Love and Vandalism
Page 20
I’m fine with that, to be honest.
The rabbits’ cages are stacked from the floor to eye level, and I bend down to look at a big, black, lop-eared bunny wiggling his nose at me from his cage. I lean in close to get a better view of his adorable, fuzzy face.
A snuggly pet bunny would be perfect right about now. But then I think of Kelly and realize that nothing good in my life will ever be safe from the risk of bloody carnage.
As I walk away from the bunnies, I hear the loud whirr of a chainsaw coming from the direction of the pig barn. The chainsaw’s motor revs a few times and then cuts off. I notice a crowd gathering around a sectioned-off space between two barns. The whole area is as bright as daytime, and as I draw closer, I notice the strong smell of cedar chips.
In the center of the clearing stands a guy wearing a sleeveless flannel and holding up a chainsaw as he gestures to a thick, five-foot-tall log beside him.
The guy’s arms are oiled to emphasize his muscles, and he’s wearing sunglasses, large headphones, and an orange baseball cap. He’s shouting something to the audience, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.
I draw closer and get to the very edge of the crowd before I realize, It’s Scott.
He’s clearly about to perform some feat of power-tool wonder, and this audience is eating it up. I say a quick prayer that he’s not about to start juggling chainsaws because (a) I care about him and, by extension, his extremities and (b) I seriously need his help on that water tower.
God, do I ever need to paint that lion now.
Scott calls out, “Gentlemen, start your engines!” and an old rock song blasts out from the gnarled overhead speakers. He restarts his chainsaw, and after a few revs of the engine, he launches himself at the log, holding the spinning blade at odd angles so he can carve rounded chunks off the top.
A cloud of sawdust rises up, and the music blares, and Scott grimaces as he works on the log.
It’s hard to tell just what he’s carving, but it doesn’t appear to be one of the eagles or bears standing in random positions around the clearing. Leave it to the Ulster County Fair to introduce folks to the fine art of chainsaw sculpting.
I’ve always thought of Scott as purely a nature guy and am surprised to see him carving wood with a chainsaw. I never realized he did any form of art.
Mom once pulled me away from a guy on the sidewalk in the city who was making quickie paintings that featured dolphins flipping through space. I can still hear her scolding me that it was not “real” art, and it’s easy to imagine her turning her nose up at this performance.
But I’m fascinated by unconventional forms, and right now I’m mesmerized by Scott’s emerging sculpture. This takes some serious skill.
Making something in front of an audience is basically the opposite of what I do.
It isn’t until he’s been working quickly for a good fifteen minutes that I realize what Scott’s carving. A lion.
I wonder if his surprise to me is the fact that he’s doing the lion special after hearing about my graffiti lions or if the big surprise is the fact that he’s a freaking chainsaw sculptor. I’m thinking it’s a bit of both.
As the rough lion-ish shape begins to take a sharpened focus, I work my way up closer to the safety ropes. By the time the music stops and Scott turns off his saw, I’m directly front and center in the crowd.
Scott pulls his sunglasses off and looks around. The lower half of his face is covered in sawdust, and it breaks into a smile when he spots me. I wave and he gives me a thumbs-up.
It is like he’s a different person in front of this audience. One who probably doesn’t need me to be his wingman after all.
Searching the crowd, I notice that the girls I tried setting him up with are nowhere to be found.
He’s using a long-bristled brush to dust the sawdust off the lion’s head, and I wonder how his skills are going to translate to spray-painting a giant lion onto the front of a water tower.
Scott calls out, “Thanks for watching, folks. This sculpture will be auctioned off tomorrow night during the Ulster County Fair closing judging ceremonies, and the proceeds will be donated to help fund arts education.”
I mentally tell my mother, See that? Arts education. Take your snobby attitude toward quickie chainsaw sculpting and shove it up your… I stop the thought since I maybe don’t want to start talking back to my dead mother in my mind.
When Scott has finished absorbing his applause, he hands off his saw and gear to a girl wearing cut-off jean shortie shorts. She holds up a hose, and he rinses the sawdust off his arms before he gestures for me to meet him at the ropes.
He walks up while drying off with a towel, and I say, “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this crazy talent.” I gesture to the banner that reads “Masters of the Chainsaw” with three cartoon lumberjacks wielding chainsaws and logs in various states of being carved.
“This wasn’t actually the surprise,” he says. “I usually wow the crowd with a classic bear design. I’m sort of known for it.” He gestures to the lion and imitates the wide-open mouth.
“So you did the lion just for me?”
“You and arts education, of course.” He grins.
“Thanks, really. It’s pretty amazing.” I look back up at the banner. “What got you started with all this?”
“Working up on the mountain, I got pretty handy with the chainsaw. Turns out, I have an eye for picking out the right pieces of wood, seeing the animal inside and setting it free.”
“That explains why you like going out walking the trails so much.”
“I do find a lot of great logs at work, but I also just love those woods.”
“I hear that.” I smile for a beat too long and redirect our conversation. “Hey, what happened with those girls?”
He holds up his empty palms. “No common interests with the only girl who seemed interested.”
I reach across the ropes to give him a light punch. “Being interested is a common interest, stupid.” He shrugs and I wrinkle my nose at him. “If I would have been there, I could’ve made something happen. Sorry I failed you as wingman.”
