Love and Vandalism

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  I tear out my page of doodles and crumple it into a ball.

  Beginning with a clean sheet, I bear down on my pencil and draw more deliberately now. Must focus. Envision each stroke magnified, that water tower lion coming to life.

  “If you are not willing to sacrifice everything for your art, you have no right calling yourself an artist.” Mom’s voice rises. “Art costs. Always. The greater the art, the greater the cost. Sometimes, the cost seems more than you can imagine. More than you feel you can bear to give. But if you don’t flinch or falter, you might one day create something great.”

  She smiles to herself and I’m mesmerized for a moment by how beautiful she is. Her features are much more delicate than mine, but I’m glad I at least have her eyes.

  Her brow collapses. “Of course, when you do create something truly great, the masses will rise up to label you a phony or a hack or, worst of all, unoriginal.”

  I flinch at that last word. The word that crushed her.

  I was about seven years old when Mom finally felt ready to share her artwork with the world. I still remember how she agonized over which galleries to submit to, carefully writing the perfect artist’s statement and cover letter, putting her heart on the line. She got rejected again and again, and each time she would be devastated for days. Anyone reading through her rejections could see that she was so, so close but she took each one so hard.

  It was clear all she needed was more time to really break through. But an artist can stay stuck at so, so close for many, many years. It can become a scorching desert of hopeless wandering.

  Finally, after almost seven years of rejections, a small gallery in New York City agreed to host her exhibit. When she got the phone call with the good news, it was a euphoric day for all of us—the happiest I’d ever seen her by far. Almost as happy as she looks in that old photograph on my dresser.

  Mom worked night and day for weeks on her installation. When it was finally time for the opening reception, she bought a new dress, and we all went into the city, and she announced that everything was finally beginning.

  Dad and I hung back in a corner, watching her blossom before our eyes. She wasn’t ours anymore.

  Everyone raved over what she had created. A guy came from some big prestigious art magazine and took pictures. Everything was great, and even though the article was shorter than we’d hoped and the exhibit eventually had to make way for the next new, exciting breakout artist, Mom was walking around like a brighter, shinier version of herself.

  If only she’d never googled her name.

  “That guy had nothing to lose,” I say quietly. “He wasn’t even using his real name; it was easy for him to be careless and cruel.”

  She knows who I’m talking about. An anonymous poster on a popular online discussion forum about local artists who pointed out some minor shortcomings in Mom’s big exhibit. I mean, minor, perceived shortcomings in his humble, fucked-up opinion.

  He had the nerve to call Mom’s work unoriginal.

  She couldn’t get out of bed for a week after reading his comments.

  “I don’t know if anyone can appreciate how hard it is for an artist to put their work out there.” I can see Mom’s eyes are welling up with tears now, and my throat clenches as she goes on. “Why continue creating when someone can just come along and, metaphorically yet very publically, shit all over you and your work?”

  I know she’s given so much for her art, and with a tug, my mind turns to all I’ve sacrificed for her art. All the small neglects. The losses that can never be regained, time she spent locked away from me where I wasn’t allowed, while her art kept her distracted and made her whole.

  My mom’s art is amazing and moving, and I know that it is genuinely great, but it has been a selfish sibling to grow up with.

  Not all my sacrifices have been small.

  Just then, I hear Dad’s car pull into the driveway. The engine cuts off, and I scamper quickly upstairs.

  As his footsteps move into the kitchen, I can hear Mom’s voice getting high with sorrow. “Art is all that matters. Art is my breath. It’s my life. If I can’t make art, I am nothing.”

  Before I hear Dad’s response, I close my door quietly. And when he comes upstairs to check on me, I pretend to be asleep.

  I hear him shuffle to his bedroom, probably getting to bed early, so he’s fresh for the semicolon that’s set in his calendar for tomorrow morning.

  That blasphemous punctuation means he’s obviously meeting that woman again; I just wish I knew where. I need to put an end to this. He wouldn’t meet her anyplace local, and I haven’t figured out a way to track him down and confront him.

  Our electronic devices are connected through an app that lets us find each other on the map, but using the app makes the device that’s being traced beep loudly. It’s not exactly a stealthy way to track a person down.

  I’m actually pretty grateful for that loud beeping feature, since without it, Dad would be able to find me anytime he wanted. I’d hate my life even more if I had to worry about my father tracking me all around New Paltz by my phone without my knowledge. I pull the covers tight against my neck at the thought.

  I should really get up and brush my teeth, but it’s been such a long day, I don’t want to move. I let the tiredness wash over me a moment, then force myself to go quietly to the bathroom and get ready for bed.

  While flossing, I think back to what Mom was saying about art and sacrifice. I’ve gotten soft lately, reaching for satisfaction outside of my creating, seeking comfort when I know that the life of an artist is not meant to be comfortable.

  I need to get moving on painting my giant lion. If Hayes isn’t the right person to help me, I’ll find someone else, but if I don’t continue moving forward, making better art, I’m doomed to stay stuck forever.

  Dad might never understand, but Mom and I are so connected, we’re like the same person. I know that she gets it. Absolutely.

