by S. P. Shane
He makes another adjustment of the telescope. “See where the creek goes in a bend by the trees?” A tone lingers in his voice, like he's watching something scandalous.
“Uh? What? It's a big mound of dirt.”
"That's where the levee starts,” he says.
“Well... yeah?”
“Ticking time bomb.”
“How so? It's been leaking for years. It's only a matter of time before it gives way.”
“And what? Will the town flood?”
“Most of it. Everything south of Main Street. At least that's how high the water's came back in '77.”
“Can't they fix it?”
“Nah. Too much politics involved.”
He settles down. “Doesn't matter. I'm getting out of this Piss Hole first chance I get.”
“You and me both!”
He grabs the telescope again and angles it back across town. “Tell me if that looks familiar.”
Through the eyepiece, Crenshaw's Creek High School appears just as large as if I were standing in front of it. From this position, the football field is within view, and Grant and his goons run their drills.
“Grant...”
He lowers his voice. “You think I can hit him from here?”
“Who?” When I stand up from the telescope, Josh has a gun drawn and points it in the general direction of the school. I'm not sure if he had the gun with him all along, or if it was stashed someplace on the roof. "Jesus, Josh!” I jump from the chair. “What are you... Stop!”
He doubles over, laughing hysterically, as I grab at his arm. "You're a trip! You know that?"
"You're insane! Do you know that? You can't...”
"I know... He's out of range. I'd have to be a lot closer." Josh lowers the gun. “Besides, it would start something in this town no one's seen since the days of the Hatfields and the McCoys.”
It's hard not to laugh aloud, as I find myself mimicking Dad's voice. "Now, Caleb that boy Josh is a menace to society. You stay away from him now. You hear me?"
He cackles and sits down on the lip of the roof. "Who's that? Your old man?"
"Yeah. He sounds just like that too."
"He's right though... I'm a horrible influence."
“You say that like you're proud of it.”
He grins. “We should get back.” Almost as an afterthought, “you should come by the shop tonight.”
Chapter 9
Broad Strokes isn't the kind of place you expect to see in a Podunk town. I know it's an art shop, but I think I was expecting to see wagon wheels, barnyard art, quilting squares, and pictures of people picking banjos. Looks like the set of a Medieval play with its wrought iron lamps. The walls are ivy-clad stones. The doorway opens onto a drawbridge that slopes down to a granite tile floor. On guard to either side of me are a life-sized suits of armor.
The smell of coffee beans barely drowns the acrid scent of oil paints, as I rattle across the drawbridge. I space out for a second in the main aisle, and take in the artwork that checker the walls.
“God! You're weird,” Josh calls out to me.
He appears, leaning against a counter. He looks like a blond Fonzie at Arnold's, as he thumbs through his magazine.
“Weird in a good way, of course.” He slides across the counter. A thud! echoes across the gallery, as his feet hit the floor. He hovers in a half-crouch while he catches his balance.
“Didn't know there's a good way to be weird.”
“The best people are always a little off. Just ask Lindsey.”
“Who?” There's only one person I know by that name. And the last time I tried to talk to her I ended up babbling like an idiot.”
“Me.” A saccharine voice echoes across the shop.
Dumbstruck... me. Not sure what to say or do. A daring part of me that wants to spin around all graceful with jazz hands and everything. But the real me knows I'm not cool enough to pull it off. I'd only end up stumbling, knocking something over, or taking a tumble to the floor. Instead, I keep my back straight and slowly crane my neck, glancing behind like I half-expect her to be holding a gun.
“Lindsey...” My voice is a breathless squeak, the kind of sound one suffering from internal injuries might make. She closes a door to the back room and turns to me with a big smile. Her hair's pulled up in a French braid and she's wearing a black smock. “Hello.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks, as she starts for the counter.
A wave of stupidity splashes over me, as I stand there—confused and tongue-tied. She skates toward me, reaching in her smock for an ink pen and an order book. All at once, it hits me: Lindsey works here, which means that Josh knows her—and should be able to tell me all about her.
