“Yes, but sometimes art is supposed to upset you.”
“Why?”
“It might help you work through some of your own bad feelings or change how you look at yourself or something you’re experiencing or somebody you know or once knew. And often, there’re hidden messages in this kind of art that you don’t see right away—so it can make you think, which is never a bad thing.”
The mother gestured at the horse sculpture. “For instance, this piece says something about how industrialization harms nature.”
“It’s mean, and I don’t like it.”
“That’s fine to have that reaction. Let’s go look at something else.”
“Not any others like this one.”
“There aren’t any others like this one.”
Hug wiped his eyes, turned away from the sculpture, and grabbed Abigail by the hand. Hard soles and shuffling sounds echoed as the duo left the pained horse.
The mother did not tell her son that the name of the artist who had created this equine sculpture was Meredith Chickenpenny.
“I think you’ll like these,” said Abigail, while guiding Hug into an alcove that was set apart from the main area.
Ensconced, the duo stopped.
The anomalous boy looked up.
On the wall in front of him were three portraits of the brunette and two rural landscapes that were also inhabited by her.
“It’s you!” exclaimed Hug. “Your hair’s so long and dark, and you look so pretty.”
“Thank you.”
The anomalous boy heard a quiet sniffle and looked up at his mother. “Mommy? Are you sad?”
“A little bit, but I’m also very, very happy to be here right now with you.”
“Who painted these?”
“My husband did, about twenty years ago. Not long after we were married.”
“Where did he go?”
Abigail pressed her lips together, patted Hug on the back of his head, and cleared her throat. “I’ll tell you about that another time. What do you think of that one in the middle?”
The anomalous boy inspected the indicated canvas.
In this painting, the subject sat upon the rail of a wooden bridge. Her long brunette hair was drawn into impossibly elaborate curls by the wind, and her contemplative face was turned down toward a sea of rippling water, where floated little white triangles that were distant sailboats.
“Don’t fall off!” exclaimed Hug, who was dizzied by the exaggerated perspective of the image.
“Do you like this one?”
“Yes. Your hair’s so pretty in it, and so real. It’s like you could touch it.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
Long, tender fingers tussled thick white hair, and the anomalous boy chittered.
At present, Abigail led Hug from the alcove and passed by some more abstracts without stopping.
“What do you think of this one?”
The anomalous boy looked up at his mother and then to her extended index finger and then toward the object that was indicated by the aimed digit.
Covering an entire wall and illuminated by four spotlights was an immense and strange vista. The red terrain in this painting was rocky, pocked with craters, and split in half by an enormous canyon, inside of which grew lush, lime-green plants and giant melons of the same color. Above this weird topography loomed a purple sky where shone yellow suns and matching comets.
Hug wanted to dive bodily into this amazing, otherworldly landscape. “Is it Mars?”
“It’s wherever you want it to be. Do you like it?”
“It’s the best painting that I’ve ever seen!” The anomalous boy nodded his head, walked closer to the canvas, and scrutinized. “Definitely.”
“How about that one?”
Abigail pointed to the adjacent wall, and Hug swiveled his head.
Upon this surface hung another huge, weird vista. A magenta sky glowed above orange desert dunes, which were thrice split by long crevasses. Inside each of these openings grew innumerable towers of sharp blue ice.
“That’s the second best painting that I’ve ever seen!”
“That fella’s got some particularly good taste,” said a stranger who had a Southern accent that reminded the anomalous boy of the pleasantest orphan, Cinnamon.
Abigail and Hug turned to face the person who had just interjected.
Standing a couple of yards away and wearing blue jeans and brown leather was a tall, very handsome man in his mid-forties who had a thick mustache, bright blue eyes, and lush blond hair that resembled the mane of a lion. More striking than any of the aforementioned attributes was his big, friendly grin.
“Those two landscapes are the choicest cuts in this entire gallery,” said the stranger. “And—if I am not mistaken—they were both painted by the proprietress.”
