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Nancy Sweetland has sold over 90 short stories for adults along with 7 picture books for children and various short fiction and poetry for children. She's marketing two mystery novels and two historical novels for intermediate children.

A Brush With Death by Nancy Sweetland

"Bolton!" Kitty Lu's nasal whine pierced his creative haze.

"Are you down there, Bolton?"

He sighed.

Overhead footsteps clumped toward the stairs, then down, accompanied by the soft bumping of her heavy body against the stairwell.

The thick plank door to the old coal room that was now his studio thrust open wider. She filled the opening, layers of her, flabby chin, puffy legs. Piggy eyes squinted at him. "Whyn't you answer!"

There was no window in his room; just dark walls with a cleaner patch where cement filled in the old coal chute. The air became stifling unless the door was left open; otherwise he would have locked it.

He swished his brush in turpentine, wiped it with care on an old flannel shirt. "What did you want?"

"There's a auction. Let's go."

He hated auctions.

"We need some chairs for the kitchen, you know we do."

He pictured her chins wobbling; it made him seasick to watch her speak. "True."

"It ain't far."

Any distance with her enormity so close to him in the car was far. "Suppose."

She didn't come in. He'd flatly told her to stay out when he'd taken over the room. A man needed a place of his own, especially with Kitty Lu in the house. Talk all the time…eat all the time.

She nodded vigorously, brassy ringlets popping up and down on her scalp like buttons on a child's pull toy. "I'll go dress." She puffed away, toiling up the stairs. The rail was loose again from her pulling at it; he could hear it creak.

Bolton stepped back to study his best work so far––looking up at the bluff wall of a high embankment near their isolated country house, showing everything from the scrub oak at the bottom to the protruding green tendrils around the rocks on top.

Bolton sighed again and pulled the weighty plank door closed, snapping the sturdy brass padlock. The key was already hidden behind the top step. He prided himself on always doing things the same way, kept a man from foolishly spending time looking for things. He'd never let Kitty Lu know where that key was; a man had to have privacy. He chuckled; it was so dark under the stairs, you'd never even see his door if you didn't know it was there.

At the auction, Bolton stood far enough from Kitty Lu so people wouldn't know they came together. She was bending over a chair. Under her dress, above the sausage-rolled stocking tops, a bulge of pale fat jiggled. His stomach churned and he walked away.

On a table of odds and ends, carnival glass leaned in an uneasy pile against chipped picture frames. A harp stood near; Bolton pictured it shining in his house. Who would play it? Kitty Lu? Her fat bosom pushed around it, her thick legs spraddling golden notes?

"Sold to the little lady in the front row!" Bolton looked up to see Kitty Lu waddling toward the cashier with a chair.

His gaze lit on an artist's box. It looked in perfect condition. Heavy. Must be still full. Curious, he tried to open the small, dark-rusted lock, jimmying it with his penknife.

"Won't open," a small boy confided. "Can't nobody but the owner get in, they say."

"Well, now." Bolton bought the box.

I got us some pretty chairs for only one dollar each. Oh," Kitty Lu spread her sweaty legs and lifted her skirt to catch air from the car's vent. "That was a good auction!"

Bolton's mind was on the box.

"Got to sell this item unopened, folks!" the auctioneer had hollered. "Locked shut, and heavy!" He hefted it high, showing circles of sweat under his arms.

Bolton had never bought anything at auction. "One dollar."

"Didja hear that? This gen'man wants to make us laugh! That there antique lock on the box is worth more'n a Washington!" The crowd tittered.

In the end a red-faced Bolton paid the cashier $8.50 and felt privileged to do so. He waited by the car until Kitty Lu came huffing, satisfied, leading four little boys carrying dark wooden chairs she stacked haphazardly in the back.

"Don't scratch the box," Bolton cautioned.

He re-hid the key after opening his door, and hooked the padlock back on the hasp so he could lock it quickly later.

Even after cutting through the rusted lock the box wouldn't open; if Bolton hadn't known better he would have thought someone was standing on the lid. Carefully, he pried it open with a screwdriver.

"Ahhh." It was full of artist’s materials. The white tube was stiff and unyielding when he pinched it. Disappointed, he found all the paints in half-hard condition, probably unusable. But there were four brushes: two small that he dismissed immediately; a large white bristle that might be all right; and a medium square-cut sable, very well made, just the kind and size he'd been wanting. That brush alone was worth more than he'd paid for the box.

The brush had a smooth grey handle that drew him to pick it up and suddenly he felt a presence in the room with him. Startled, he reacted aloud, "Hello! Hello?"

Feeling foolish, he stepped toward his painting. Without warning his right arm began to act, painting an addition to his half-finished canvas with the sable brush.

His neck prickled. Bolton tried to step back, but his feet stayed firmly planted on the rough cement floor as his hand wielded the brush between his paints and the canvas with an intense fury.

