–Unboxing–

Chief Tom DeLancy adjusted his tie for the fifth time, inspecting his uniform in a mirror propped against the bedroom wall. No lint. No wrinkles. Evelynna had ironed and polished everything the night before. His new badge caught the pink sunrise: Chief DeLancy, Milford Police Dept. A promotion from his former captain post in Chicago. He’s served fifteen years with that department, and he’d advanced as far as he could. Milford was a new start with new possibilities.

“You look just fine, Chief,” Evelynna hummed from the doorway, still in her nightgown, holding out a ceramic mug of coffee with milk. Just the way the chief liked it.

“I like that,” Tom smiled.

“The title or the coffee?” she teased.

“Both.” He kissed her cheek, checked his gold wristwatch—a parting gift from the boys in Chicago— and drained the mug. 

“Gotta go. Need to arrive early to make a good impression.”

“You’ll do great,” Evelynna assured him. Tom grinned, pulled on his cap, gave himself one last once-over, and tramped out in his patent leather shoes.

The engine revved. Evelynna lingered in the bedroom, surveying her new lair: the four-poster bed, her dresser with lamp and jewelry box, boxes stacked neatly at the foot of the bed. The mirror still leaned against the wall. Pinstripe wallpaper lined the room. She’d paint over that soon enough. For now, she needed a hammer from one of the basement boxes to hang that mirror properly.

As she moved down the hallway, Evelynna knocked on Tommy’s door. His first day at Milford Junior High wasn’t until Monday, but she wanted him up. Downstairs, she laid out eggs, English muffins, coffee, orange juice, and the untouched gelatin ring from Mrs. Embleton next door. She still didn’t know what to do with it.

Tommy stirred just as a knock came at the front door. Evelynna abandoned her search for a hammer in the basement boxes.

If that’s another neighbor with gelatin—

She cracked the door open. A man in a black shirt, white collar, and silver cross necklace stood with his hands clasped in front of him. 

“Many apologies, ma’am. Is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all,” Evelynna said. “I’m Evelynna. We’re the DeLancys.” She extended her hand for the man to shake, then glanced down at her nightclothes and laughed. “Forgive me. I’m not dressed yet,” she muttered, pulling back her hand before the man had a chance to take it.

“You are forgiven,” he chuckled. “I’m Father Raoul. I lead the Holy Trinity Church. It’s over there,” he pointed, “on Bridge Street.”

“Oh, how nice.” Evelynna covered the top of her nightgown with one hand.

“I’m just on my daily walk before mass and wanted to extend an invitation. Whether you’re of the faith or simply curious, you and your family are welcome in my parish.”

“Thank you, Father. I don’t want to hold you up. Thanks for stopping by.” Evelynna said, inching back into the house.

“Have a blessed day,” he said, grasping his cross briefly before departing.

“You too,” Evelynna replied, closing the door with a sigh. 

No gelatin ring. Maybe I’ll scope out the church.

She hung the mirror and got herself dressed: black cigarette pants, paint-splattered blouse, and red silk scarf tying back her bombshell ponytail. 

She was adjusting the last picture frame over the mantle—a black-and-white photo of baby Tommy perched on the hood of his father’s cruiser—when the doorbell rang again. She fluffed her hair once, adjusted her blouse, then opened the door.

A young woman with a dozing infant in a pram stood smiling, curls bouncing, pearls glinting in the sun, and her blue swing dress was cinched at the waist. In her hands, a ceramic platter trembled under the weight of a gelatinous monument: peas, carrots, and chopped chicken suspended in a swirled mound, garnished with parsley and romaine.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said, voice rehearsed. “I’m Mrs. Hazel Finch, from just next door. Thought you all could use a little something special while you’re getting settled.” Evelynna smiled and accepted the platter. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Finch. I’m Evelynna. My, this looks… creative, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Finch blinked again, assessing the newcomer. Given name only. Tight slacks. Paint stains and the top two buttons of the blouse are undone. The older woman before her had freckled collarbones and towered over her by at least six inches.

“Oh, it’s just a little recipe from the church cookbook,” Mrs. Finch blushed and fiddled with her butterfly brooch.

“The one on Bridge Street?” Evelynna leaned in somewhat.

“Oh, goodness no. The First Baptist here on the corner—you can just see the cross from here, actually,” she said, craning her neck on the tips of her toes, “Most of the families on this street go there. Pastor Paul is nice. Oh, look at me,” she giggled nervously, “I’m rambling. You do go to church, don’t you?”

“We’re exploring our options,” Evelynna smiled. “Father Raoul stopped by earlier.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Finch said, making the connection. “Father Raoul is a delight to have in the neighborhood. First Baptist is very welcoming if you’re looking for community.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Evelynna said, adjusting her grip on the gelatin.

Mrs. Finch lingered a moment, eyes flicking to the mantle behind Evelynna. “Is that your son?”

“Yes, Tommy. He’s thirteen.”

“Oh, he’ll just love Milford Junior High. My husband, Mr. Finch, is the music teacher.”

“Wonderful,” Evelynna smiled, already inching the door closed. “Tommy is really looking forward to going.” 

