THE PICASSO PROJECT

by Carol Anne Shaw

  Eddie forces himself not to react, although he would like to ram his fist into Randall's bloated gut.

  "How's about I treat you both then. Another Coke? More pie?"

  Eddie is in no mood to deal with this guy, especially not tonight. "Look. Quit tailing me, okay. I already told you. I'm not interested."

  Randall holds up both his hands. "Whoa, whoa. Settle down, son. I'm just being friendly. Friendly is my middle name. I don't mean any harm."

  "Yeah? Well go and be friendly with someone else, okay?"

  "Okay, okay, I get the message. Loud and clear. I can take a hint although I'm not gonna lie, son. I'm more than a little disappointed."

  "Too bad," Eddie says through clenched teeth.

  Randall digs into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He slaps a ten-dollar bill beside Eddie's mug of coffee, along with a folded piece of paper. "Take it," he says. "The pie is on me." He pulls at his collar. "And son? If you change your mind, that piece of paper will tell you where you can find me."

  Eddie glares at Randall and pushes the bill off the table. "I don't want your money," he says, his face burning.

  "Suit yourself," Randall says. "Just remember, though. It might feel good to have a bit of cash in your pocket, don't you think?" He opens his wallet and discreetly reveals a wad of hundred-dollar bills. "There's plenty more where that came from, son." He gives Eddie's shoulder a squeeze, then turns and walks away.

  "Who was that?" Maya asks, slipping into the booth.

  "Nobody," Eddie says, quickly shoving the slip of paper in his pocket.

  ***

  The grey stucco apartment building is called, "Casa Bella." It's three stories high, with dingy single-pane windows and a crumbling concrete pathway that leads up to the door.

  Eddie hesitates on the sidewalk.

  No.

  He doesn't need to do this. He can't do this. But he pulls the crumpled note out of his pocket and reads it again under the dull glow of the streetlight.

  A random slideshow runs through his head-mostly images of his sister: Maya at Pentimento Beach with her injured foot. Maya sneaking food to Chips while Eddie distracted their parents; Maya demanding that her poached egg stays squishy, but not too squishy. "You always make them perfect, Eddiot." Maya's shaking frame, half hidden behind the door, allowing Eddie to step in between her and their father and take the hit. Good old Eddie, taking another one for the team.

  "Thanks for not being scared, Eddie," Maya always says when things get bad. "Thanks for being such a great brother."

  A great brother? No. Eddie is not a great brother. A great brother wouldn't be standing outside the Casa Bella apartments in the middle of the night. A great brother would have kicked Mark Johnson's ass a long time ago. A great brother would have made sure his kid sister stayed safe. A great brother would never have let any of this happen.

  But he can fix it. He can.

  Sometimes you have to do that one thing, Eddie thinks. Sometimes, there isn't a choice.

  Eddie walks up the crumbling pathway and pauses at the intercom. He rechecks the folded card: apartment #302. He takes a deep breath, presses the buzzer and waits.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The hallway carpet on the third floor is the colour of dog puke. There is a brown vinyl couch just outside the elevator, and beside that, an old-school standing ashtray. A mirror hangs directly above the couch. Eddie does his best to ignore his reflection as he walks past, but he can feel it following him just the same.

  Randall answers the door before Eddie has finished knocking.

  The air is thick. Stale. And the faint smell of something else—ground beef, maybe. Tacos.

  "Well, this is a nice surprise," Randall says. He stands in the doorway in a blue and white striped terrycloth robe and black polyester socks that reach half way up his hairless white calves.

  Eddie shifts from one foot to the other. He feels dizzy and puts a hand against the doorframe to steady himself.

  "You got a name, son?" Randall asks.

  "I'm not telling you my name."

  "Hah! Fair enough. How about I just call you Joe, then. You okay with that, Joe?"

  Randall gestures for him to come inside the apartment. Eddie walks into the living room and waits for Randall to close the door behind them. There isn't much here: a couch, an old Lazy-boy, a TV and a cheap colonial-style coffee table. A yellow plate with the remains of Randall's Mexican dinner, sits on the edge of the table. Eddie feels his stomach lurch; he's made a huge error in judgment. He can turn around. Head for the door. He can leave right now. Right now. There's got to be another way out of this mess. He just hasn't thought of it yet.