  Chapter Seven

  I agree to pick Hayes up at his aunt’s house the next morning, since she’s working and he still can’t drive legally. She lives just outside of town in a very snazzy A-frame log cabin that has huge windows with mountain views.

  “This place is awesome,” I say as I walk into the combination living room/kitchen with wood beam ceilings that rise cathedral high. A long tabby immediately weaves herself around my legs. I bend down to give her a pat. “What does your aunt do?”

  He points out the window toward the Shawangunk Ridge. “She’s a massage therapist up at Mohonk.”

  “Nice.” I look out to the tower, visible on top of the mountain from where we’re standing. “I know someone who used to work in the kitchen up there. Would you believe that the light at the top of that tower is just a regular sixty-watt bulb?”

  Hayes bends down to catch the cat who hasn’t stopped tracing an endless infinity symbol around my legs. “That’s nuts,” he says. “It looks so bright every night from here.”

  “He took me up there and showed me himself. It’s just a regular lightbulb, like one you’d put in a lamp.” I mask my memory of making out with the guy up on top of that tower.

  If Hayes suspects, he doesn’t show it. Dropping the cat so it lands on all fours, he moves over to the center island, picks up a purple tumbler, and hands it to me. “Organic blend. Light and sweet.”

  I smile and point to the Mud Puddle’s logo on the side of the tumbler. “Did you lose your Starbucks club card or something?”

  The cat has already made her way back to me and resumes making her obsessive-compulsive figure eights.

  “Go ahead. Try it,” he says. “I promise I’m not trying to roofie you.”

  “See, I didn’t think you were trying to roofie me until you just now said that.”

  “Sorry. Very bad joke.”

  “Not that you’d do anything to me anyway,” I
say.

  “I don’t know. Watching you sleep sounds—”

  “Creepy as hell?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, I guess it kinda does. Better to leave the hallucinogens out of our discussion.”

  “So no narcotics whatsoever?”

  He gives me a look that says the two of us will never be getting stoned together. “Just try your drink,” he says. “I made it special for you.”

  “Thanks.” I take a sip. This coffee is about the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. I feel my pupils widen. “I mean, thanks!”

  “Caffeine is my one remaining drug, so I’m a little particular about my coffee. I use a French press and grind the beans myself.”

  “You seriously need help.” I greedily take another sip. “But this is fantastic.”

  Hayes is eager to get going to the ice caves, but I need to see what type of sweetener (cane sugar with a dollop of honey) and cream (fresh whole milk from the farmer’s market) he used. With some pressing, he also admits to adding a pinch of cinnamon to the grounds. By the time we head out, I’m already halfway through my delicious beverage and am completely covered in cat hair.

  As we climb into my car, he pauses a moment and looks out toward the tower. “That’s pretty amazing, you know.”

  “What?” I take another sip from the tumbler.

  “That something as ordinary as a household lightbulb can be seen from this far away.” He turns his eyes on me. “It shines so brightly in the night sky.”

  Gazing at the tower that juts up from the ridge, I say, “Well, it doesn’t do shit right now. It’s actually turned on during the day, but you can’t tell even up close.”

  He laughs. “So much for getting all philosophical with you.”

  “Nice try.” I roll my eyes and slide what’s left of my coffee into my car’s drink holder. He buckles himself into the passenger side as I start the engine.

  Without meaning to, I kick up gravel with my tires pulling out and the two of us laugh. Hayes hums the theme song to an old TV show that featured at least three car chases per episode.

  The windows are down, and I make the music loud, and I’m not sure if it’s a premonition or if it’s just all the caffeine I’ve recently ingested, but it feels like it’s going to be a really good day.

  The two of us don’t talk as I take the back way out of town, toward Ellenville and the ice caves. The road is long and winding and lined with thick forest on either side.

  A hawk swings by overhead, searching for small animals to devour, but they are all too busy scurrying for food to care about the danger.

  A good song comes on, and Hayes is using every available surface inside the car to play percussion.

  He’s busy mimicking the beat of the tune on his chest when I look over at him scornfully. His thumping slows, and he drops his hands into his lap. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly.

  The chorus starts up, and I snatch my coffee tumbler out of the drink holder, hold it up, and belt into it like it’s a microphone.

  He laughs and the two of us shout out the lyrics together, passing the “mic” back and forth.

  When the song ends he tells me, “We killed it!” and I have to smile in agreement.

  I don’t want to ask because it feels like revealing that I need him too much, but I’ve bitten my tongue for as long as I can. I slow down and lower the radio.

  “Have you thought more about helping me paint over the ad on the water tower?”

  He makes me wait for his answer, continuing to tap a hand on his knee as he looks out the window.

  Finally, he shifts in his seat to face me. “I talked it over with Roger.”

  I swerve slightly. “Are you freaking crazy?”

  “Not specific details or anything, just the basics. The fact that there could be legal consequences.”

  “I swear I won’t get you in trouble. If anything goes down, I’ll take the fall. Honestly.”

  My dad may hate me, but I grew up knowing most of the other officers, and I feel sure I could protect Hayes from a parole violation even if we did get caught. Plus, we won’t get caught.

