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There is a small house at the end of this street. It is dark and cold inside.

Kateri, or Katherine as she is called by her white friends, sits alone at a square fold-out table in this small, cold house, her back to the dim light filtering in from the glass door so that to one standing across she appears to be nothing more than a dark silhouette perched on the plastic straight-backed chair. The shadows smooth and disguise the lines on her forehead, prematurely formed from years of furrowing in worry, in love, in frustration and fear. The shadows hide how her lower lip and chin tremble, how her fingers are tense on the cold tabletop.

 

Her eyes are closed, and the lids tremble too, but the shadows hide everything. In the shadows she is nothing but a still, silent silhouette perched carefully on a plastic chair in a dark, cold house.

 

Words begin to form in her mind, despite the shadows, despite how tightly her eyes are squeezed shut or how clenched her teeth are. Money, overdue, unemployed, laid off, late, no money, too many bills, three kids, needs a job, needs money, nothing for supper…

 

Slowly, quietly, as though she is nothing more than a shadow, Kateri lifts herself out of the chair and moves through the small, dark house to a corner in the sitting room where a small, dark box sits. What is inside is hidden in the shadows. Her hands, tired and stiff, close around the box and lift it, and she carries it back to the table.

 

She lifts the flaps – needs money – and reaches inside – overdue – to pull out a – unemployed – set of paint-splattered – no money – paintbrushes – nothing for supper – which she – needs a job – carefully – needs money – sets down – needs food – on – needs help – the – needs –

 

Hands slam down on the table, brushes fly from fingers, bounce off the table, chairs, floor - needs, needs, needs – I need everything! her mind screams - the desperate, demanding voice inside deafens, blinds, blocks out everything else – I need –

 

I need this.

 

As sudden as it began, all is quiet once more. The dim light filters in from the glass door so that to one standing across, she appears to be nothing more than a dark silhouette hunched over the table, hands spread flat against the tabletop, head bent, black hair falling over a face whose lines are smoothed and disguised by shadows. Time trickles by as her heartbeats slow, her breath, her mind… and very carefully lowers herself back onto the plastic straight-backed chair.

 

I need this.

 

She bends down to pick up the scattered brushes and lines them up on the table. She reaches back into the box and removes a small square of heavy canvas and a tin which feels cold and sleek to her rough fingers. Inside the tin is colour. The glass of water she had placed on the table earlier has miraculously not been spilled.

 

With a sureness that had come from long years of practice, Kateri opens the tin, adjusts the canvas and picks up a paintbrush. Size 8, her fingers tell her. Paint mixes with water, her eyes close, and almost without realizing it, she begins to hum one of the mournful, throaty songs of her people. Her eyes blink open and she looks down at the blank canvas, its rough texture exaggerated by shadows. Waiting. The tip of the brush hovers, quivering. Expecting.

 

At the end of this street, there is a small house. It is cold and dark inside.

 

Kateri, or Katherine as she is called by her white friends, sits alone at a square fold-out table, her back to the dim light filtering in from the glass door, so that to one standing across, she appears to be nothing more than a dark silhouette perched on a plastic straight-backed chair.

 

Inside, she is full of colour.