A clanging sound comes from the drawbridge and I turned my attention to Josh. He hoists an English long sword from the knight's mount and circles back to me, slicing through the air with the sword. A soft breeze whooshes by my face as the blade misses me. Glimmering just below my eye, the sword stops. Josh stands poised. His arm's locked his eyes are cold. If I move just a fraction of an inch, the blade will cut me. I make like a statue, holding my breath.
“Relax,” he laughs. “I've been playing with this thing all my life.”
His veins bug out in his wrist as he holds it out to me. “Feel this thing.”
The sword is heavy within my grip as my fingers curl around the hilt. It feels like I'm casting a spell with a wand, as my arm moves in a small circle. “Dang! It is heavy.”
“Caleb, how 'bout some coffee?” Lindsey crosses behind the counter, picks up a large white mug, and waves it at me.
My eyes meet with Lindsey's and I kind of blank out for a second—not really watching what I'm doing. Clang! The tip of the sword scrapes against the tile. “Oh, damn!” Just kind of slips out of my mouth, as I notice a scuff mark.
Josh stoops down, takes a look at the scuffed tile, and smirks. “Shit happens.”
“Josh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that.” I shuffle to the scabbard and put the sword in it.
“It's cool.” He shrugs.
“So, that's a 'no' on the coffee?” Lindsey sets the mug on the counter.
“Oh, coffee. Uh... Some coffee would be copacetic.”
“Cop-a-what?” Lindsey scowls. “We don't have no cops 'round here.”
My mouth gapes open. A soft gasp escapes. “Uh, no! I meant...”
“She's messing with you, dude.”
An idiotic Scooby-Doo laugh burst from my gut. “Yeah... I know.” But I had no idea she was messing with me.
Lindsey comes around the counter with a mug of coffee, a cream dispense, and some packets of sugar. She stops at a table near the draw and set everything down.
“Thank you. That's, uh...”
“Copacetic?” She asks, as her face lights with a smile.
“Yes. Exactly.” It feels like there's something more that I should say—not just to her, but both of them. It just feels like a pilgrims-have-just-landed moment and the Natives are expecting a speech. You can't just sit down and start eating. You have to say something, or else it's just rude. “Your generosity and... uh... your kindness are...” Lindsey and Josh are both starting at me with shit-eating grins and I'm aware that I'm babbling, but can't stop myself. “...like something a dog might feel... who's been wandering around and searching for food. But when he least expects it, he finds a bone. And it's not just any bone. It's his favorite. And it had been missing for a long-long time. And, uh...”
It's the longest pause in the world, as they stare at me with blank faces. Josh breaks the silence with a snort and a wheezing sound squeals from his lungs, as he bends over, bracing his arms against his knees. His face goes pink as a tremendous caterwaul echoes across the shop.
“Ah....” Lindsey covers her mouth with her hand and turns her face away. She looks like she's fighting a losing battle to not laugh at me. She stamps her feet, as a shriek escapes her lungs. “You're too much!”
More th
an anything, I want to run out of the shop—maybe run all the way down to the trail and see if Mr. Gray Beard can put me out of my misery. But there's no where to go. If I wasn't here, I'd just be holed up in my room, staring at the ceiling. I'd be bored out of my mind—and alone.
The only thing to do is play along. So, I just made an idiot of myself. So what? A forced smile bends across my face, as I fake a Woody Woodpecker laugh.
“Oh, God, Caleb!” Lindsey says through her laughter. “You're hilarious!”
They carry on laughing for a full minute, as I grab my coffee mug from the table, turn around and pretend to check out the artwork. It's mostly the kind of nonsense you'd see in any metropolitan art shop: landscapes, pictures of potted flowers, and a few portraits of Civil War soldiers. There are a few abstracts that look like someone just spilled paint and did a sloppy job on the clean-up.
“Who painted these?” It's not that I give a rat's ass, but that's the kind of thing you're supposed to do when you're looking at art. You ask about the artist. You come up with something pretentious to say about what it all means.