  Randall stands across the room, a big smile on his face. He has untied his robe and let it fall open.

  Jesus! JESUS! JESUS! JESUS!

  "Cat got your tongue, Joe?" Randall says. "Or you just saving it for the job?" He laughs at his own joke and walks over to sit in the Lazy-boy recliner.

  Eddie feels frozen in place; feels as though he is stuck in some surreal B-movie nightmare. He prays that any moment he'll wake from this. Hell, even the damp, musty familiarity of the Buick would be heaven compared to this. Anything...anything would be better than this.

  Randall grabs hold of the lever at the side and pulls. The chair reclines, and the footrest pops up. He pats the chairs arms with his pudgy hand. "Come on over here, Joe. Don't be shy."

  Randall's skin is white. There is a fine network of blue/grey veins bulging across the doughy pale flesh of his legs.

  Eddie takes a step closer, and Randall smiles, his eyes closed now. He reclines the chair a little more.

  "That's it, come on over here, Joe," Randall murmurs. "I won't bite."

  Maya. I'm doing this for Maya. For Princess Little Star. For Maya Skye, Eddie thinks. A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks.

  "Come on now, you hear?" Already Randall is breathing harder than he needs to. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, and his face is the colour of a beetroot. "Nice and easy, okay?" He places a fat, pink palm on Eddie's arm and pulls him closer.

  Eddie's stomach twists. He's going to puke. His vision blurs and the room begins to spin. "Wait. Wait. Just a second."

  Randall's eyes pop open. They're bloodshot and dazed. "Jesus! What now?"

  "I gotta pee, man."

  "Forget about it! I've waited long enough!"

  "Come on now," Eddie says, forcing a smile. "I'll be right back."

  "Well goddam it, Joe! Hurry up! You're killin' me here!"

  Eddie finds the bathroom and locks the door. He drops to his knees on the floor, leans over the toilet and dry heaves. When he's done, he looks up at the fluorescent light above his head. A small brown spider scurries across the water-stained ceiling to take refuge in the corner, making itself small, and then smaller still until Eddie can no longer make it out at all.

  He doesn't believe in God, but the words come anyway.

  God. Help me. I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't...

  And then something snaps. Something shifts and breaks loose. Energy comes from out of nowhere, and Eddie feels suddenly more awake than ever. Is he dreaming? No. This is realer than real.

  Adrenaline courses through his body. He stands up, flushes the toilet, and stares at his reflection in the dirty mirror over the sink. He barely recognizes himself. He leans in closer and looks himself in the eye. Then he sees it; It's faint, but it's there. He can see it. A flame. Fire. He can see fire. Heat. Red hot and all consuming.

  There is a cardboard box resting beside the sink; a box full of white plastic coat hooks. There must be at least fifteen of them. Eddie pushes them aside and leans over to splash water on his face.

  A pair of old brown pants hangs on the back of the door. The cuffs are muddy, and a corner of paper sticks out of one of the gaping pockets. Eddie sticks his hand inside and pulls out an unsealed envelope, a wad of fifty-dollar bills secured with a red elastic band inside it. There has to be at least a hundred of them. Je
sus, how does this guy make his cash? Dirty money, Eddie thinks.

  Something breaks free inside his head and clicks into place,—and right away he feels a surge of completeness—like a long-lost puzzle piece finally finding its place in the big picture.

  He quickly peels off three bills and shoves them deep into his pocket. Then he re-rolls the wad with the elastic band and places it back inside the pocket. He opens the bathroom door, tip-toes to the main one, slips through it, and books it down the staircase at warp speed.

  Edward Harrison DuMont runs down all the way down Evans Street and then along Third Avenue. The air is cooler now. The heat has finally let go.

  For the first time in a long time, he laughs. He laughs the whole way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  By the time Eddie reaches Bino's all-night diner, he is soaked with sweat.