“Well,” Mrs. Finch chirped, “welcome again. Great to meet you, I’ve got to get my little one home for a bottle.”

“Thanks again,” Evelynna flashed one last smile, and the door clicked shut.

She exhaled, staring down at the gelatin. It jiggled. She placed it beside Mrs. Embleton’s untouched offering from the previous day.

My. She’s chattier than a park pigeon, thought Evelynna as she creaked open the basement door.

–Her Work–

The new basement was divided into two rooms- one side was a typical concrete basement complete with cobwebs, a workbench, and the home’s utilities. The other side was newly remodeled into a family room: tile flooring, drop ceiling, built-in bar, and wood panelling. It still smelled of new linoleum and paint, with the slight scent of mildew still present. This was the room Evelynna claimed as her own. She popped the little round light switch up, and a few fluorescent tubes in the ceiling hummed to life. 

“Needs improvement,” she muttered to herself. “I’ll have Pet get some lamps down here.” Evelynna opened the first box, inhaling deeply. The scent of turpentine and paints wafted from within. The artist smiled, then began arranging the supplies onto an old oak desk near the little basement window.

The next box revealed several stretched canvases: some blank, a few had colorful splatters and shapes. Evelynna lifted one out of the box—a portrait of a man wearing nothing but a black tie and an officer’s peaked cap—and she smirked, admiring her earlier work. The next canvases were layered, textured, and each one expressive. 

She pulled one canvas out and sighed. It depicted two melted shapes, intertwined, and their colors matched the hues of the artist and her subject: cream and sienna complemented coffee and ebony. She leaned it tenderly against the wall next to her desk and admired it a moment before returning to the rest. She skipped over a few collages of triangles and quadrilaterals in bold colors, deciding those could remain stored in the box for now. 

Lastly, Evelynna pulled a locked sketch diary out of the box. She brushed her fingers over the scripted word “Pet” on the front in gold ink, and she smirked at the memory of it. At the bottom of her jewelry box was the set of small keys that unlocked her private life. Evelynna slid the diary into the top drawer of the desk reverently. 

After all her studio supplies had been carefully unpacked, she surveyed them, then the room. The lighting in the basement was entirely wrong for this mood.

–The Expression– 

Today, the sun was bright, and Evelynna intended to take full advantage of it. She hauled a box of supplies and a large canvas onto the front lawn, spread out a sheet over her new workspace, and began mixing paint into tin cans. 

The curtains twitched inside the little purple house across the street. Mrs. Finch looked on with her baby in a rocker on the deck. Mrs. Embleton popped outside her home with her miniature poodle, Muffin, on a leash. Evelynna waved, then plopped a cup of crimson paint on the canvas lying in the center of the sheet. It splattered satisfyingly. A glob of red flew upward, landed on the artist’s cheek, and she smirked. 

“Goodness,” Mrs. Embleton gasped, “that just slipped right out of your fingers, didn’t it?” Mrs. Embleton grimaced. “Would you like a hand cleaning that up, dear?” 

“Oh. No, thank you, Mrs. Embleton, I quite meant to do that. It’s called splatter painting. Are you familiar?”

“Familiar with… splattering paint?” Mrs. Embleton stammered, tightening her grip on Muffin’s leash. 

“Expressionism! It’s the latest craze right now,” Evelynna explained, shaking a paintbrush loaded with yellow ochre on the canvas. Mrs. Embleton sidestepped back, shielding Muffin.

“How quaint,” she frowned. “Is there any way you can move this little…experiment—elsewhere?” She gestured at the supplies on the lawn, “It’s just that I’m afraid you might accidentally splatter our sidewalk.” Mrs. Embleton forced a smile. Evelynna was a good fifteen feet away from the sidewalk, but agreed to take her work to the backyard.

“Are you sure, dear? I know you don’t want to risk getting paint on your white fence—”

“I’ve been doing this for a while, Mrs. Embleton. I assure you, your sidewalk and my fence are safe.”

“Alrighty then, you take care now,” Mrs. Embleton turned around and continued her parade on the sidewalk, leading Muffin, toward the church parking lot. Evelynna sighed, gathering her paint cans with a clatter.

A floppy straw hat materialized from the other side of the fence. 

“Abstract,” stated a slim elderly woman in a polka-dotted blouse and tan trousers. She slid her sunglasses down her nose to get a better look, green eyes twinkling. 

“Expressionism,” Evelynna explained. The older woman smirked knowingly. A newspaper was tucked under her arm, which was now resting on top of the fence. 

“Kathy wouldn’t get it. She’s a traditionalist,” the woman quipped. “I’m Dr. Penrose.”

“Evelynna,” the artist laughed, genuine this time. “What kind of doctor are you?” 

“Psychiatry. Retired now. You can call me Elizabeth, if you’d prefer.”

“Elizabeth. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Evelynna grinned.

“The pleasure is all mine, Evelynna. I’d best leave you to your work,” Elizabeth smiled, and her straw hat disappeared behind the fence.

Elizabeth is a realist, Evelynna decided, humming as she drizzled cobalt blue over the crimson and ochre.