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by Diane C. Mullen

  “Cocoa Puffs are good.” I’ve seen that kind of bottle before. Whiskey.

  “So we’ll get Cocoa Puffs and … Where is it? My favorite, Trix.” She pulls a giant-size box off the shelf. “Silly rabbit.”

  “What?” My mind’s suddenly on that night with Kieran.

  “Oh, never mind.” She puts the boxes into the cart with the organic milk, organic eggs, and organic all-natural cola.

  We walk up and down the other aisles. Filling the cart to the top.

  Now the guy with the bottle is standing in front of us in the checkout lane. I watch the bottle move on the conveyor belt. Big green shamrock on the label.

  Irish Mafia.

  Can’t catch my breath. Like someone’s standing on my chest. Why is this happening now? Shake my head. Come on. It’s just a shamrock.

  Thinking of Los Crooks. Whole body shakes. Light-headed. Had a silver Glock against my head.

  My legs are wobbly. Hard to stay standing. Guess remembering is worse in this quiet town.

  Standing in the mirror

  Staring at a stranger.

  Does God see the person he hoped I’d be? Or does he see “a big disappointment,” like everyone at Saint Al’s said? Maybe both.

  Who cares?

  Where was God when that Los Crooks almost killed me? And how about when Kieran left me to do his dirty work for Irish Mafia? Maybe God has given up on me. Just like everyone else. Too much thinking.

  My brain hurts.

  Going around an old man

  It’s a new day. I’m on my way to the hardware store on Main Street. List of supplies for Kat in my pocket. The old man in front of me is using a brown wooden cane, wearing a blue-and-gold Lakeshore Sailors football jacket. Can’t keep walking this slow. Veer out to the left. Pass him.

  “What’s your hurry?”

  Talking to me?

  “Young people always in a hurry. Need to slow down. Stop and smell the roses now and then.”

  Great, Mr. Philosopher.

  Put some distance between me and him. Who does he think he is? Talking to me like you know me, old man. I get some room. Breathing space. Don’t need to have someone up in my face. Turn the other cheek and all that. Walk. Get to the hardware store. It’s not open yet. Should have opened five minutes ago. Start clipping my fingernails. Mr. Philosopher walks toward me. Great. Pulls a wad of keys out of his pocket. Looks at me. I pretend to read the list from Kat.

  “In a big hurry and you still had to wait, eh?”

  Because you’re late. I stare.

  “Give me a minute to get the store opened up, then I’ll let you in.”

  Ignore him.

  Ten minutes later he walks back out without the jacket. Wears a plaid shirt and a gray sweater vest. It’s summer. “Go on inside, gather those rakes, and bring them back out here.” He points to the empty wall.

  What did he just say? “Excuse me?”

  “Give me a hand with the rakes, will ya?”

  I follow him into the store. Gather eleven rakes. Carry them outside. Lean them against the front wall. Done.

  “Now, give me a hand with these bags of fertilizer. They’ve got to be stacked in piles five high, starting here and going to here.” He walks off a space about six feet long. “Got it?”

  That means thirty bags? “Fine.”

  “Now take your time. Nice and straight or they’ll fall over. No need to be in a hurry.”

  What the … ?

  “When you’re done come on inside and let me know what you need.” He goes back into the store.

  Forget that. What I need is to walk away from this crazy old man. I’m not doing this guy’s job. I want to leave.

  But I don’t. These things are so heavy, I can only lift one at a time. This’ll take forever. Got things to do. Yeah, right. Like what?

  Finish my job. Head back into Mr. Philosopher’s store.

  “All right, then.” He claps his hands. “What can I help you with this morning?”

  Good question, since I’ve already helped him. Hand him Kat’s list without saying a word.

  “Okay. This way, young fella.”

  After about ten minutes we pile tubes of paint, wire netting, a container of turpentine, an aluminum bucket, drop cloth, wire brush, and one hundred feet of clothesline on the counter.

  “Are you an artist?”

  “It’s for someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “What?”

  “Who’s the someone else?” He scratches his bald head.

  “Why?”

