Falling by Anne Simpson

a while he got up and unrolled one of the sheets of paper he’d brought with him, paper that his mother had urged him to bring along. Sitting on the bedroom floor, he clipped the paper to his drawing board and sharpened a few pencils with a bone-handled knife. He put the drawing board against his drawn-up knees, shutting his eyes to recall the exact shadows caused by the way the light fell, the bright tulips of the apron, the sarong under it, the shapely brown hands, gleams of hair.
    The last time he’d drawn anything he’d been at Adam’s uncle’s hunting cabin. The day he’d arrived was the third of April, but it had snowed thickly, so the whiteness had clung to every branch of the birches just outside. He’d had a vivid dream that first night, and he’d wrapped himself in a musty-smelling orange-and-brown afghan and wandered into the kitchen. The fire in the woodstove had gone out, and, starting it again, he found himself fully awake. Bits and pieces of his dream came back. Lisa, standing on a stool, dressed in a blue satin gown that made her look years older. His mother pinning up the hem of the dress. A dance. Trevor coming to pick her up. He could see Lisa so clearly it was as if she were standing in front of him.
    He’d found a pencil in a drawer in the kitchen of the cabin. He took one of the newspapers off the stack by the woodstove, opened it, and drew across the photograph of the high-school basketball team. Lisa, in a strapless dress with a small rhinestone brooch at the front. Standing on a stool, yes, that was it. In the dream there hadn’t been enough time to pin the dress and hem it – the lack of time had been the problem, he realized. In the dream, both his mother and sister had been upset because of it. His drawing became more frenzied: he drew Lisa’s arms, her neck, the sparkling brooch, her neat, small ears, her hair twisted up into a knot at the back of her head.
    He wasn’t drawing Lisa now. He had all the paper he could ask for, and good, freshly sharpened drawing pencils. If he half closed his eyes, he could see the girl again. He was motionless for a few moments before he opened his eyes and began drawing swiftly. After that he didn’t stop, and itwas a full half-hour before he set down the drawing board against the wall and stepped back. The eyes were too close-set, and the lips – the lips were too full. It wasn’t even a ghost of what he’d seen. He gave a snort of disgust. He’d have to see her again to get it right, he thought, sprawling across his bed. It was almost afternoon when he went downstairs, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
    He heard voices outside the kitchen, and then Roger came in, setting a trowel in the bucket by the kitchen door, taking off his gardening gloves and putting them, one at a time, on the edge of the bucket. He stood up, turning more or less in Damian’s direction.
    You slept in, he said.
    How’d you know I was here?
    My extraordinary powers of perception. What happened with Elvis last night? He shuffled to the sink.
    We went out.
    Out?
    Well, he took off and I went after him.
    I wondered if that might happen.
    Damian watched how his uncle fumbled with the cabinet door and ran his hand along the shelf before he found a glass.
    He likes you, Damian. But he’ll do all kinds of things to test you.
    I can see that.
    Roger ran some water into the glass and drank it.
    You have to be careful if you come into his life. Know what I mean?
    I think so.
    The thing is that the two of us – we’re at a turning point. He doesn’t like that. Nobody likes that.A big man stood in the doorway of the Ornamental Hand and took a last, long drag on his rolled cigarette before stepping aside as Damian entered.
    You want a tattoo? asked the man. He had small, beady eyes and a face that unfolded in pockets of skin from the pouches under his eyes to his jowls. Cleanest house in town. No dirty needles around here. Ever had a tattoo?
    No, said Damian. He did, in fact, have a