The anomalous boy looked up at his mother, who was frowning. “Mommy, did you paint these?”
“I did,” replied Abigail, who then directed an unfriendly gaze at the handsome man. “We’ll be open for business tomorrow.”
The stranger maintained his noteworthy grin.
Annoyed, the mother cleared her throat. “We’re closed.”
“Does that mean you’re available to grab some chow?”
Hug looked at Abigail, who was currently too surprised for words. The handsome man smiled, revealing his teeth, which were even, white, and spectacular.
Watching the tableau, the anomalous boy waited for somebody to do something.
Abigail cleared her throat. “Who are you?”
“Sandy Huntsman.”
The handsome man extended a big hand, which was reluctantly clasped and shaken by the discomfited mother.
“Abigail Westinghouse.”
“I know.”
Sandy looked down at Hug. “And who’s this smart young fella who’s got such a good eye for artwork?”
“His name’s Hug.”
“I’m Hug.”
“Well now, that’s most certainly a name. A great one.”
The handsome man kneeled upon the wood and extended his right hand, which the anomalous boy clasped with four fingers and shook thrice.
Two bright blue eyes fixed upon a rapidly waggling nubbin.
Sandy gestured. “You ever use that stump you’ve got to put the whammo on some bad guys?”
Hug chittered.
The handsome man chuckled, stood upright, and eyed the mother. “What kind of chow do you like? Barbecue? Spaghetti? Chili? Raw fish? Did I mention barbecue?”
“Wait, wait, wait,” protested Abigail. “I haven’t agreed to anything—I don’t even know you at all.”
Sandy smiled. This was a look of triumph. “Well then,” he said, “allow me to tell you a little somethin’ about myself . . .
“I brush my teeth six times a day.
“I’ve got a five hundred acre ranch.
“I like square dancing.
“But somethin’ about me that’s a bit more interestin’—and relevant— is my memory, which is photographic, particularly, and most especially, when it comes to peoples’ faces.
“Show me an actor’s face, and I can tell you every single movie I ever saw him in. When I see a crowd at a ballgame, I’ll recognize all the ones that were there the last time. Years back, I identified a burglar from a line- up of forty-three similar lookin’ fellas, and I did that in half of a quarter second.
“That’s an eighth.”
Pausing, Sandy gestured at his surroundings.
“Eleven years ago,” he resumed, “I was here—in this gallery. You ran it with some other lady back then, who had wavy blonde hair and wore strange jewelry—like a witch or something . . . ?”
“Yes. She was my business partner.”
Hug glanced at Abigail, who still seemed a little wary of Sandy. “When I saw you talking to some customers,” the handsome man continued, “I thought to myself, ‘That’s her.’ I made a footnote in my memory banks. If my wife and I ever split up, I
’ll come back here and talk to that lady. That one’s gonna be worth all the hassles.”
Abigail reddened.
Sandy displayed an array of brilliant teeth.
“So . . . you’re divorced?” asked the mother.
“Finalized last month, though we split about a year prior.”
“How did you know that I’d be here today?”
“I paid the pawnbroker across the way fifty bucks to give me a call whenever you reopened. I thought it would’ve been . . . overly familiar to contact you at your home.”
Skeptically, Abigail ruminated.
Hug looked over at Sandy, who seemed like the hero of a movie that had horses and daring rescues.
“If you’d like,” the handsome man resumed, “you can leave Hug at my place—I’ve got a babysitter that can look after him and my boy while we’re out.”
“You seem remarkably comfortable with . . .”
The mother chose not to finish this statement.
“Yeah.” The bright cheer left Sandy’s face for the first time. “Well . . . my sister is slow—so I’m accustomed to people who’re different. I find it’s best to acknowledge their differences and not just pretend that they’re like everybody else—’cause they aren’t. Accept, recognize, and even poke fun at what’s different and it’s no longer somethin’ to be ashamed of, you know? But that’s just the way I look at things.”
Abigail cleared her throat. “I like barbecue.”