  “I know most everybody around these parts.”

  “Kat, uh, Katherine Sullivan.”

  “The Lady Artist. I didn’t know she had an assistant.”

  “She doesn’t.” Mind your own business. “I’m staying with her for the summer.” Way too much talking.

  “Where’re you from?”

  “Minneapolis.”

  “City boy, huh?”

  He’s really bugging me. “Yeah.”

  “We do things a lot differently here in Lakeshore. This being a small town and all.”

  Shrug. That’s too bad.

  “You’ll get used to it.” He nods.

  No way.

  “Clarence Masterson.” Puts his hand out. “Folks around here just call me Hank.”

  Hank? How do you get that from Clarence?

  “Liam O’Malley.” We shake.

  “They say you can judge the character of a man by his handshake.” He looks at me without blinking.

  I look back. Set a can onto the counter.

  “Spray paint. Are you eighteen?”

  I lie. “It’s for Kat.”

  Deciding to waste my life again

  Last night I remembered Hank’s words. Small town, huh?

  We do things a lot differently in the hood. Minneapolis being a big city and all.

  Welcome to Lakeshore! I decide to offer my own kind of welcome.

  I wake up extra early this morning. Need to get my artistic introduction done and be back to Kat’s before sunrise.

  Time to put my graffiti science in motion.

  Look all around. Can of Midnight Black out of my backpack.

  CLIKCLAKCLIKCLAKCLIKCLAK.

  Check again.

  Now. PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSST. Paint invades the surface.

  St. B

  Use the new handstyle I’ve been practicing in my blackbook. It’s my own usual graffiti handwriting but more intricate and involved now. Need to keep changing things up if I want to get better as a writer.

  Time to wake up this boring town.

  I am here, Lakeshore. A bench and a garbage can prove it.

  I exist.

  Settling down

  Swimming in Lake Michigan. Trying to move slow and steady. Back and forth. My whole body feels like an electrical current. Slow down. Take a deep breath. Just me and the water.

  I feel shaky all over. That was the second time I’ve tagged out of spite. The first time was my baseball locker at Saint Al’s.

  Stupid.

  That’s not what I want to do with my graffiti. I’m frustrated by everything that’s been happening. I’m tired of always being angry.

  Water’s freezing. Cooling me down. Not so bad as long as I keep swimming. My arms are rubbery, but I’m not going to quit. The big lake will not beat me.

  Crap. I’m exhausted.

  Get back to shore. Solid ground.

  Answering the phone

  “Liam?” It’s Mom.

  “Hi.”

  Chaos on the other end. Television blaring. Little kids arguing. Probably about what cartoon to watch.

  “Be quiet, you two! I can’t hear your brother.” Declan starts crying. “Hang on a minute. I’ll be right back. Patrick wants to talk.”

  “Hey, Liam,” Patrick says.

  “How’s it going?”

  “I’ve got to tell you something.” He lowers his voice. “About Kieran.”

  “What?”

&n
bsp; “You know Irish Mafia and Los Crooks hate each other. Now they’re fighting over the same territory.”

  “So?” I say.

  “So they got into it a couple nights ago.”

  “Kieran, too?”

  “Yeah. Him, another Irish Mafia, that Los Crooks guy with the LC tattoo on his neck, and another Los Crooks.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “I know. Los Crooks were tagging over that big shamrock on the corner store. Irish Mafia stepped up. Kieran and the tattooed Los Crooks were both strapped, and they pulled their guns.”

  “Swear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’d Kieran get the gun?”

  “Tommy. A Glock.” Patrick pauses. “Oh, great, Mom’s walking this way. I’m not supposed to know what happened. She has her hands on her hips. I have to go, Liam.”

  “Did he shoot one of the Los Crooks?”

  “What did he tell you?” Mom raises her voice. “What did you tell him, Patrick?”

  Patrick mumbles. Front door slams.

  “This is nothing for you to be concerned about, Liam.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kieran is making very poor choices, and now he has to deal with the consequences. That’s it. How’s Michigan?”

  She always acts like everything’s fine when she knows that I know it’s not.

