Free Under the Same Blue Sky by Pamela Schoenewaldt Page B

hotmeals on the days he worked and I’d make him two drawings of Old Havana from his descriptions: one for his shack behind the grocery and one for his camp. We let some days pass to dry out the wood. I borrowed a ladder from my neighbors, the Allens, and he started work on a bright day in early October.
    “See how the brush is gliding,” Ben announced with the first strokes, “like the house wants to be painted.”
    “Hum,” I said, puzzling over a drawing. When I looked up, blue was rising swiftly, leaving the unpainted boards like a little ark floating on water. For the highest swatch under the eaves, I held the ladder as Ben climbed, twitching wildly and muttering: “Stroke, stroke, stroke.” Before sunset, the house was finished, all in one coat. We stood back to admire the glowing sapphire, as perfect as I’d imagined. Who could not want a blue house?
    I set a picnic on the porch: bean and potato soup, beer, bread, and chunks of cheese. Despite his customary scratching, Ben had never seemed so much at ease. I talked about Pittsburgh, my family and friends, the factories, the boys’ war games, and choking smoke. “You were right to come to Galway, Miss Hazel,” he said. What was wrong with this town that they scorned Ben Robinson? When he wasn’t plagued by voices, he was as comforting as a cat.
    “Where did you live before Havana?” Perhaps this time he’d tell me.
    “Different places. My family traveled.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Just—traveling.” He still traveled, from porches to back doors, to the woods and his camp, a man without a home and, I still believe, a man without harm. As the first owls hooted, he stood. “I’m not supposed to bother you at nighttime.”
    “You don’t have to go. Here, let me get you more soup.” I took his bowl, but when I returned, he was gone.
    T HE NEXT DAY , Henry knocked hard on my door. “It’s blue. What happened?”
    “The paint was a gift and Ben did the work.” I described my night visitor.
    “Was he my height, about thirty?”
    “Yes. He said his name was John.”
    Henry’s eyes widened. “John Foster. Where did he go?”
    “He drove away.”
    “Well, that makes sense, at least. There’s a warrant out for his arrest. He didn’t do anything, threaten you?”
    “He asked for water and left the paint. He never came inside. He was very polite.”
    “That’s John,” Henry agreed. “Timid as a rabbit. Until that night.” He looked me up and down and demanded: “How did he know you wanted blue paint?”
    “He wouldn’t say.”
    “That’s crazy. Why would a killer bring paint ?”
    Was I was on trial? I stepped back, annoyed. “Henry, I don’t know. The point is, my house is painted now.”
    “A boy kills two people, he’s gone for years and comes back with paint ? Why?”
    “I don’t understand it myself. Do you want to see Ben’s work?” Henry hung back. “Come around the side.” He followed grudgingly. The paint shone like glass in the bright sun. “It’s a good job, isn’t it?” I prompted.
    “Good enough.”
    Was it so difficult to credit Ben? Made bolder by annoyance, I made Henry touch the warm wood. “Here, feel how smooth it is. One coat. Isn’t that amazing?” Was it the angle at which I held him, or that heresisted me? A tremor shot through my arm, then an ache, as when I’d been drawing for too long.
    “I guess it was good paint.”
    “And here,” I persisted, “there were knots. See how smooth they are.” Again, I made him touch the siding. Henry gave up his hand freely now, staring at me. What was I doing, holding a man’s hand against paint? I dropped it. He rubbed his shoulder. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”
    “No—no, you didn’t hurt me.” Henry reached for the siding again, hand flat on the blue, slowly raising it higher. “Hazel,” he said more softly, “show me where the other knots were.”
    “I don’t remember.” His eyes glittered. My arm ached, and his strange persistence