The Art of My Life

by Ann Lee Miller

  “Hey.” Cal went for a hug.

  Fish shoved a palm against Cal’s shoulder. His face contorted. “Take your friggin’ dog and clear out. By the way, I dog-sat for Van Gogh’s sake, not yours.”

  Fish’s harsh tone felt like stepping on a stingray out of nowhere. Cal’s brow scrunched. “Whoa. What’s got you pissed? And thanks for taking care of my dog. What? Did Van Gogh eat your stogies? Do his business in your Corn Flakes? Look, I’ll pay you for the dog food.”

  “You don’t know, do you? You don’t freakin’ know.” Fish shook his head, incredulous.

  “What? What? Tell me.” Cal’s gaze flicked to Sean Fisher scrawled inside the white oval of Fish’s work shirt.

  The grease-stained material flapped against Fish’s bony ribs in the wind.

  “You got me fired,” Fish ground out.

  “How the he—”

  “What were you thinking ditching your weed in my locker? I didn’t even know it was in there.”

  A chill slid down Cal’s spine. “You’re kidding me. Nobody told me.”

  “It took me two weeks to get a job working for Zeke. I lost the apartment. I don’t have family around to coddle me.” Fish stared him down, stone cold, the same look Cal had watched Fish give his parents when they’d told him they were moving to Peru.

  Cal dropped back a step, remorse flushing through him. Throw another failure onto the pile. “I’m sorry, man. I had no idea.”

  “That’s all you have to say?” Disgust radiated from his eyes.

  “Look, it was what? A few joints? I was taking the rug rats to the beach, and I didn’t want the stuff anywhere near them. My sister-in-law already thought I was scum. I’m surprised she let me hang with the kids.”

  “Old Man Phillips called the cops. They hauled me off in the police car right out the front doors of Circle K.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Ever.”

  “You don’t know what you’re apologizing for.” Fish flung his hands up in the air. “Poof—you killed my political career before it started. You killed my future.”

  Cal flinched inwardly. “One arrest would keep you from running for office?”

  A muscle jumped in Fish’s granite jaw.

  There was no use arguing with Fish when he got like this. “Screw you.” Cal knocked a shoulder into Fish’s arm, shoving him out of the way and stepped toward the Escape. They’d work it out later.

  Fish grabbed Cal’s bicep and spun him back. “Looks like you already did.”

  The barb embedded into the soft flesh of Cal’s gut. He jerked his arm out of Fish’s hold.

  “Get Van Gogh’s crap off Zeke’s boat while I’m gone. We’re done.”

  For a millisecond Cal thought he saw hurt under Fish’s anger.

  Fish strode down the pier.

  Done? Fire coral and kelp, anger and grief, wound around each other inside. “Why not stay and watch. Aren’t you afraid the ex-con will clean you out?” Cal shouted at his back.

  “Get your lousy carcass out of my life. It’ll be worth whatever you take.”

  The comment stabbed deeper than we’re done. Fish knew he wasn’t a thief.

  Van Gogh nuzzled his hand, and Cal squatted to the dog’s eye level.

  Van Gogh stared placidly into his eyes, fogging his face with doggy breath. He slurped Cal’s cheek.

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  Cal crossed the gangplank onto the mammoth fishing boat Zeke’s Ambition. The cruiser must stretch fifty feet. He wrinkled his nose at the fish smell clinging to the bare wooden planks flecked with old paint.

  He opened the door, and Van Gogh burst into the cabin.

  “Where’s Fish’s bunk, buddy?”

  As though he understood, Van Gogh trotted toward a wide shelf over a row of storage lockers where a sleeping bag spewed across a rectangle of foam rubber.

  The ratty red and green plaid lining shot Cal back to a hundred campouts he’d shared with Fish on Pelican Island, the crunch of singed hot dog skin between his teeth, and a brotherhood that went deeper than the blood they’d dripped from their pointer fingers onto the beach the summer after third grade. He ran his thumb over the jagged ridge on his index finger where he and Fish had pocket-knifed their bond into flesh.