  “What did Kieran do?”

  Silence.

  “Did he shoot someone?”

  “Liam …”

  “C’mon. I want to know what happened.”

  “Kieran and one of the Los Crooks were arrested. Your brother’s in jail downtown until his arraignment.”

  “For what?”

  “Using a firearm as a terroristic threat in the first degree, which means it was intentional. And the crime was committed for the benefit of a gang, which is a felony. That’s all I know.”

  Wish I felt shocked. Don’t. Not sure what I’m feeling.

  “Liam?”

  “What?”

  “Your brother is eighteen. An adult. He’s making his own decisions about how he wants to live his life. I hope that you’re paying attention.”

  Trekking toward the steeple

  Just like every Sunday morning at home. When Mom, Patrick, Fiona, Declan, and I walk five blocks from the JFKs to our parish church. For Mass. Past the corner boys in XXL white T-shirts and baggy shorts. Women dressed in as little as possible. The homeless pushing shopping carts that hold everything they own.

  Every Sunday we sit in the front pew on the left side. Mom gives ten percent of her two-job income for the upkeep of the parish facilities. Meaning the priests’ big houses in the burbs. While we’re crowded in our two-bedroom apartment. We live in the hood, where the priests rarely drive their Cadillacs and Beemers. Where the nuns cram into the turd-brown minivan, gathering used clothes for the poor on our block. Always bless myself with holy water. Genuflect. Stand. Kneel. Reflect. Listen. Sing. Receive the body and blood of Christ. Amen.

  It’s where I have my doubts, like Saint Brendan did. But always keep my mouth shut. Like an obedient Catholic boy.

  I reach Saint Catherine’s Church. The tall steeple in Lakeshore.

  Walk in. Red, yellow, and green votive candles line the grotto. I move to touch the thin lit stick to the flame. No. Pull it back. Before the wick starts burning. Why should I light a prayer candle for Kieran?

  Why does he deserve help? He’s an adult. Like Mom said. He’s making his own bad decisions. Only two green, one red, and two yellow candle holders left. Kieran covered his own back. Forgot about me even though I’m family. Shouldn’t be concerned about him.

  Light a red votive.

  Obeying my nose

  Walked past this bakery for days. Kat told me to explore Lakeshore. Said this little town can be quite inspiring to artists. Well, I did change the design of my tag since I’ve been here. Maybe she’s right.

  Keep seeing this bakery. Always want to go in. Something smells so good right now. Screen door creaks just like Kat’s.

  Look all around this bright-green place. Glass display on one side holds all of the reasons I wanted to come in.

  Everything’s set up on shelves like artwork. Little baked sculptures with name tags written in fancy handwriting.

  White Coconut Cake

  Raspberry Rhubarb Scones

  Pumpkin Bread with Raisins

  Blueberry Lemon Bread

  Chocolate and Lavender Cupcakes

  Cinnamon Rolls

  Lemon Poppy Seed Muffins

  I’ll take one of everything.

  “Can I help you?” a girl says.

  “Ah. Ummm. I’m just looking.”

  “Well, do you have any questions?” Smiles. Brown hair pulled back into one of those fancy braids. She’s probably my age.

  “Trying to decide what looks the best,” I say. She’s even more beautiful than that girl from the JFKs.

  “There’s a larger bread selection over here.”

  Follow her over to another display case. Like a little puppy. I’d follow her anywhere.

  “We’ve got spinach feta, pumpkin swirl, white cheddar garlic, artichoke parmesan, whole wheat, and classic white today.”

  What did she just say? “Okay.”

  Silence. Awkward.

  “How about a sample?”

  “What?” I’m an idiot.

  “Hello. A sample. One of the breads or something?”

  Definitely smiling at me. Is she checking me out? Because I sure am looking her over. Focus on the breads, O’Malley. Come up with something. “Sure, how about a piece of that huge cinnamon roll?”

  She cuts a chunk off. Hands it to me.

  “I’m Sara.”

  “Liam.” Our fingers touch. “Thanks.” Does she know I’m sweating bullets?

