I shake my head no to him and dig my oar into the water, expertly aiming the canoe back toward the main beach.
He calls a loud, “Yo!” after me, but I don’t give the guy another look.
• • •
When I get back to the swim area, I climb the wooden lifeguard ladder and scoot onto the seat beside Scott. He’s focused on the water. The beach officially opened twenty minutes ago, and there are half a dozen people of various ages milling about in the lake.
I sit, watching as a petite mother tries to wrangle her toddler into submission. The toddler is repeatedly calling out, “Duck!” while pointing to a sweet mallard family swimming by.
My instincts flip to high alert, since the toddler’s older sister is treading water in the deeper section alone. The girl is only about nine or so, but her mom seems overly absorbed with the offspring that’s still sporting a swim diaper.
“Yes, ducks!” she says to the toddler as if he’s just discovered a renewable energy source. “And what sound does the duck make?”
The toddler goes into an admittedly adorable imitation of a duck, waddling in the shallow water and quacking while he flaps his little elbows like chubby wings. His mother’s laugh rings out.
I wonder if his older sister feels as abandoned as she looks. I call to her, “How about coming a little closer to shore, honey?”
The mother snaps her head up and shrills, “Kendra, get over here. I can’t keep an eye on you too.” She glances at me. “Sorry about her.”
I clutch my whistle. “She’s fine. Just starting to look tired is all.” It’s too bad not everyone gets a mom as great as mine.
As Kendra carefully doggie-paddles back toward shore, I relax a bit.
Scott grins at me. “Nice lifeguarding.”
I hold my hands out. “It’s what I do.”
“It’s one thing you do.” He gives me a smile. “Any progress with the sergeant?”
I shake my head. “Lost cause.” Scott doesn’t know about my lions or my cabin, but my dad showed up here one day to check that I wasn’t sneaking in some creative activity. I had to fling my sketchbook into Scott’s arms and explain the whole crazy no-art policy to him after my dad left.
I turn in my seat now to scan the beach. The mother is rubbing the toddler dry with a towel as her daughter sits wrapped in a hooded, pink beach towel, eyes closed, and face tilted to the sun. She’s smiling and holding a large, clouded baggie filled with some form of trail mix.
There’s no eating allowed on the beach, but I don’t usually enforce that rule unless people are being disruptive. Mothers are supposed to give their kids healthy snacks. The nine-year-old opens her eyes and pops a raisin in her mouth, looking as if she might not be plagued with mommy issues her whole life after all.
My bag hangs on the back of the lifeguard chair, and from its pocket, I hear the muffled notes of Dad’s ominous ringtone. It’s the theme song from the TV show Cops.
“Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?” I sing along with the tune as I dig out my phone.
Scott says, “Tell Sarge I say hi.”
Dad was pretty suspicious of Scott’s drawing talent when he busted me, so he’s not exactly on my father’s good side. Not that many people are.
I give Scott a light punch and hit Answer as I jump down from the chair. We’re not allowed to use our phones while on duty, but he can handle the solitary couple kissing in the deep end without me. Better I answer than have Dad showing up here to check on me again.
“Hello?” I say, but all I can hear is a scraping noise and a muffled conversation on the other end.
“Hello!” I call into the phone, but there’s no response beyond the continued scraping. I yell, “Great job dialing me with your butt, Dad!” but he can’t hear me. He just told me this morning his shift at the station starts later this afternoon, so I wonder who he’s talking to.
And then I hear it. The lilt of an unfamiliar female voice. She’s telling him to “behave” in a way that implies he doesn’t really need to.
My insides drop to the pebbled beach.
“Hell no.” I clutch the phone closer to my ear. I’m trying to make out the words they’re saying, but the conversation sounds like it’s happening underwater.
“Is everything okay?” Scott is watching my face as he leans down from his seat.
I point to the lake, even though the couple’s already moved to the ladder that leads up to the dock. I turn and walk toward the back of the beach.
Listening as hard as I can, it becomes clear that what I am hearing is a flirtatious exchange between my father and a woman who is not my mother. It doesn’t sound like a casual exchange between strangers either. In fact, I hear what sounds like the scraping of silverware on plates.
“I’ve really missed you this week,” the woman says.
My dad’s voice streams through the phone. “I know. I wish we could meet more often.”
I press the phone closer to my ear but can’t make out what she’s saying now. Something about being together. My heart beats against my eardrums.
The next thing I can decipher is my dad saying, “I’m sorry. She’s just not ready.”
What the hell?
The conversation goes quiet and the clanging of dinnerware is all I can hear. Finally, my dad asks, “How’re your eggs?”
He is literally asking another woman about her eggs. How could he do this to Mom?
It feels as if the fog is back, and instead of hanging in wisps over the lake, it is clogging up my lungs and making it hard for me to breathe.
When I can’t stand listening for another second, I end the one-way call and climb back onto the lifeguard bench beside Scott. He watches me so intently, I instinctively check the lake for swimmers. The water’s empty now.
Still, I don’t look back at him when I say, “I think my dad is having a fucking affair.”