  The dog pranced and barked at a roach while Cal emptied his wallet, one hundred and thirteen dollars from the pay check he’d cashed the day he got arrested. The bills would cover dog food and a little extra. He slid the money under Fish’s pillow. The faint scent of Fish’s sweat drifted toward him, wrenching him like the final twist of a C-clamp.

  He grabbed the half-empty bag of food and stuffed the dog bowls and multiple pieces of an “indestructible” Kong dog toy into the bag. With his flip-flop, he squashed the roach Van Gogh had cornered. “Come on, boy.” Cal ducked his head through the door into sunlight and came face to face with Evie on the dock across from him.

  Shock registered on her face, then she screamed. “Cal! You’re out!”

  As his foot touched down on the dock, she barreled into his chest—a flash of breasts, strawberry-blonde hair, and the scent of vanilla. Her greeting rivaled Van Gogh’s and almost tottered him into the drink.

  Cal set her away from him with one hand and clutched the twenty-five pounds of dog food and paraphernalia with the other.

  “You’re pissed because I didn’t visit you.” Her eyes bore into him. “I don’t stinkin’ do jail.”

  His gaze traced the familiar tattooed daisy petals peeking from her blouse, the stem plunging into the valley between her breasts. He ripped his attention away. Looking was what always got him into trouble with Evie. He walked two slips down and vaulted onto the Escape.

  Van Gogh trotted across the gangplank, Evie not far behind.

  He glanced at her, scrounging for words that would make her back off. “Ask Stoney if he’ll rehire me.” Evie hated doing favors. And doing tats was worth considering before he signed loan papers below his folks’ signatures.

  “What will you give me if I march my butt to Stoney’s?”

  Cal barked a laugh. “Like you’re not going down there every day to pierce anyway.”

  “If you think I’m pissing Stoney off for nothing, you’re crazy.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Face time. I want face time.”

  He didn’t want to have this conversation less than an hour out of jail. He sighed, emptying all the air from his lungs. “All we do is fight. We’re toxic together. We should have broken up two years ago and stayed broken up.”

  “We’re good together. The sex—”

  Cal rattled the boat keys in his pocket. “You talking to Stoney or not?”

  “I’m not doing your dirty work—”

  “Fine. I’ll talk to him myself.”

  Evie flipped him off. “Bite me.”

  Two boats down the dock, Fish paused as he crossed Zeek’s gangplank and looked their direction as if to say he shared the sentiment.

  Cal turned his back on both of them and walked down the deck.

  Evie’s wrath he deserved, but he’d stood by Fish when he sunk into a funk their whole senior year of high school after Fish’s family left the country. He didn’t care what Fish said, they weren’t done. Not if he had anything to say about it.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat and skimmed his eyes over the Escape’s graceful lines, her mast jutting into blue sky. He unlocked the hatch, tossed the dog food through the opening, descended the ladder into the musty cabin with Van Gogh hefted under one arm, and shut out the drama.

  Salt and stale marijuana smoke hung in the air. Water lapped a rhythmic peace against the hull.

  Van Gogh’s sniff-fest traveled the length of the cabin from the forward bunk, to the dining nook, the galley’s gimbaled stove that rocked with the sway of the boat, and into the master suite.

  He owned the Escape. Amazing.

  Hope lurked despite Evie’s crazy, Fish’s anger, and his mother’s expectations.

  But first
he had to face Aly. And talk her into loaning him forty thousand dollars.

  Chapter 2

  July 16

  Am I wacked, or do you ever stand in front of your favorite picture and try to breathe it in before you have to face something you dread? Does art bring tranquility? Is beauty an outgrowth of the divine? Thoughts?

  Aly at www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

  Cal followed his folks from the sticky ninety-four degree parking lot through the double glass doors of the PNC Bank branch. He tugged at the tie chaffing his neck. The last time he’d worn a tie in Aly’s presence he’d fallen in love with her—eight years ago when Jesse married her sister.

  He scanned the teller line and the office cubicles for a glimpse of Aly. Hunger and dread arm-wrestled in his gut. He wanted to walk back across the tile—away from the humiliation of his life—part-time jobs, living at Henna’s for free, painting with art supplies his mother funded—and out the door. But this was the only way he’d get a life, the only way he’d get a shot at Aly.