  Maya is sitting at the table near the window. She is biting her nails. "Where have you been? I've been waiting for, like, hours!"

  "Something I had to do," Eddie says.

  Maya submerges her teabag with her spoon, and then holds it tight against the side of her china mug. "So now what do we do?"

  "We go back to the clearing."

  "What for?"

  "To get our stuff."

  "And then what?"

  Eddie hesitates. "I'll think of something."

  ***

  Eddie gives the old Buick a kick with his waterlogged shoe. There is a loud crack as the side mirror snaps and falls to the ground. He looks at the car, trying not to feel anything, but the stupid thing is, he does. A 1984 Buick Le Sabre: chipped maroon paint, moldy seats, busted heater, busted radio. It's a nothing car—an old, gas-guzzling relic. Sure, Eddie thinks, it was a piece of shit, but it was their piece of shit; their home for almost two years. And now it's just going to rust out in the woods; now it's just going to sit there and let the weeds and mice take ownership. Eddie laughs out loud. Is this the legacy he's leaving behind?

  He reaches through the smashed windscreen and grabs the print from the dash: The Weeping Woman. He shines his flashlight on the image through the cracked glass. There she is. Still crying, still sad. He takes the print out of the frame, rolls it up, and puts it into his backpack. Then he reaches under the driver's seat for the baseball bat. He arcs the bat over his shoulder and brings it down hard, smashing what's left of the glass of the Buick's windows.

  "Eddie!" Maya cries. "Stop!"

  But he doesn't stop. Instead, he moves to the front of the car and slams the bat down, over and over and over, peppering the hood with dents. The he does the same to the back, and finally, smashes out the taillights.

  When he's done and his breathing to return to normal, he sails the bat into the bushes. He stares at the sky but there aren't any stars out tonight. The clouds above him are heavy with moisture, and it's only a question of time before it starts raining.

  ***

  Why do schools look so different at night, Eddie thinks?

  When they reach Bridgeman High, they hover at the edge of the parking lot and stare over at the big green cement building. The place looks deserted and the only sound they hear is the faint buzzing noise that comes from the two dull sodium vapour lights near the main doors.

  "Wait here a second," Eddie tells his sister. "Watch our stuff." Their "stuff" consists solely of two duffle bags. That's it, their entire life's possessions. Eddie crosses to the door and peers in at the clock on the wall. 1:19 a.m. It sucks, but it could be worse. The rain never did arrive, and it's gone back to being muggy again, even in the middle of the night. Way too warm for this time of year. But they can wait it out until morning.

  He crosses back to the parking lot. Maya is leaning against the dumpster, looking small, avoiding Eddie's eyes.

  Despite everything that's gone down tonight, Eddie is hungry. He kicks absent-mindedly at a rock, watching as it rolls over a bunch of stapled school notices. The one on the front has "GRAD IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER" stamped across the top in huge bold letters. Eddie tears it from the rest, folds it into a paper airplane, and sails it straight into the dumpster.

  He shakes his head. It isn't just Maya who screwed up. He dropped the ball, too; it's only a matter of time before Mark gets his cop father involved. Assault is a big deal. He should have thought it through. He should never have let himself snap like that. And if the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Mark's dad isn't going to believe anything Eddie says. Not about Georgia and the closet, not about his underage sister; not about anything.

  It gets Eddie to thinking that maybe it would have been better for Maya if he hadn't taken her and gone underground when their Aunt ditched. Maybe if he'd contacted the authorities, Maya might have been placed in a good home, with a real family. She might have had a better time of it. Maybe she would have had her own room, with a bunch of movie posters on the walls. Been able to take dance classes and shit, Eddie thinks. Then again, it could just as easily have gone the other way. Eddie has known kids who got a raw deal in their foster homes—some who probably would have been better off on the streets.

  He shoves his hand into the pocket of his jeans and feels for the three fifties. He could have taken the whole wad, but he didn't—that whole karma thing. He's not messing with that. But he doesn't feel bad about the $150. Randall is pond scum.

  They see someone coming across the parking lot, and instinctively step behind their duffle bags in an attempt to seem less obvious. It doesn't work.