I think back to the worst things I remember my dad ever doing:
Drop-kicking the neighbor’s basset hound into the snow after the dog ate half of our linoleum kitchen floor.
Backing over my bicycle in the driveway to teach me a lesson about putting things away.
Shoving all my art supplies into a giant, black waste bag and flinging them directly into the open mouth of a garbage truck in a fit of rage.
And now. I didn’t think it was possible, but Dad has managed to top himself.
His new worst thing is cheating on Mom.
• • •
By the time my shift ends and I’ve hiked all the way back to the door of my cabin, the fog in my lungs has turned into searing-hot steam. I know I won’t be able to focus on organizing my big project plans.
My lions are agitated and restless and murderously hungry.
I need to paint. Now.
Hurriedly, I stuff painting supplies into an empty rucksack. I know just the spot for this lion, and the excitement of imagining it releases a tiny bit of the pressure in my lungs. I actually let out a grunt as I prepare to go.
Throwing my faded black baseball cap over my dreads, I head off in the direction opposite the lake. The path grows increasingly windy and overgrown, and the thorns claw at my legs.
I wish I weren’t wearing shorts, but my journey feels vital.
Like the lions are prowling alongside me.
I’m trying not to think about the phone call, but sound bites from the underwater flirting keep rising to the surface.
I need to catch my fraud of a father in the act. Too bad Kelly isn’t trained to sniff out cheating rat bastards.
I’d bet anything Dad’s marking his meetings with his mistress in his smartphone’s calendar. Although he’s probably using some sort of code, since I doubt he’d label his datebook, “Event title: Cheat on my wife.”
I command my brain to stop thinking. I’m heading t
o paint, and everything will be okay for a few hours.
Stopping for a moment, I lick my finger to rub a deep scratch on my leg where the thorns have drawn blood. The sting helps me focus as I press on, toward my waiting stone canvas. I move faster as I get closer.
With a grunt, I toss my bag over my shoulder and climb a tall, rattling fence. Last year some corporate assholes put this metal eyesore up to protect us all from the awesome swim hole inside. As if that would stop kids from swimming here.
I climb past the sign that says something about the place being one huge safety hazard. Meanwhile, this spot should’ve been zoned as sacred ground.
Over to the right, a rough wall of rock sports a few amateur tags. Before the fence, nobody would’ve even thought of painting graffiti here. It was too perfect and beautiful. I walk over and run my fingers across the crude white letters.
Damn vandals.
I’m glad I have a can of white because zero effort was put into these letters and my lion will be absorbing these ugly initials. It’s not that art can’t be ugly, but as Mom says, it should display signs of effort and thought and purpose—evidence of giving a shit.
These letters are just some kid pissing his name in the snow, but my design will transform the scrawls into something magnificent.
It’s important to be flexible when your canvas is shared public space.
I lay down my thick tarp, empty my duffel bag, and stand, staring at the rock face. I imagine the way the planes of this lion’s mouth will best fit into the craggy surface.
I usually paint exclusively at night, but this swim hole is completely secluded. And the type of locals who do come here to swim would probably cheer me on once they saw what I’m doing.
I have a number of fans who post photos of my lions on social media, and I have to admit, it’s pretty damn awesome.
There’s a folded-up stencil in my bag, but as I replay the mystery woman’s voice cooing at my dad, I decide I don’t need it.
I keep watching the wall until the lion’s open mouth reveals itself in a wicked 3-D effect. I smile, and excitement pumps through my limbs.
Holding back for that extra minute, I savor the moment of being about to begin until I can’t resist anymore. With a stretch and a few deep breaths, I tie my mask around my neck and pull it up to cover my mouth.
I grab a can of spray paint in each hand and pounce on the rock face.
I’m using five different tips, plus a loose flap of cardboard to help direct the paint streams and define the edges. But from tail to mane, this wild beast is all freehand.
My cans chant purposeful sounds as I sssspray and stop and shake, shake, shake, creating metallic giggles that ring out through the woods.
Their giddy echo lulls me into a trance as I make this small section of beautiful nature my own.
If it wasn’t for the fence already wrecking the view, this isn’t a spot I would normally choose. I love and respect these woods. But the area has been caged in anyway, so the way I see it, this space could use a lion’s roar. Climbing over the fence for an illegal swim will seem more adventuresome once this guy’s complete.
I hum as I think about the reactions he’ll get. When I take a step back for perspective, I notice his proportions seem to be running a little larger than my stenciled ones.
I wonder if anyone will notice the lions have started to grow.
Chapter Three
I hear the fence behind me give a distinct rattle.
Deep-fried crap balls.
I stop spraying midstroke and spin around. I’m trapped like an animal, and I half expect my dad to be standing there in full uniform with his gun drawn and aimed at my head.
Instead, it’s that damn cologne-ad model again. He looks at me with his eyes so wide I can see the whites all around. “You’re the one painting those lions?”
Pushing a dreadlock off my face, I calmly make my way to the fence where he’s standing. Ignoring him is suddenly much less of an option.
I say, “I don’t know what you’ve been doing here all afternoon, but camping inside the state park isn’t allowed.”
