Brush Strokes

by E S Karlquist

  Copyright © 2019 E.S. Karlquist

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-22-1 (trade)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-945053-85-6 (ebook)

  Published by Interlude Press

  http://interludepress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All trademarks and registered trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Book and Cover Design by CB Messer

  Base Photography for Cover © depositphotos.com/Max5799/Dr.PAS/rolffimages/Microstock77/Nongkran_ch/DeepGreen/joyart/bilhagolan

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Interlude Press, New York

  To everyone who’s messed up repeatedly, but still decided to try again.

  CONTENT WARNINGS:

  The main character has anxiety, which affects his thoughts and actions throughout the book.

  Several strained family relationships.

  Brief mentions of insensitivity towards a character with hearing loss (by minor characters).

  (www.interludepress.com/content-warnings)

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Glancing at the digital clock on his phone, Todd winces as he drums his fingers against his thigh and watches the floors tick by in the elevator. It’s an old one: forged iron made with artistic care. It’s too slow for anyone with a schedule, and the inner gate gets jammed more often than not. Sometimes the worn-down button to the fifth floor, his floor, refuses to work, but today it cooperates. He’s going to end up being late for work, and really it’s all because he forgets time when he’s at MoMA. Apparently, he never learns, either, since this isn’t the first time. Whenever he researches for the kids’ program, he loses track of everything else.

  Mom is already waiting for him when he reaches their floor; the front door is open, and she holds up a white plastic bag the moment she spots him. She must’ve just come home from work, because she’s still dressed in her black, knee-length skirt and the cardigan with the leather patches at the elbows. She’s had that sweater as long as he can remember, and, when he was upset as a kid, he loved snuggling in her lap when she wore it. It always smelled like comfort to him. Unlike then, there are gray streaks at her temples in her otherwise ginger hair, and deep crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes are evidence for how often she smiles.

  “You have ten minutes to make it to work, and it’s a fifteen-minute walk,” she informs him, as she opens the elevator’s outer gate and yanks the inner one to the side with surprising strength for such a small person, pulling him from his thoughts. He takes the bag and steps back as she closes both gates again.

  “I’ll run,” he says, pressing the button for the first floor, and glances into the bag as the elevator starts back down. “I got stuck at MoMA. It’s just, you know, cubism; I’ll never understand it.”

  She rolls her eyes, looking exasperated, but at least she’s starting to smile. “You say ‘run’ like I don’t know you. And maybe you should stop going there before work!”

  He doesn’t have time to reply before she’s out of sight as the elevator creeps its way down floor by floor. She’s right, of course, his shift at the gallery starts in ten—probably more like nine now—minutes. Once he’s outside, he picks up his pace. It’s too warm to run, even if he was a running type of person, and he’s sorry that he picked a black T-shirt this morning, because it’s now sticking to his back after less than a block, but at least it’s not see-through. August has been suffocating.

  Despite being a librarian and in that sense very much interested in art, Mom tends to forget that he doesn’t just go to the museum for fun. He very much enjoys art in most forms, but he also needs to be in the know when patrons ask questions. What’s more cubism is the first theme for their kids’ program this semester, and he needs to refresh his knowledge before Thursday. The kids ask even more complicated questions than the regular adult patron. They’re also the best part of his job.

  Todd clutches the bag tighter and scans the street before he crosses it. The bag is heavier than he expected, so Mom probably found more books that could be of interest for him. He hopes the evening is slow, giving him some time to read while he’s at the front desk.

  Todd is three minutes late when he rushes into the gallery in the old storefront. There’s no one in sight—another slow day.

  “Sorry I’m late! Mom gave me a bunch of books to use in the kids’ art class,” he calls toward the back room. If Mrs. Floral is not behind the front desk, that’s where she’ll be, packing and unpacking. He puts his bag next to the computer and rubs the red dents it’s left in his fingers and palm.

  “Barely so.” Her hoarse voice is a tell-tale of how much she smokes. Last year she told him that she’d quit, but the past month she’s been taking a break almost every other hour. She smells of cigarettes when she comes back—cigarettes and chewing gum. “There’s coffee in the maker.”

  He shivers from the cooling sweat on his back. The air conditioner never quite manages to regulate properly, and it’s either the Amazon rain forest or the North Pole. He grabs one of the mismatched mugs on the desk.

  “Mom got me some additional information about Klimt and Lerin.” He watches the steam rise from his cup as he fills it up. “I figured I should know a lot more about them, since Anderson and Fernández have similar styles.”

  “That’s great!”

  Call Todd a bad art student, but he hadn’t known much about Lars Lerin before Mía Fernández, one of their showcased artists, explained her inspiration for her work. In the three books Mom got him, he sees the love for detail in the watercolors of small towns, lonely cabins, and nature. Most of the works have a lot of blues and grays. The melancholy is ever-present and sometimes overwhelming, to the point where there’s a twinge in his chest. However, it’s his way of incorporating light that makes Todd want to look at the paintings for days. If they’re this incredible in a book, he can only imagine what impression they’d make in person.