  "Who's there?"

  Frank, the school custodian.

  "Hey, Frank. How's it going?" Eddie says casually, stepping away from his bag.

  "Eddie? That you?" Frank peers into the darkness.

  "Yup. What are you doing here, Frank?"

  "I could ask the same question."

  "Yeah," Eddie says. "I guess you could."

  "Busted pipe in nurses' office," Frank says. "So, your turn. Why the hell you out and about at this hour? Have a fight with your girlfriend or something?"

  Eddie shrugs.

  Frank shuffles over, a multitude of keys jingling from a chain attached to his belt. He stands in front of Eddie and fixes him with a stare. "Listen Eddie, you might be foolin' the others, but you don't fool me."

  Shit.

  "I've seen you and your sister, the way you come and go. And I know Cora slips you leftovers from the lunchroom. She's sweet on me, you know. She tells me things."

  "So, what's your point, Frank?" Eddie asks.

  "My point is that maybe you and your sister are in a tight spot, you know?"

  "We're okay," Eddie says. "We get by."

  Frank walks over to his station wagon and opens the trunk. "All I'm saying is that maybe you need somewhere to sleep tonight? Sky looks a little unpredictable. Could get a thunder storm. Been hot enough."

  "Nah," Eddie says. "It's okay. I needed to be here early today, anyway. Something I have to do."

  "Okay. Fair enough. I don't need to know your business, kid. But I'm telling you that if you need a roof over your heads before the sun comes up, it's mighty dry in the athletic supply hut. You know the one I'm talking about, don't ya? Up near the rugby field?"

  "Yeah, I know it. That place is locked up tight," Eddie says.

  "You'd be right about that," Frank says. "Lock it myself every damn day. But, hypothetically speaking, if there happened to be a spare key under an old red brick beneath the window, well, you might be able to let yourselves in and maybe get a little rest."

  Eddie looks down at his feet, and then at Frank.

  "Thanks, Frank."

  "No need to thank me." Frank puts his work boots in the trunk and locks it up. "Hey, Eddie?"

  "Yeah?"

  "This business you say you got to attend to. You're not doing anything stupid, are you?"

  "No, sir."

  "You sure about that? Keeping it all legal?"

  Eddie nods.

  "Okay, then." Frank gets into his car. "You guys take care now, you hear?"

  "We
will," Eddie says. "And Frank?"

  "Mmmm?"

  "Thanks."

  When Frank's taillights have disappeared up the road, Eddie and Maya pick up their bags begin walking toward the rugby field.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  As sheds go, the athletic hut is a pretty good one. The gymnastic mats are comfortable, and the rolled-up yoga mats make half-decent pillows.

  Eddie doesn't mind that the place smells of sweat and rubber. It's safe, and thanks to the stack of army blankets stowed on an upper shelf, pretty damn cozy.

  He wakes before it gets light and starts thinking about Frank. The dude is pretty decent. If they were going to stick around Bridgeman Lake, Eddie would surely find a way to thank him properly for this. But of course, everything has changed now.

  He gives Maya a shove with his foot and she groans and turns over. "Leave me alone, Eddie. I'm sleeping."

  "No," he shoves her again, "you're not."

  ***

  At 7 a.m., Cora drives into the school's parking lot in her dented red minivan. Eddie tells Maya to go hang out with her in the kitchen while he deals with Mark.

  "You're doing that now? The whole money thing?"

  "Yeah."

  "But how? How did you get it?" Her eyes are wide and disbelieving. "The one hundre dollars, I mean."

  "None of your business."

  "Did you steal it or something?"

  "Listen, you made the mess, Maya. You don't get to know how I'm cleaning it up, okay? I got the money. You're off the hook. End of story."

  Maya pouts, but gets herself up and ready. She pulls a clean shirt out of her duffle bag and looks at her brother. "Can you please turn around, Eddie?

  "What? Oh. Sure." Eddie busies himself by rolling up his mat.

  When Maya is dressed, she drags a brush through her hair and then heads for the door. She puts one hand on the doorknob then turns around. "Eddie?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I just wanted to say...I mean, I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."