Before his eyes, the broken body of a young girl lay at the bottom of the rock embankment, and, with a final flourish, the brush lightly fanned the girl's fair hair around her face, which looked familiar to Bolton, somehow.

His arm began to tingle, as though awakening to his own blood. His feet behaved at last, though his whole body was drenched with sweat. "Damn it!" He breathed. He had never painted so well. Dazed, he cleaned the brush and set it with his others.

"Bolton! C'mon up here!" Kitty Lu shouted.

He padlocked his door; he never left it open, even to go to the bathroom.

Kitty Lu was peering out the kitchen window. "You got better eyes than me, look. Somethin's goin' on over by the corner."

There were a number of cars––police, by the flashers––and people, milling around the embankment. "My God," breathed Bolton. "Turn on the radio."

"Course! Whyn't I think of that?" Kitty Lu's fat fingers turned the old wooden knobs.

"...details follow on news at six of the death of Angie Platten, 15, found at the crossroads of Highways X and H...now back to our program in progress...."

"That there's Alfred's girl! You know, from the church!" Kitty Lu's little eyes squeezed out two tears. "Poor little thing!" She pulled a stained cloth from somewhere around her waist and blew her nose.

It was two days later before Bolton went back to his room. He unlocked the padlock soundlessly and re-hid the key, opened the door a crack as though expecting to find Death sitting inside, waiting.

The room was empty. The brush, looking innocent, was right where he'd put it...but the figure of the girl was gone from the painting.

Bolton searched the canvas. Nothing. It was just as he had painted it himself.

He tried to put the whole thing out of his mind. As he worked in the next couple of weeks his eyes strayed to the beautiful sable brush, but he didn't pick it up.

"Don't need you for this work here," he'd say aloud, just in case there was someone––or something––listening.

He felt good about the painting he was working on. He'd sat near a good-sized waterfall on Crossman's Creek for four hours getting it started. He'd had it almost finished before the light failed, but now he could complete it from his color notes.

"Whyn't you never paint a picture of me?" Kitty Lu had asked from beyond the door. He'd heard her bumping down the stairs. "I could put it by my dresser."

The thought of prostituting a smooth white canvas with all of her offended Bolton but he said, "Maybe. Don't I smell something burning?"

"Oh!" The railing bolts screeched as she pulled herself up the stairs. He really should remember to fix that.

He was working hard at getting the sunlight just right when he sensed a slight movement near his arm. He whipped around. There was someone there, he felt it...and his right arm reached for the sable brush.

With a few quick strokes it painted into his waterfall the pieces of a broken red canoe and a man and small boy, the man's arms flailing as he reached for the boy's limp body in the rapids below the falls.

As quickly as it came, the possessor left his body. Breathing fast, Bolton cleaned the brush and replaced it. Then, even as he watched, the figures and the canoe disappeared into the pigment.

"Bolton, come eat your supper!" Kitty Lu hollered.

"Gladly," he said fervently. "Gladly."

The next evening the paper confirmed the drowning of a young boy in Crossman's Creek.

Bolton folded the paper carefully and watched Kitty Lu as she spit on her pencil before writing on a crossword puzzle. How had the girl he'd married mushroomed into this apparition? Her head was a jumble of quivering pink plastic curlers. Her faded wrapper lacked buttons; her stomach flowed from the opening in a sleazy blue nightgown; her ankles ran over the top of tight fuzzy slippers.

"You lost some buttons, Kitty Lu."

"I know it." The tiny tip of her tongue wet the pencil again. "What's a five-letter word for 'transport'?"

Bolton went to bed.

Later, wide awake, as she snuffled loudly and heaved herself over, nearly throwing him onto the bedroom floor, his mind whirled around the brush. Did it just portray death happening? Or did it cause death to happen?

He padded quietly downstairs. In the paper there had been a picture of a man who'd molested a little girl. People like that deserved to die. The man had an evil face, Bolton thought, and though he was no expert at portraits, maybe he could achieve a likeness.

"Don't bother me today. I'm working on something important."

Kitty Lu flip-flopped to the breakfast table. The curlers were out but she hadn't yet combed her hair and it bobbed like a wind-tossed bird's nest. "Oh, I wanted to go in town." She said, disappointed. "But we can go another day. Wasn't as important as your painting."

He thought she was being sarcastic, but he wasn't sure.

What colors to use? What if he chose the wrong hair and eyes? From the black and white picture, he couldn't really tell. And was the man large, or small?

He thought it through. He would do four pictures with various combinations, different sizes. In a jail cell, what could happen? He decided to paint a fall against a toilet stool. But would that kill a man?

"Bolton! You all right? You're so quiet––" Her voice trailed off as though she'd just remembered not to bother him.

The paintings progressed well. To make sure he got the right jail he painted "Brown County Jail" over each cell. Then, taking a deep breath, he picked up the sable brush and waited.

Nothing happened.

"Hello?" he said tentatively.