  Mom stopped at the office partition laminated with Aly Logan, Loan Officer on a plastic strip at the right.

  Over her shoulder, his gaze collided with Aly’s.

  Her eyes widened and telegraphed nervousness he was sure Aly didn’t want him to see. A piece of him relaxed. On some level, she cared.

  Aly’s gaze swept them. “Hi, Koomers.”

  Dad moved between them and took a seat. “Aly! How’s my favorite banker?”

  She warmed Dad with a look that oozed affection, like the ones she used to give Cal. Before Evie.

  He took the chair in the entryway, the only space left in Aly’s cramped office, as his parents settled beside him.

  God, Aly was beautiful sitting in a beam of muted sun filtering through the window. His fingers itched to sketch her. Maize-colored hair swept back from her pale face in a loose ponytail. Hazel eyes picked up the olive of her sleeveless blouse. Sun had honeyed the skin tone on her arms. Her small nails were bare without the bumper car colors she’d worn in high school and the iridescents she’d favored in college.

  Aly, fake-smiled at his shirt, avoiding his eyes. “Well, let’s get to it. You probably want to know what the bank decided on your loan.”

  He couldn’t pull his eyes away from her. He’d been starved for Aly for too long. The last time he’d seen her was four months ago at Easter. She’d treated him like a pedophile uncle—as she had for the past two years.

  “You’ve got the loan,” Aly said.

  Her words jolted his back against the chair. Inside, emotions randomly beaded and separated like mercury. Relief bumped and merged with a cringe that he wasn’t man enough to conduct his own business. An educated guess about what lay under the lace winking from the scoop of Aly’s neckline merged into hope that he’d see it someday.

  Aly grabbed a file folder from the tidy stack on the corner of her desk and handed Cal the top sheet to sign. Her fingers brushed his, and she jerked away. He’d touched her hundreds of times, and he’d give just about anything to earn back the privilege.

  “This is the loan application,” Aly said.

  He signed and slid the page across Aly’s desk to his mother.

  Aly was careful not to touch Cal as she passed him the loan agreement, then the loan origination document.

  His eyes met hers with a silent communication that he’d noticed she didn’t want to touch him.

  Aly looked down at the stack of papers in front of her. Message received.

  “Your payments will be due on the first of each month.” Aly steepled her fingers as she continued explaining the repayment details.

  His mind churned. Of course Aly didn’t want anything to do with him. Two years ago he decimated her heart. Yesterday he was in jail. Today he stepped from flat broke to forty thousand dollars in the hole. What in that picture would make her want to trust him again?

  Aly rose, and his folks scooted their chairs back and stood.

  He sprung from his seat, as desperate to get away from Aly as he had been to see her. The sooner he got out of here, the sooner he could get to work becoming the man he wanted to be—a man Aly would respect.

  Mom reached a hand toward Aly. “Thanks. Don’t forget we’re planning a picnic for Labor Day at Blue Springs.”

  Was Cal the only one who felt odd shaking hands with someone who had shared Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter dinners for nearly a decade?

  Aly’s cheeks pinked as Dad shook her hand.

  Okay, so Cal wasn’t the only one caught in a whirlpool of Meet The Fockers awkwardness. But he could only reach across the metal desk. “Thanks, Al, I really appreciate it.”

  Aly’s small hand branded his lifeline in the shortest handshake in the history of banking.

  He hovered over the desk with his empty fingers stretched toward her. The scent of forest mint filled his head. He couldn’t help himself. It had been so long. He backed away. He had to get out of here.

  He stuffed the check and loan papers into his back pocket and strode out of the lobby and onto State Road 44 without waiting for his folks to exit the bank. It was just as well he’d lost his friggin’ driver’s license. He yanked free his tie and unbuttoned his already damp shirt. The two mile walk to Henna’s was just what he needed to reconnect with reality. He was crazy stupid for even imagining he could win Aly. But he wasn’t going down without trying his best.

  His folks’ minivan slowed, and he waved them past. No way was he up for discussing boat repairs and dry dock. Beaching the Escape and hacking the barnacles off her hull—now that had possibilities.