  While Lerin has focused on landscapes and nature, Mía captures people, except for a painting of a lighthouse that Todd fell in love with from the moment he put it up. If he had the money, he’d buy it in a heartbeat.

  The bell over the door chimes, and he looks up as an older man approaches the desk. He’s dressed in a shapeless tweed suit, too warm for this weather, and his back is bowed—a stark contrast to the unexpected spring in his step. Todd puts away the book and spends the next fifty minutes explaining everything he knows about the artists in the gallery and their work. Sometimes he worries that his passion for the gallery and the works displayed makes his guided tour too overwhelming, but the old man is smiling when he leaves.

  Refilling his coffee, Todd notices the calendar lying next to the register and frowns. It used to have a permanent spot right there, but, for the past six months, Mrs. Floral has kept it in her office. Whenever he asked for it, she would just brush him off, saying that it’s her headache and not his. Now, scanning the pages, her words make sense. There should be at least three names there, since they’re ending a handful of exhibits during this quarter. But the next few weeks are empty with the exception
for Kids & Canvas, their kids’ program, every Thursday. As he flips through the pages, the following couple of months are blank too.

  “Mrs. Floral?” he calls over his shoulder, still scowling at the empty pages. This can’t be right.

  “Yes, love?”

  When he looks up, he finds her emerging from the back office. She has her usual checkered mug in one hand, her phone in the other. She wears a long, flowing dress and the rainbow of color is striking against her dark brown skin. She’s kept her hair natural today: black graying with age. She’s been like a grandma to him since he was a tot running around the gallery in awe of the art. Mrs. Floral always waved away Dad’s apologies when Todd took up so much of her time with his endless stream of questions. When he struggled in high school, she and the gallery were his safe space where he could fight through his homework in peace.

  “Did we put the new names somewhere else?” He points at the calendar with the pen. He is just about to put it in his mouth, when the unexpected silence stops him midway.

  “No, Todd,” Mrs. Floral sighs finally. Right then, she looks nothing like herself. It doesn’t matter that she’s wearing such a colorful dress and at least one ring on every finger. She looks old and tired. “It’s empty because there are no booked artists from the middle of October onward.”

  Todd puts the pen on the counter and readjusts the back of his beanie. “Why?”

  With another sigh—when has she ever sighed?—Mrs. Floral sits on the nearest chair. “I’m afraid that we’re not interesting enough to attract new patrons anymore. Our regulars are aging out of the collecting market, and without them we won’t make any sales. Without sales? You know where this is going, I can tell by the look on your face, but I have to say it. The artists we’ve always carried are aging and, frankly, dying. Without the sales we can’t book new artists. Or pay the bills.”

  He’s been working here since high school. Though it doesn’t pay much, it’s the best job he’s ever had—the only one he’s ever had—and considering the horror stories he’s heard from classmates, he’s lucky.

  L’Aquarelle is an old-fashioned gallery in an old storefront and it’s always interested an older crowd of patrons and showcased an older set of artists, but he’s assumed there would always be a fresh crop of both.

  Clearly, he was wrong.

  “We’re closing?” he asks, biting his lip and trying to ignore the way his stomach is suddenly empty.

  She smiles. Mrs. Floral has a smile that makes him feel as if he has just had a hot chocolate in Central Park in mid-December.

  “Not yet. I’m still hoping that the tide will turn. We’ve been in worse situations before, and things have turned around. They always do, love.”

  Returning her smile, Todd gives in to that tiny spark of hope that ignites behind his ribs. Evan used to call him naïve. Evan also used to say that art is of no essential use to society, and Todd long ago learned to not give a crap about Evan’s opinion.

  Just as he’s about to ask Mrs. Floral if there’s anything he can help her with, the bell over the door chimes. With the rush of sound from the street outside, Mela steps inside. For a second, the late August heat chases away the air-conditioned chill.

  He hasn’t seen her since she left for India to visit her grandparents at the beginning of June. His heart swells at the sight of her teal pants, too-big shirt with a peacock embroidered on it, and wide smile. The colors fit so well with her brown skin and thick black hair. She’s had a bump on her nose since breaking it during a softball game in eleventh grade. Her big, curious eyes seem brown at first glance, but Todd has known her long enough to know that they have flecks of gold and green too.

  “Heya!” Her smile turns into a grin when Todd steps around the counter to hug her.

  “I missed you.” He lets her go before he wants to.

  “Missed you too.” She pushes him away and gives him a once-over. “You look good. Hi, Mrs. Floral!” She continues past him to hug Mrs. Floral. She’s always been a hugger with people she knows and a firm-handshake-only with everyone else.

  “So,” she says as she turns around again. “There’s somewhere we need to be on Friday.”

  Raising his eyebrows, Todd closes the calendar. “Where?”

  “A party.”

  That is oddly unspecific. “What kind of party?”

  Mela rolls her eyes. “I met a guy at the coffee shop when I was about to leave the airport. He invited me.”