Then, determinedly, he wielded it himself, managing what he hoped were passable likenesses. Then he cleaned the brush carefully, closed his heavy door with effort––the work had exhausted him––and went upstairs.

Kitty Lu snored loudly on the couch. Bolton let himself out. He'd missed lunch; a hearty meal at the highway diner was deserved after a hard day's work.

The ride to town relaxed him. He felt good. There was nothing to do now but wait, anyway. At the counter, he leaned forward, absorbed in a soap opera. He did not own a television. The heavy-hipped waitress brought his special and slapped it down in front of him. "Coffee?"

"Please." He didn't want to make conversation.

"We break into this program for a startling news announcement..." Bolton looked up, mildly curious. "...approximately one hour ago four men––you heard me right, four men––incarcerated in Brown County Jail fell and hit––"

The waitress reached up around the corner and snapped off the television. "They're always breaking in like that," she complained.

"Wait!" Bolton nearly leaped on top of the counter. "Turn it on––" but he choked on his turkey, gasped, grabbed his hot coffee and burnt his mouth. "Dammit!"

"You all right?" She stood back, both hands on her ample hips. "You can't choke here."

"Sorry." Bolton paid his bill. He smiled as he walked out.

Kitty Lu was still snoring. Bolton woke her with an unaccustomed gentle hand on her shoulder. "Let's go in town and see a picture."

Her eyes flew open. "Why, Bolton! I was wishin' we could do just that!"

The movie was inane but she loved it. When they got out Bolton stopped at the diner and bought her an enormous piece of banana cream pie, her favorite. Her cheeks shook with pleasure as she chewed. Bolton watched her contentedly.

"You surely seem pleased with yourself," she observed. "Your painting going good?"

"I think so," he said.

The next morning, he lay quietly, reviewing his plans. He would have to pull his door almost closed and bring his work around behind it. The light wasn't as good there, but it would do. He eased himself out of bed. No use waking her just yet. He'd surprise her by making raisin-cinnamon muffins for breakfast.

"Why, Bolton Taylor!" Kitty Lu's surprised voice came at him just as he put some fresh-picked flowers on the table. "I just don't know what to make of you!" She winked coquettishly. "You sure are getting on the good side of me."

Bolton shivered. All her sides looked bad to him.

She settled at the table, daintily lifting the napkin over the muffins.

"Cinnamon-raisin muffins, as I'm alive!" she squealed, her face scrunched up in pleasure as she buttered one lavishly and popped half of it into her mouth. "De-licious!" She smacked her lips and ran her little tongue out to get all the melted butter from her lips. "Just like bein' in heaven!"

Bolton smiled as he scrambled his eggs.

He hid the key, left the padlock hanging on the latch, and went in to move his easel out of sight behind the door. She could stand right outside and not know he was there.

Bolton began to paint. Not with the sable brush; the time had to be right for that. He'd been working for a while when Kitty Lu called, "I'm goin' to be gone for a little, Bolton."

"Gone! Where!" He raced to the stairs. "Don't go away!"

"Now, now. What is it with you today. Most times I think you can't stand the sight of me and now you make muffins and don't want me away. I'm only off to Spofford's to borry some sugar."

"Oh." Bolton stepped back. "Go, then."

He hurried back to the painting and picked up the grey brush to finish everything except the last touch. He didn't expect the brush to paint on its own, and it didn't. In fact it was all he could do to force it, muttering as he worked, wiping out and redoing.

There. He readied the brush.

Kitty Lu would come down to talk at him through the door when she came back; she always did. She would think he was gone, out for a walk or something.

He waited.

Finally the stair door opened. "Bolton! Brought you a surprise!" He held his breath. Her footsteps resounded overhead; where the hell was she going?

The sewer pipe flushed before he heard her start down the stairs, bumping the wall.

A heavy shuffle told him she was standing outside his door. "Bolton, you in there?...Bolton?...huh," she muttered. "Musta gone out. Wonder why he left the door open?"

Why hadn't he thought to close it. Bolton sucked in his stomach to keep it from churning.

"He'd be mad to have it open, he surely would," she said to herself as the door closed silently on its heavy hinges.

Bolton released his breath and concentrated intently, listening for the familiar huffing as Kitty Lu's heavy body worked its way upward.

He began, carefully, to put the final touch into the painting.

On the stairs, bolts loudly protested as step by step Kitty Lu pulled herself up. Suddenly, a rending screech as the upper bolts he'd loosened pulled away. A scream...and a split second later a heavy thud.

Bolton listened.

A rattling gurgle. Then...nothing.

Bolton hugged himself. He knew how it was out there, the neck bent unnaturally, the blue eyes wide open, just as he had painted them.

He waited for a few more minutes, to be sure.

Then he pulled at the leather handle on the inside of the thick plank door.

There was no give.

It was only a matter of seconds before he realized that Kitty Lu, to please him, had closed the padlock over the latch.

THE END