Chapter 1
THE GIRL WHO CRIED WOLF
by
David Toth
The final brush stroke on the final drawing of a book is always a mixed blessing. It is the height of the creative trance for which there is no substitute, but it’s also the end of it. Julie puts her brush down and regards the drawing not as an illustrator, but as a reader.
The last image in a children’s book must be the strongest one. The opening can drag, even children will forgive a slow build, but the theme (Julie would never stoop to the vulgarity of calling it a message) must resonate with young readers enough to make them want to read the sequel.
The Penguin Who Went South is no exception. Harold, the land-bound protagonist, proudly wears the sombrero the Mexican villagers, his adopted family, have given him. The sun is setting behind him and his expression is equal measure defiant and mischievous.
Julie leaves the space under the drawing blank. She has not made up her mind whether she will end the book with narration, or dialogue. She ponders whether she should darken the shadows under the brim of Harold’s sombrero when the phone rings.
The sound startles her; her Smartphone synchs to the house speakers automatically. The call means that it’s four o’clock already. She had been in a trance for almost two hours.
She presses the Accept Call button. Jeffrey’s sonorous baritone fills her studio.
“Jeffrey. I didn’t realize how late it was.”
“What have you been doing?” A hint of suspicion in his voice, magnified by the phone speakers.
Julie fiddles with her eraser.
“Reading.”
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
Jeffrey had given her a book about the archeological treasures buried underneath London. He saw her leafing through it in the British Museum gift shop during their European vacation last summer. She never made it past the first chapter.
“Fascinating,” she says.
Ask the question.
“How are you feeling?”
“Swell.”
“Have you been drawing?”
“No.”
“I know it’s hard. Not being able to work.”
“It’s not work to me.”
“You know what I mean. This is the best thing. Dr. Portnow said that with time, your brain will adjust.”
“The sooner the better.”
“One day at a time.”
“How’s Denver?”
“Cold and lonely.”
“Fall colors down here. High sixties.”
“I’m jealous.”
“I think I’ll ride my moped over to Granny’s house instead of taking a cab.”
“Why are you going to her house?”
“Annette called in sick.”
“Can’t you call someone else from the agency?”
“I don’t want to. I haven’t seen her since…I came home. I made her a care package. Bread, cheese, cold cuts––”
“Should she be eating cheese?”
“She’s had a stroke, she’s not lactose intolerant.”
Jeffrey skips over her zinger. Sarcasm is one of many bad habits he does not indulge.
“I don’t like the idea of you going by yourself. Much less on a motorcycle.”
“It’s a Vespa. Top speed of forty and that’s downhill with the wind behind you.”
“It’s a deserted stretch of road.”
“I’m going and that’s all there is to it. Even Dr. Portnow said I need to do start doing things on my own.”
“I don’t think being dependent on others is a problem for you.”
“Then what is?”
“It’s just a figure of speech, Julie. Call me as soon as you get back.”
Julie says nothing.
“I’m serious.”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
I know.
“Me, too.”