  She has this strange superpower to connect with people at the most random of times and get invited to places, parties, and other galaxies. The most Todd has ever gotten from an interaction in a coffee shop is a thank you for holding the door.

  “Who’s the guy?” Todd asks.

  “Why do you always get caught up in the most irrelevant parts?”

  Mrs. Floral gets up. “I’ll leave you kids to it. Todd has the weekend off, so there’s time for a party. Don’t let him tell you otherwise,” she adds before she disappears into the back office.

  Todd resists pulling a face. Claiming that he has to work is usually his best escape.

  “So?” he demands.

  Mela plops herself down on the empty chair, hums, and bobs her foot in the air to an inaudible beat, before she replies: “His name is Jesse. He has this party with his friends this weekend and asked if I wanted to drop by.”

  “Here in Brooklyn?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Something in her smile makes him suspicious.

  “Out with it.”

  “Manhattan. Frat party. Lots of jocks with muscles.” Mela curls her arms in front of her in a pose. It might have been more realistic if her arms weren’t so scrawny.

  Heaving a sigh, Todd leans against the counter. “Since when is that your thing?”

  “Since now.” Mela shrugs. “If they’re jocks with brains, I don’t mind.”

  “It doesn’t sound like my kind of scene,” Todd tries. Frat parties? Aren’t they usually all about keg stands and loud dudes in varsity jackets? “There’s a new band playing on Friday. I’d rather go hear it.”

  Mela thumps her head back against the wall. “You’d rather go see a crappy band playing than hang out with me?”

  “You’d rather go to a frat party with a horny jock than hang out with me?”

  Mela snorts. “That’s a good point, but I’m still not going to that gig.”

  Todd expects her to try to convince him, as she usually would, but instead she sits up straight, leaning forward.

  “I’m really intrigued by this guy, but I don’t want to go there alone. It would feel a lot better if you were there with me.”

  “I’d be the worst wingman,” Todd mutters.

  “That’s okay.” Mela smiles. “I’ll be your wingman. I’m actually an excellent wingman.”

  He knows nothing about sports or keg stands and he would much rather watch that crappy band play. It’s going to be a horrible Friday if he goes with her, and she has other friends.

  “I can’t,” he says finally. “Family dinner. Dad’s not going to like it if I’m not home.”

  “But you’re never home for family dinner!”

  “That’s kind of my point.”

  * * *

  Sandwich is hopping around on the floor that Friday as though she hasn’t explored the few square feet of Todd’s bedroom at least a billion times. She noses his feet under the desk before she starts another lap.

  Sighing to himself, Todd erases his attempt at an easy, kid’s version of a cubist portrait for the kids next week and stares out the window. The sky is bright blue, almost cobalt, with no clouds in sight, and the sun is bright and sharp. He can smell Dad’s cooking. Just as he’s about to put his preparations for the kid’s program aside for the day, be a responsible adult, and go talk to his parents, there’s a knock on the door.

&nb
sp; “Come in,” he calls and spins his desk chair around as the door opens.

  Dad is pale, tired-looking, and wearing the worn-out chinos he sticks to when he’s sick or needs a quiet evening in front of the TV. Maybe it’s been a long week for him. He wipes his hands on a kitchen towel as he watches Sandwich inspect Todd’s T-shirt on the floor. Todd looks a lot like Dad, with his hair in big, dark curls—which get frizzy if he as much as looks at a shampoo bottle—the wide set of his eyes, and the same brown color to his skin. Unlike Dad, one of Todd’s eyes is all brown, and the other, split almost exactly along the horizontal midline, is blue on top and brown below, as though Mom refused to let Dad have all the influence over the gene pool. Where Dad is on the short side, Todd is a little taller and less athletic in build, probably another hint of Mom but less recognizable. Looks-wise he has much more of Dad’s Mexican heritage than Mom’s Irish genes.

  “New semester in a week,” Dad says as a greeting. “Did you pick courses yet?”

  Todd’s stomach sinks. Dad only wants what’s best for him, wants him to have a stable career and a good job so that he can support himself, but Evan’s never-ending opinions on Todd’s career choice have caused Dad to worry. “Yeah.”

  “Did you pick that accounting class that we agreed on?” Dad’s eyes light up as if he just asked if Todd has picked snacks for the evening.

  “No.” Todd has long since given up on trying to sugarcoat anything with Dad. “We didn’t agree on anything. You agreed with yourself.”

  Dad’s face falls and Todd looks away, gaze sticking on the mess on his floor where Sandwich is inspecting one of his socks. He really needs to get better at cleaning up. At least she doesn’t try to eat it.

  “There are no jobs in art,” Dad says, using his usual argument, one that Evan brought up when Todd first applied for college. Up until a few days ago, Todd would have disagreed, but he might be out of a job soon. Evan and Dad are right about some things, it seems.

  “There are no jobs for anyone right now,” Todd sighs. “The American Dream doesn’t exist anymore. We’re just a bunch of people leaving college in debt and with no way to pay it off.”