“Marilyn painted a lot of them,” Lindsey says. “Like this one.” She points to a Western landscape, where a cowboy has led his horses to water. His back is turned to us, as he stares out at a bright white lake, as the sun scorches above. There are similarities in some of the other paintings. There's a scene with a deer in a meadow, a horse at pasture.
“Who's Marilyn?”
“My mom,” Josh chimes in. “In her younger days, she got by as an artist.”
Most of the paintings seem so humdrum, bordering on boring, but there's one that blows my mind. It's not that the artwork is so good, but that it's not entirely clear what it's supposed to be. My eyes are drawn to a shape in the shadows. It's like it's two images in one, or a painting within a painting.
"You like it?" Lindsey's voice carries the kind of excitement one has when they meet someone with the same weird interests as them.
"I don't know. I'm not sure what it is."
"That's the problem with the world right now," she says.
My mouth gapes for a moment, then it occurs to me that I'm staring at her. “What? That I don't understand this painting? Really? That's the problem with the whole world?”
"No. It's that no one thinks art is important anymore. Presidents, CEOs, leaders of the free world look up there on the wall and see nonsense. If it's not money, if it's not numbers, they can't relate." She closes the distance between us.
"Well, yeah." I give it a shrug. “ A lot of people are like that, I guess."
"How can ya possibly lead a people if you don't have any vision inside of you?"
There's a tone in her voice that I haven't heard in anyone's voice for quite some time. Sometimes, a Brown's fan, when he's talking about the game will get this lilt in his voice that sounds similar.
“You're really into all of this?” I ask.
“I love it. That's why I work here... And Josh isn't bad company. ”
My eyes fall upon the painting of shapes in the shadows again. “Who is this?”
"This is Jean Patrique Francois. Tell me you don't love that! Marilyn calls him John the Baptist."
"Why?" It's provocative, but there's nothing religious about it.
"He lives in the desert. And take one look at his art and he'll save your soul from darkness."
I shake my shead. "I don't get it."
"Don't worry. You will." There's an almost prophetic quality to her voice, as if she's seen the ghost of Francois coming to me in a dream or something.
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because there are two kinds of people in this world: those who get it and those who don't... And when I saw you in the office this morning, I knew you were someone who gets it."
“Uh...How?” My brain sputters. I don't know whether to take her statement as a compliment—or if I should be weirded out. I mean you can't just look at someone and tell if they understand art. That's nuts!
“How do you know anything? Sometimes... you just... know.”
While I'm engrossed in the artwork, the door creaks open behind me. Feet rattle across the drawbridge.
“Hey, Mister G,” Josh calls toward him, as he bolts toward the counter.
When I tear my eyes from the paintings, Mister Glover stands on the drawbridge, giving me a face like he's spotted a werewolf among the villagers.
“Come on in. Uh, Mom has your painting in the back.”
“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow, apparently confused by Josh's statement.
“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Cappuccino?”
“Uh, decaf.” Glover comes down from the drawbridge. “Hello, Caleb.”
Josh presses the lever on a dispenser as Decaf spills into a Styrofoam cup. Glover crosses the gallery and hovers at the counter.
“Uh, shall we?” Josh cocks his head toward a room behind him and hands Glover his coffee.
Glover mumbles something to him, but his voice is low. It's hard to hear what he's saying. He glares at me with questioning eyes, then turns his attention to Josh. Maybe my journalism assignment should be about creepy old teachers who stalk local art houses.
“Be back in a second,” Josh calls to me. Lindsey remains by my side, but keeps her eyes peeled on Glover.
“So, how did ya meet Josh?” she asks, as Josh and Mr. Glover disappear into the back room.
“Uh...” My mind drifts back to Mr. Gray Beard and the trail and how Josh blazed out of nowhere on his motorcycle, but that's not the story I want to tell. It's just not the impression that I want to make. “Uh, at lunch actually.”
“Oh, he was out back smoking?”