XX | Unsupervised Nights
In the passenger seat of the parked car, Hug Chickenpenny watched Abigail, who was checking her recently applied lipstick and eyeliner in the rearview mirror. All of a sudden, the brunette looked like a movie star.
The anomalous boy motioned to the spaghetti straps that upheld the top of his mother’s small, scarlet dress. “Are those strong enough to keep it from falling down?”
“Let’s hope.”
Hug looked away from Abigail and surveyed the environs, which were vast, green, and surrounded by a tall fence. Cattle dotted a far horizon, and horses languidly walked in a corral that adjoined a sizable two-story house. This was undoubtedly a very impressive property.
“Are you going to marry him?” inquired the anomalous boy.
“I’m going to have dinner with him. He seems very nice, right?”
“He does seem nice—very nice—but . . .”
Worriedly, Hug looked at the house. Almost nothing was known about Rex, Sandy’s son, the child with whom he would spend the evening.
“Are you worried about something?”
“What if Rex is mean like the boys at the orphanage? Or what if the babysitter is mean?”
Abigail screwed the cap onto her lipstick, which she then placed into her clutch. “That’s why we’re here early. If you don’t feel comfortable with Rex or the babysitter, we’ll go home.”
Mismatched eyes blinked in an erratic pattern. “Okay.”
The mother and the anomalous boy departed from the car and proceeded up the walkway to the mahogany front door.
There, Abigail wedged her black clutch in her armpit, fixed her dangling earrings, and pulled some renegade strands of silver hair from her eyelashes. A painted index fingernail pressed the mother-of-pearl doorbell.
Within the house, two dings were followed by one dong.
Hug felt quick triplets in his chest.
Something popped, whistled through the air, and cracked into the wooden door. A small divot sat at the point of impact.
Concerned, the anomalous boy looked over his shoulder.
A gleaming steel cylinder that looked like the barrel of a rifle disappeared behind a hedgerow.
Hug felt a chill. “Mommy . . .”
Abigail looked away from the compact mirror that she held in her left palm. “What is it?”
“There’s a sniper.”
The shadow behind the foliage disappeared at the exact moment that Hug pointed his nubbin. “He was over there.”
“Who was?”
A bolt snapped, and the front door opened.
Abigail turned around, and Hug diverted his attention from the hedgerow.
Standing inside the house in blue jeans, brown boots, and a matching sweater was Sandy. The handsome man grinned while appraising the stylish attire that was worn by the mother.
“I hope that The Dapper Pig has a fancy section.”
“I overdid it a bit, didn’t I?” remarked Abigail.
“Significantly, but you look gorgeous.”
The mother’s cheeks reddened, though she did not look angry.
“Hey there, young fella,” Sandy said to Hug. “You’re gonna have some good fun tonight.”
The anomalous boy said, “Okay,” and checked for snipers.
“Come on inside.”
Hug and Abigail followed Sandy into the front hall, which contained an artificial jungle that was inhabited by numerous wild animals, none of which were moving.
The anomalous boy surveyed the taxidermy.
Within the faux vegetation were five bears, preserved in displays of ferocity, six proud elks, and a pair of lions that threatened a startled deer, a grumpy badger, and a terrified boar. Three hawks, talons outstretched, and five silently screaming eagles dangled on wires that depended from the ceiling.
Abigail gestured at the animals. “I can’t believe that your ex-wife didn’t want these.”
“Surprising isn’t it?” Sandy threw a grin and looked at Hug. “What do you think?”
The anomalous boy was impressed by all of the wild animals, but felt a little sad that they were no longer alive. His nubbin pointed at the largest of the five bears, which was standing upright and roaring. “Is that a grizzly?”
“It is.”
“Did you shoot it?”
“Nope. My pa took that one down.” The handsome man pointed at two smaller bears. “I bagged those.”
“Those aren’t so big.”
“I’m not as good a hunter as my pa was . . . and he wasn’t half as good as my grandpa.”
Abigail inspected the startled deer. “Do you hunt often?”