  “Are you here on vacation?”

  “Yeah.” Look up at a painting of a lighthouse on the wall. So she won’t think I’m staring at her. Lighthouses all over this town.

  “I thought so. I’ve never seen you around here before.” She touches her braid.

  “Yeah.” Silence. “Ah … I’m staying here for the summer. With a woman who’s a friend of my mom’s.” Way too much talking.

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Who do you know?” What kind of pathetic question is that, O’Malley?

  “Lots of people. Since I work here.” She laughs. “What’s her name?”

  “Mary O’Malley.”

  “Hmmm. I’ve never heard of her.”

  Great. Thought she meant Mom. “I mean I’m staying with Katherine Sullivan.” Get me out of here.

  “Are you trying to mess with me, Liam?”

  “Sorry.” Did I blow it already? I’m confused.

  “I’m just kidding. I know Kat. Her sculptures are famous.”

  “I haven’t really seen much of her work.”

  Silence. Awkward. What should I say?

  “So how do you like the cinnamon roll?” She smiles. Again.

  “Amazing.” Smile back.

  Definitely amazing.

  Noticing the silence

  Haven’t heard a siren once since I got to Lakeshore.

  No sirens when I’m walking around Main Street. Not down at the beach. It’s especially quiet when I’m in Kat’s studio. Doesn’t anything bad ever happen here?

  Sirens are a constant at home. Police. Fire. Ambulance. Each has a different sound. Police siren makes short bip, bip, bips with a quicker siren. Fire siren is deeper and drawn out. Ambulance siren isn’t quick like the cops. Not slow like the big engines. Somewhere in the middle.

  No sirens in two weeks. No black-and-whites driving around, either. No cops standing in stores. None walking the streets.

  Nothing.

  Nothing but the sound of my brain on repeat—thinking about that girl at the bakery.

  Continuing with the artists

  Looking at titles on the shelves in the living room. Kat’s in the dining room. Eating
dessert with company. A carpenter. Emergency-room nurse. Owner of the movie theater. Petty officer in the coast guard. Ballet teacher at Kat’s art academy. Organic farmer. She enjoys “good food with good friends.” They’re all okay. And it was good food.

  The only awkward moment was when the ballet woman asked Kat how her new sculpture was coming along. Kat said she’s been “a little blocked, preoccupied.”

  In Minneapolis I usually watch TV after dinner. Kat doesn’t own one. She said she doesn’t like anyone telling her how to think. Tyrell would think I was crazy if he knew that I hadn’t watched TV since I got here.

  Start after the books about Jean-Michel Basquiat. Georgia O’Keeffe. Wassily Kandinsky. I’ve seen something by each of them during field trips to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts. And Kiki Smith. She had an exhibit at the Walker. It was kind of creepy. A room that looked like a kitchen with a statue of a girl about Declan’s size. The girl was staring up at the ceiling with spooky eyes. Gave me bad dreams. Definitely not my favorite exhibit.

  Next shelf: Claes Oldenburg, Diego Rivera, Elizabeth Peyton, Andy Warhol, Carrie Mae Weems, Pablo Picasso.

  Picasso? Home run. Cover has the painting from art class at Saint Al’s.

  Lift the heavy book off the shelf. Open to an amazing painting.

  Pablo Picasso, Guernica, 1937. Oil on canvas, 138 by 306 inches. So that’d be twenty-five feet wide by twelve feet tall. About the size of my favorite phoenix graffiti piece in Minneapolis. This painting is the second most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Maybe third. If I count that girl at the bakery.

  Guernica has only gray, black, and white paint. Scene of horror and chaos. People. Horse. Bull. Large lightbulb near the center of the painting. Beams of light illuminate different views of the horse’s head.

  Cubism. Very cool. Love to be able to do something like this.

  In the painting an arm comes from nowhere holding a candle with one of those glass things around the flame. Woman cradles her dead baby. Screams up toward heaven. Probably wondering where God is. Man trampled by a frantic horse. Severed arm still hanging onto a broken sword. Person on the right looks like he’s drowning. Eyes bugging out in panic.