“Yeah.”
“You smoke?” She scrunches her nose as if she finds smokers repulsive.
“No, the Surgeon General says it shrinks your ball sac,” just kind of slips out of my mouth.
She stares at me, like I might just be the stupidest guy in the world. Unable to bear the look she's giving me, I glance nervously back at the painting—not really studying it, but just blanking out.
“Don't worry about it. We'll be happy to send it back.” Josh's voice grows louder, as he comes out of the back room.
“Well, thanks for the coffee,” Mr. Glover says. He carries a brown paper bag and a cup of coffee, but no painting. He moves toward the door, as Josh opens the cash drawer and deposits a wad of bills.
“Good to see you, Caleb,” Glover passes me and walks out the door.
There's something odd about him, but I'm not sure what it is. It's something that's hard to put my finger on. I continue to watch him, as he stops at the curb and throws his coffee into the trash bin.
“What was that about?” I whisper to Lindsey.
“What was what about?” She gives me the long division face.
“He orders coffee. He pays you for it. He thanks Josh for it. Then, he throws it in the garbage.”
“Maybe he didn't like it.”
“Then why did he pay for it?”
She shrugs and turns back to the painting.
Josh grabs the CLOSED sign, flips the light switch, and heads toward the back door. “Y'all comin'?”
“Right behind ya,” Lindsey turns to me and out of nowhere says, “Wear blue tomorrow.”
Confusion. “Why?”
“Game day.”
“God help me,” is what I want to say, but I bite my tongue. Instead, I turn toward her and say “Oh, right! Go cougars!”
“You comin', Caleb?” Josh asks.
“Where?”
“The Josh Escape.”
“Sure.”
Chapter 10
Friday, September 10
Inside the mind factory, the hallways are banging and loud. It's a dull roar of voices talking at once, lockers slamming, and locks rattling against metal. My head pounds with the noise of this place—the tension. There are too many watching eyes—too much whispering.
“Jesus, Dude! Relax,” Josh says
in my ear.
“Everyone's staring at me.”
“Because ya look like ya just saw a ghost or somethin'.”
Near the corner, where two hallways meet, and a bank of lockers hugs the wall, a fragrance of lavender and honeysuckle fills the air. Like incense rising from sacramental offerings, she appears. Lindsey, the y'all girl. With the shiny brown hair. With the smile. With the eyes like molasses. She's there and whatever mess was rattling around in my head goes quiet. She's—I don't know—interesting. I mean—why do you crave chocolate? You just do. There's no reason for it. For whatever reason, she just makes sense, even though there's nothing that could possibly happen between us in a thousand million years.
She's just a little ways in front of me, strolling in the opposite direction. It feels like someone turned up the furnace and I'm trying hard to wipe the Christmas-Morning expression from my face.
Josh grins at me. “What?”
“Nothing.” It's nearly impossible to hide my smile.
“Nothing? You're grinnin' like a wild man,” he says.
“Like I said. Nothing.”
He gives me a knowing glance, then cocks his head toward Lindsey. “You like her. Don't ya?”
There's a big tangle of words caught up in my throat that just won't come out right. “No. I mean... Well, ya. She's uh... nice.”
“Your mom's nice. Mrs. Engles is nice. Wanda, the secretary is nice. Not the same thing. Is it?”
“Well, uh, no. Don't guess so.”
“Well, save your lunch money.”
My tone skirts the border between shock and outrage. I turn so that I'm directly square with him. “What'd you mean by that?”
“Just be careful where ya step.”
“Hey, Lindsey.” A voice echoes down the hallway, wiping away my good vibe in a second flat. I know that voice already—I hate it already. It's Grant.
He struts around the corner, flanked by Troy Schaffer and Danny Miller. They follow him around like little beta wolves, hungry to feed on leftovers. He moves toward Lindsey, like he's just won an Oscar, and he's baptized in the knowledge that everyone is watching. It's his show, his line, his moment.
“That's what I mean,” Josh says, nodding in Grant's direction.
