLOWING day Michelle planned on quitting the streets early. Patrick absorbed her happy news of the art-show tickets with a straight face, but Michelle knew he was pleased. Her suspicions were confirmed when she presented him with her spare ticket; he held it close a moment, then grinned.

“I’ll have to find my ‘dinner jacket’,” he said, his eyes twinkling merrily.  “I hope they put on a good spread.” Michelle laughed softly as this.

“More likely there will only a few, tiny hors d’oeuvres and champagne; nothing substantial,” she said. Patrick shook his head.

“Well, then I’ll see if I can make it,” he said, rubbing his beard. “You never know, something else might come up.”

“I hope you do. I am looking forward to going by myself,” Michelle stated, happily. “No one to distract me... or tell me that they think Monet is over-rated. So what if he was half-blind? He still painted the most beautiful pictures… and when I look at them, they fill my mind with breezy thoughts of sunshine, of idyllic afternoons and naps in flower-scented gardens...”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Patrick agreed. “If I see you I’ll just sagely nod and move on, like them aristocratic rich folk do.” He lifted his chin a little and played a few bars of 'Pomp and Circumstance' on his guitar. Laughing, Michelle put an orange in his guitar-case and packed up her display. The opening of the Monet exhibit began in little over two hours. There was just enough time to get ready.

An hour later Michelle leaned into her armoire, searching for her pair of fancy shoes; a sharp knock came at her door when. Peering out the peephole, Michelle saw Mrs. Carlyle from the laundry downstairs; the woman held two garment bags. Taking out one of her precious five-dollar bills, Michelle slipped on sweatshirt and opened the door. The woman handed her the clothes and smiled at the tip. Thanking her, Michelle closed the door. She laid the bulkier coat down on her bed and eagerly took off the plastic garment bag covering the pale pink dress.

The gown looked much improved; the cleaning had left it very soft and smoothly pressed. She wanted to try it on right away, but her hair was still wet from showering. Laying the gown carefully on the bed, Michelle disappeared into the bathroom. As quickly as possible, she dried and brushed her hair; taking out her curling iron from the cabinet, Michelle put soft curls on the ends of her long, reddish-brown tresses. Carefully parting her hair on the far, right side, she tucked the front ends behind her ears and pinned them, allowing the rest of her hair to tumble down her shoulders in a shiny, bouncy fountain. Holding her breath, she slipped into her gown. Michelle looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, feeling an odd sensation of nervousness.

The dress did look well; the design seemed lovely in its simple lines. The color blended well with her skin tone, giving her a healthy glow and her eyes blazed out pale gold, with a hint of green. Encouraged, Michelle brought out her makeup box, something she hardly ever wore anymore. She dabbed on a little foundation, powder and thinly lined her eyes with brown liner, using similarly-shaded mascara. Clear lip gloss finished out her makeup job and Michelle was happy with the results. Looking critically in the mirror Michelle almost didn’t recognize herself; a healthier, prettier girl looked back at her.

“I have not seen you in a long time,” she told her reflection.

Donning her coat, Michelle slid on the new white hat and gloves, reveling in their warmth. The coat felt as good as it looked. The silver buttons thereon twinkled in the soft light. Michelle found a pair of nylons and her high heels. The dress almost covered her shoes, but she'd had seen long gowns like this recently in store windows. Modesty was apparently 'in' again.

“Lucky me,” Michelle said to herself. “I get to be fashionable and warm.” The thought pleased her. Glancing at the clock, she grabbed her ticket and put it carefully in her coats inside pocket. She put the tube of lip gloss in her other pocket, deciding against taking her purse. What would be the point? Purse snatchers scuttled about in the shadows of these gala events, though Michelle reasoned they’d not bother her. She looked nice,not wealthy.

Stepping out the door Michelle hesitated at the familiar stairwell entrance. Turning around, she walked all the way down the hall to the main elevator. Normally--dressed in her street clothes and carrying her vending display--she never took the elevator; she did not want to bring any ill-repute to Mr. Chan or the hotel because of her appearance. Tonight, she felt equal to everyone.

The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside, earning a smile from a young man dressed entirely in black Armani. She stood away from him in the other corner. After a few moments the man cleared his throat; Michelle suspected it was a signal to converse but ignored it. She smiled down at the floor until the doors opened in the lobby. Her fellow passenger motioned for her to precede him and Michelle walked out into the grand foyer. She resisted the temptation to
sashay
.

The Waldorf-Astoria lobby was famous for its décor. Elegant, professionally designed seasonal touches graced almost every surface, applied by people who were paid far too much. Michelle knew this for fact; she’d seen the receipts. Smiling, she walked on and admired the view. The lovely sight invoked a soft sigh from the young woman; the fall-themed garlands, classical furniture and twinkling chandeliers spoke pleasant promises of comfort to visitors, calling them onward to the more expensive rooms upstairs. Despite the luxury presented, Michelle felt happy with her little room; she had no bill to pay at the end of her stay.

Heading out one of the front doors, Michelle halted as icy air enveloped her; freezing air. Her breath turned into an opaque cloud before her face, looking almost solid. Though most of her person was nestled in the new coat, Michelle could feel the chill wrap around her throat.

“Should’ve worn a muffler,”
she silently chided herself. The valet, well-wrapped against the night air asked if he could call her a cab. Michelle was tempted but shook her head; it was simply too great a luxury. The subway was her carriage for the evening, at a fraction of the cost. Walking was the cheapest but the
museum was forty-two blocks away.
 

“No use arriving at the gallery drenched in sweat,”
she thought, descending the subways steps.
 

Outside the Guggenheim, a line of cabs, cars and limos stretched around the corner; horns beeped loudly and the vehicles jostled for attention from the valets. Suddenly glad to be a pedestrian, Michelle joined the short queue of people outside the main entrance. Bright banners hung from the building on poles emblazoned with the name of the famous French impressionist; two, huge searchlights pointed straight into the sky on either side of the entrance, as if to say 'Monet has arrived'. Lovely couples strolled up and down the wide, white staircase, looking as if they did this every day.

Waiting in line Michelle nervously clutched her ticket; so many people standing nearby put her a little on edge. Even though she walked back and forth to her corner in a huge crowd every day, this was different; the commuting people she’d never see again, but these fellow art-enthusiasts would be holed up in a room with her for the next few hours, brushing up against her and possibly attempting conversation. Michelle took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. In spite of her anti-social tendencies, she knew it was good for her to fight it and mingle with humans.

“Nobody knows who I am, or what I do,”
she thought.
 

The couple in front of her moved forward; Michelle noticed the bottom of the woman’s black dress dragged slightly on the ground, effectively picking up the dust. Little crystals sewn all over the fabric clinked as the woman moved. Smiling, Michelle wondered how much the man had paid for his wife to wear a sparkly dust-mop. The couple ahead of her handed their tickets to the doorman and went inside. Doubts inundated Michelle as she approached the doorman and guards. What if she was here on the wrong night? What if the ticket was no good? Maybe Mabel’s sister had bought them from some con-artist making forgeries? What if...