  “Listen, Rory, I really want to help you. And I can see just how much that water tower needs one of your lions on it. Roaring down over the town. Just like, roar!” He holds up his hands like claws.

  I laugh and breathe a sigh of relief. He’s actually going to help me. I say, “That thing is going to wake everybody up.”

  He holds up a hand as if to stop my big grin. “What my sponsor helped me decide is that I honestly want to help you, but I need to know why.”

  “Why what? Why the lion? You just said it: that water tower needs this.” I wrinkle my nose and imitate his roar, but a glance at his face says he’s not buying it. I drop my hand that’s making “claws.”

  “I know what the lion would represent for me,” he says. “I could look up and always see Aslan from Narnia watching over us and reminding me that I have a higher power who is kind yet absolutely fierce. It would be an uneasy image, but one with deep meaning.”

  “That’s perfect,” I say. “Let’s go with your Narnia thing. This lion will be, like, up there, roaring at all of us, warning everyone to shape up and act right.”

  “That’s not at all what Aslan’s about. You clearly need to go back and rewatch the movie or, better yet, read the book.”

  I nod enthusiastically, keeping my eyes on the road. I’ll read whatever he wants if he’ll just help me paint.

  He says, “But what I really need to know is what these lions mean to you. Besides the name thing, what drove you to make the first one?”

  My mind tries to land on memories, but each one is too sharp.

  “I guess you could say I’ve been going through some stuff this past year or so.” I shrug casually, but my knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel with both hands.

  “I’m sorry.” Hayes puts a palm on my shoulder and I stop at the T in the road.

  I flick on my left turn signal and look out the window. “Yeah, well. Shit happens.”

  “You mean shit happens for a reason,” he says, but I don’t respond because something has just caught my eye.

  In the parking lot of the German restaurant on the corner, a police cruiser is parked with all the other cars. Like a goose hanging out in a crowd of ducks, thinking it will just blend in. But it does not blend in.

  I’m vaguely aware of Hayes watching me, but I can’t unfreeze my stare as I slowly remove my sunglasses.

  The cruiser is one of the D.A.R.E. ones, complete with a picture of the condescending cartoon dog in uniform on the side. Just like the police car my dad drives. The puzzle pieces fall into place.

  That semicolon marking this morning in his calendar.

  The unpopular restaurant. The perfect distance outside of town.

  He’s here. With her. I’m certain of it.

  Of course, I don’t remember my dad ever eating German food before, let alone for breakfast. I’m probably wrong about all of this.

  Except that I know that I’m not.

  Impulsively, I pull into the parking lot. There are plenty of spaces open, but I drive directly up to the front door and park diagonally on the painted yellow X’s marking the entryway.

  Hayes’s exclamations of, “What’s happening?” and, “Rory, are you okay?” are faint background noise behind the long and steady high note playing in my head.

  I am not in control of my actions as I jump out of the car and rip open the heavy front door and charge into the space beyond. I’m plunged into dark-wood-paneled politeness, and I freeze for a moment, allowing my pupils to adjust.

  It takes long enough that Hayes moves in behind me and puts a hand on each of my shoulders. “You left the car running. Is everything okay?”

  I shake him off as I spot them.

  Over by th
e window. A private little table for two. How romantic.

  Without a plan, I march directly to where they sit. A handsome middle-aged woman with a dreamy smile on her face.

  And across from her: my dad.

  I shout, “What the actual fuck?”

  Dad looks surprised for a moment, and then covers his forehead with one hand. To the woman, he says, “I’m so sorry, Linda.”

  “So, that’s her name? Huh?” I stick my face directly in front of hers. “Hello, Linda. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  She stammers at me while twisting the cloth napkin on her lap with both hands. Looking back and forth between my dad and me, she seems about to cry. But that’s not my fault. It’s his.

  I swing around on him. “I knew it too. You called me by accident last week, and I could hear you out on a date with this, this, this…hobag.”

  “Rory!” My dad’s face is red as he rises and the little-kid part of my brain is saying holy shit because he hardly ever loses it and it’s scary when he does, but I don’t back down.

  The two of us stand nose to nose, and my teeth are clenched so tight I can feel my heart beating in my jaw. Hayes gently touches my arm and I realize I have my right hand balled into a fist. I release it.

  “Hey, there, Hayes,” I say sarcastically over my shoulder. “This is my dad, the cheating cheater who cheats on my mom.” My voice rises with each word, drawing stares from around the sparsely filled room.

  Dad glances to Hayes for a moment before fixing his eyes back on me. “You know that’s not true, Rory.”

  “Are you seriously going to tell me this isn’t a date?” I laugh and gesture to the cozy table for two in front of us. “What is this, Dad?”

  His face is still flushed, but his voice is controlled. “This is breakfast between two people who met at their grief counseling group. Two widowed adults who are trying to move on with their lives. Linda here lost her husband two years ago.”

  Linda is still sitting, and her voice is weak as she tells me, “I’m so sorry about your mom.”

  I swing my hand all the way back and before Dad or Hayes can stop me, I slap the plate of eggs off the table in front of her. She folds up like a flower, ducking down in her seat as the plate bounces off the paneled wall, sending eggs and home fries flying.