“Oh, like you’re not breaking any laws.” His eyes are locked onto my lion. “And besides, do I look like a camper to you?”
“No.” I resist the urge to ask what hiking catalog he just stepped out of. “But you do seem to be occupying the woods pretty hard. Are you staying up at Mohonk or something?”
Mohonk is the expensive resort that sits at the top of the adjacent mountain. We get a lot of their guests “slumming it” here on the public-state-park side.
This guy’s face is pressed against the fence, and the way he’s staring at my lion is making me nervous. “I can’t believe you’re the actual artist.” He finally looks at me.
I hold my paint-stained palms up. I was supposed to be in planning mode all day today, so I didn’t grab rubber gloves.
I say, “Guilty. You caught me red-handed. And orange handed and purple handed…” I let my voice fade and rub my palms together, hating the fact that I need him to be cool about all this.
His eyes sparkle. “Running into you must be fate.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t exactly believe in fate. I believe in shit happens.”
“‘Shit happens’ is fate.” He grins at me. “Well, maybe more ‘shit happens for a reason.’”
“I see. So you’ve recently converted to some religion or cult or whatever, and now you’ve decided New Paltz is your new mecca. Of course.” The town naturally draws spiritual seekers, along with its fair share of wackadoos.
“I’m staying here with my aunt for the summer,” he says. “Getting away from Long Island to figure a few things out with my life.”
I laugh. “Why do people always think they need to leave home to find themselves?”
He ignores my comment. “I’ve been studying these lions of yours around town, and they’re saying something. They’re not just roaring. These guys are raging.” He tilts his head as he studies my work. “Is this one bigger than the others?”
I turn away and start collecting my supplies. “Listen, I just need you to be chill about this. Getting busted would be pretty messy for me.”
“I know what that’s like,” he says. “Are you on probation too?”
“No.” My turned back hides my surprise. He doesn’t strike me as the “on probation too” type, a.k.a. my type. “I have a family member in law enforcement and let’s just say things could get very bad very quickly.”
I turn at the rattling sound of the fence and see he’s climbing over to my side.
“By all means, do join me,” I say sarcastically as he moves in front of my face.
“I’m Hayes.” He reaches out to shake my hand like we’re here for a formal business meeting in some sort of outdoor conference room.
“Hello, Hayes.” I ignore his hand. “Welcome to the lion’s den.” I try to look menacing, but he just responds with another easy grin. I notice his lips are the tiniest bit lopsided in a way that tries to draw me in. I look away.
He moves closer to the lion’s face, and I will the thing to spring to life and swallow him up.
“This fellow seems especially angry.” Hayes turns to me. “Where is all this rage coming from?”
I laugh. “Maybe I’m just a good artist.”
“You’re an amazing artist.” His intensity makes me blush. “But this anguish can’t come from nothing.”
I consider the lion’s drawn snarl. He’s right. Pain and rage shade every groove.
I angle my body away from him. “Listen, I just need you to not tell anyone about this. About me. Okay?”
He watches me silently, as if deciding something. My heart beats harder and harder until I turn around and start shoving spray cans into my backpack.
I was an idiot to pick a spot where I couldn’t make a
fast escape. I’ve always been so careful, but I let my anger toward Dad interfere with my judgment.
Finally, Hayes says, “I’ll make you a deal. Let me take you out to lunch. I want to talk with you about your lions.”
“I never talk about my lions. Ever.” I glance at him over my shoulder. “And I do not go on dates with guys from Lawng Eyeland.”
The grin is back. “So it’s not a date then. Let’s just think of it as an exchange. I’ll keep silent about your identity if you shed a little light on the meaning of your lions. Also, I’m starving, so we should maybe get a bite to eat while we talk.”
“You’re seriously going to blackmail me into going out with you?”
“Don’t make it sound so creepy.” He moves to climb back over the chain-link fence. “I just want to take you to a casual lunch. And in exchange, I won’t alert the authorities to your identity.”
He has to be bluffing. “You have no idea who I am.” I crane my neck to look at him since he’s already reached the top of the fence.
He grabs the bar with one flexed arm, pulls himself up, and flings a leg over before peering down at me.
“Oh, I think I have a pretty good sense of who you are.” He jumps to the ground. “And I know what you drive. And I know where you work.”
Shit. “Guess you found your true self here in New Paltz after all,” I call out. “You’re a creepy stalker blackmailer!”
Laughing, he says, “I’ll wait for you out by the park entrance.” He doesn’t even look back as he adjusts his pack and walks away. He’s the one in control now.
Impulsively, I pick up a nearly empty spray can, and with a few quick flips of my wrist, my lion’s eyes go red with fury.
• • •
Sitting at my favorite place to eat, the Main Street Bistro, has never felt so confining. My leg shakes with impatience as Hayes pores over the menu. I say, “Just order the Fifty-Nine Main Express breakfast burrito. Unless you’re a vegetarian.” It’s an accusation. “Then get the Veggie X.”
He gives an easy grin as he closes his menu. “Fifty-Nine Main Express burrito it is. You know, trusting a stranger can feel really good sometimes.”
Love and Vandalism Page 3