“When my ex-wife and I were still together, she turned into a vegetarian, and I went huntin’ all the time with my pals—to make her mad, I figure, though I didn’t see it that way then.” Sandy scratched his mustache. “I don’t hunt anymore, though—pretty much lost my taste for it.
“These days, I’d much rather go to galleries or dinner theater . . . which is coincidentally what my ex-wife always wanted to do . . .” The handsome man smirked. “Odd how that worked out, isn’t it?”
“Certainly.”
“‘Cause my ex-wife sure does love that dinner theater.”
“Maybe we should put a moratorium for the rest of the evening on using the term ‘ex-wife.’”
“You’re right—and I’m sorry about that.” Sandy scratched his mustache. “I haven’t been out on a date in a good long while.”
Abigail looked at her clutch and nodded. “Neither have I.”
In the foliage that stood behind the lions, Hug saw a slowly moving shadow. “The sniper got in!”
“That’s just Rex,” said Sandy, who then faced the bushes. “Come on out, son.”
A scrappy nine year old who had mischievous blue eyes, wild blond hair, and camouflage clothing emerged from the greenery. Held in his right hand was some kind of rifle.
“Come on over here,” said the handsome man.
Rex walked toward the gathering and eyed Hug. “You look weird.”
Mismatched eyes blinked, and a nubbin waggled.
“Do you like to shoot things?” asked the scrappy youth.
“Um . . . yes.”
This was not exactly a true statement, since the anomalous boy had never once held a firearm of any type, but a desire to shoot things did exist.
“Watch this!”
Rex raised the rifle to his shoulder, aimed the muzzle toward the ceiling, squinted, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger. The fire
arm popped and a pellet smacked one of the hanging eagles.
Slain again, the stuffed bird spun in circles.
Hug was impressed. “Where were you trained?”
Abigail held up her hands. “Hug is not allowed to shoot things.”
The scrappy youth cocked the rifle, which startled the mother.
“Rex,” said Sandy. “You’re upsetting Miss Westinghouse.”
The scrappy youth and his handsome father eyed each other like men did on the streets of an old western town.
“Son. No more shooting tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rex lowered the pellet rifle and winked at Hug. This flashed eyelid seemed to imply some kind of conspiracy.
“Now give a proper hello to Miss Westinghouse,” said Sandy.
“Howdy.”
“Hello,” said Abigail, who was scrutinizing the firearm. “That’s a toy gun, right?”
Slow footfalls sounded in an adjacent hallway, and the handsome man gestured. “The babysitter’s on his way to get your approval, Miss Westinghouse.”
Hug and Abigail looked toward the doorway, where ambled a huddled octogenarian who wore a nightshirt and very long, white socks.
“I’m Edmund,” said the old babysitter.
The mother communicated an unspoken question to the handsome man.
“They’ll be fine,” said Sandy. “Rex always has a grand time with old Edmund.”
The old babysitter raised his white socks over his knees, coughed, and wiped his red nose. “I’m fun.”
Suddenly, Hug noticed the grandfather clock that stood in the hallway. “The New Adventures of Douglas Starchaser is about to start!”
“We’ve got a giant-screen TV in the den,” said Rex.
“Splendid. Let’s go.”
“Hug.”
Hug looked at Abigail, whose eyes were sparkling for some reason.
“Mommy?”
The mother leaned over and kissed her son on the forehead, which he thought felt nice, even if it was a little embarrassing in front of the fellas.
“Go have fun,” said Abigail.
“I will.”
“Come on!” exclaimed Rex.
The anomalous boy nodded and followed the scrappy youth from the room.
———
Fiddles, odiferous smoke, and laughter enlivened the atmosphere of The Dapper Pig. Sitting in a wood booth in the crowded barbecue joint were Abigail Westinghouse and Sandy. A pile of pork ribs that had been picked clean, a half-filled pitcher of beer, and the remnants of some sloppy side dishes of macaroni and cheese, potato salad, and collard greens lay between the pair.
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