  But first he had to purge the longing Aly surged up in him. He had to paint. He could almost smell the comfort of the color and oils sucking the chaos out of him, ordering it onto canvas.

  And when sanity returned, he’d find a way to make things right with Aly.

  Fish sprayed the last of the marine debris from the deck and coiled the hose. He hated to admit it, but he actually liked running fishing charters for Zeke better than working the counter at Circle K. It didn’t matter. Cal had gotten him thrown in jail for the longest six hours of his life. Scared the crap out of him. He never wanted to feel that helpless again. Never wanted to stand in court, guilt pressing in on him from every eye in the room—no matter how much he protested he didn’t know how the marijuana got into his locker.

  Should he even apply for law school? Who would vote for a candidate with a record? One thing was for damn sure, he had Cal to thank for reigniting his political ambitions. He hadn’t thought about running for office in a long time—till Cal’s betrayal had shaken him up.

  The desire to make Cal understand how he felt churned on a primal level. He eyed Cal two slips down, polishing the Escape’s chrome work. His chest ached. He missed Cal, the one constant in his life.

  The gate clanged against its post at the end of the pier. Evie strutted up the dock. His eyes drifted to the breasts she wore like magnificent hood ornaments.

  He couldn’t remember whether Cal and Evie were on again or off again. An idea solidified. “Evangeline!” He scooped out a left-over Coors Light from the cooler. “Want a beer?”

  She stopped on the dock behind Zeke’s Ambition and leaned toward the boat to grab the Coors from his hand. His eyes traced the tattooed flower stem where it trailed south into the depths of her shirt.

  She straightened, narrowed her eyes, and flipped open the beer.

  “I have to study for a poly sci quiz. Stay and keep me company?”

  She took a sip. “Looks like you’ve already started studying.”

  He shot a glance at the tattoo peeking from the neckline of her blouse. “Botany. Dasies. One in particular.”

  “Since when do you hit on me?”

  Since Cal pissed him off. “Since I can’t fight it anymore.”

  Her gaze slid to Cal as he walked aft on his boat.

  “Hey, I’m only asking you to hang out.”

  Evie stepped aboard muttering something
about never measuring up. “So, I’m good enough for you?”

  His eyes moseyed over her wavy blonde tresses down to her hibiscus-red toenails. “Uh, that would be a yes.”

  She plopped into a padded fishing chair. “One beer. That’s all.”

  Fish leaned against the side of the boat and crossed his arms. “So, are you and Cal together?”

  “I thought you had to study.”

  He zeroed his gaze into her eyes. “I am.”

  She took a drink, but not before he saw her hand quiver. He was getting to her. Good.

  “So, about Cal—”

  Evie snorted.

  “I don’t get it. Why do you stick to him? His four-figure income? Because he got three months jail time, six months’ probation instead of the pre-plea felony that would have locked him up for a year?” Never mind that Cal had actually gotten a raw deal in court. Never mind Cal’s surfer six-pack and his to-know-him-is-to-love-him personality.

  “Cal’s got family. Ma left me on that piece-of-shit boat with her pervy boyfriend and skipped town when I was seventeen.”

  Who knew they had something in common other than a mutual appreciation for hood ornaments? “My family ditched me the minute I finished eleventh grade to run an orphanage in Peru.”

  “Not the same. Do you even have a clue what it feels like to have a hole inside where family’s supposed to be—since you were born? Even when Ma was around, she didn’t, like, care.”

  The ache in her voice unearthed his own, and he reached for the last beer in the cooler. Yeah, he knew exactly what it felt like to have a hole inside where family was supposed to be.

  “I don’t know why Cal goes all sea-urchin prickly about his mom. If Cal married me, I’d be a best-freakin’-friend kind of daughter-in-law.”

  “Hey, I’ve got family. Mom, Dad, sisters, a brother, one more sibling than Cal has.” He sounded petty, even in his own ears.

  “Well, they’re not here, are they? And why would I care?”

  “So, you’re in love with Cal?”

  “Sometimes I hate him.”

  Fish squinted at her. Was it the beer talking?