“It wasn’t you. It was me.”
“Ha. Most famous breakup line ever. Thanks a bunch.”
He laughs and slides under the rope to my side of the barrier. “What happened to the guy you ditched me for? Not looking to make a commitment?”
I shrug. “Let’s just say it did not go well.”
Scott puts an arm over my shoulder. “Can I interest you in a sack of fried fritters to help you forget your heartbreak and sorrows?”
“Everything’s better when it’s fried.”
“No arguments here,” Scott says. “Let’s go.”
He guides me toward the crackling sound of hot grease. I don’t bother moving his hand off my shoulder, even though I’m pretty sure Hayes is still here, walking around the park with his friends.
I touch a finger to my lip and think of how much I hoped for one final kiss from him on that Ferris wheel.
“Extra powdered sugar,” I tell Scott quietly as we step up to the line side by side.
I wonder if tossing my heart in the fryer would make it any better.
Chapter Seventeen
As I approach the front door, I hear the strains of a familiar voice flowing from the living room.
“Being an artist is the most import aspect of your identity. You are an artist first and everything else flows from that. Never forget it. You are not human or female or even my daughter. You are an artist.”
It’s my mom. Dad must be listening to one of the videos on the laptop because everything about this speech sounds familiar.
I stand for a moment with one hand on the doorknob, listening. I never realized how melodramatic Mom was when she talked about art. Telling me I’m not even human? Seriously?
&n
bsp; As soon as I walk in the front door, Dad slams the laptop shut, but we both know I’ve caught him in the act.
I could swear his eyes look like they’re actually shining. Like he’s tearing up at Mom’s passionate speech.
Kelly runs from the foot of Dad’s recliner to where I’m standing at the door and sniffs me all over. She continues sniffing up and down my whole body so thoroughly and for so long it starts to get awkward.
Dad’s brow furrows accusingly, and if it wasn’t for Kelly’s comical enthusiasm for the smell of fried dough, I’d probably be pissed at him for assuming the worst.
The dog’s fuzzy snout digs into my side, tickling me, and I can’t help but squeal with laughter.
I gesture to the dog and explain, “Fair’s in town.”
Kelly’s tail is wagging like crazy, and Dad gives a chuckle of relief.
I point to the closed computer on his lap and ask with false casualness, “Whatcha watching?”
His expression tenses again. After a pause, he nods and says, “I was thinking I would maybe give your mom’s videos back to you.”
This was not what I was expecting and I’m stunned into silence.
“I still don’t like you watching them all the time, but they were meant for you.” He sighs. “I didn’t really have the right to take them away.”
He holds the closed laptop up to me and I move closer to take it, stuffing it quickly under my arm like a book.
We stand for a minute, both looking at the other’s feet. Finally, I turn mine in the direction of the stairway.
Drawing a quick breath, he asks, “So, how much crap did you eat at the fair?”
I turn back. “A funnel cake the size of my head, plus a few fried Oreos.”
“What? No pepper steak?”
“Well, of course I ate a pepper steak. That’s not crap though.”
He laughs. “Do they still have that horrific Zipper ride you always loved so much and made me go on?”
“Me?” I point a finger at him. “You’re the one who loved all the wild rides.”
In an instant and for a moment, I am his daughter again.
I think of him trying to connect with me in the stockroom at Danny’s. He’s not always the easiest guy on the planet to get along with, but I have to admit to myself that he probably doesn’t really hate me.
Sliding the laptop onto the coffee table, I walk over and sit on the arm of his chair.
Dad sets his phone aside and absentmindedly pulls at the crease on his jeans.
“Thank you for giving me back the videos,” I say.
He clears his throat and nods. “You know, I really am sorry I didn’t tell you about Linda earlier.”
I shrug. “Our first meeting might not have involved flying food if it had been planned a little better.”
“You seem to have inherited your mother’s explosive personality.”
I cross my arms. “We prefer the term ‘artistic temperament.’”
Dad sighs. “I know that becoming an artist is a way to keep her alive.” He reaches up to put his hand on my shoulder. “But are you able to see how it destroyed her?”
“You’re wrong, Dad.” But he’s building into one of his anti-art rants, and I regret letting my guard down.
“Your mom was wrong in that video, Rory. You need to be a person first and an artist second. Your art will never love you back.”
“You just don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand, Rory. Because I cannot lose you too.”
On the word “too,” his face breaks in a way that makes my heart lurch.
I look at how much he’s aged in the past year. I see how afraid he is and recognize that he has no idea how to deal with feelings of fear.
All his training as a cop has taught him to be strong and wrestle the bad guys down to the ground. He sees art as the bad guy, and he’s determined to eradicate it from our lives.
But I can’t just change who I am. I can’t give up on the part of me that is crying out to paint—the lion that is inside that needs to come out. It’s so huge it might not even fit on that water tower, but I need to try.
I sigh. “I’m sorry, Dad. I know you miss her too.”
He pulls me down into his lap like he did when I was little and wraps his arms around me like two big paws that hold me still. I submit, trying to ignore the awkwardness. Dad and I are not huggy people.
Finally, Dad releases me, leans back, and says, “I know making art kept you connected to her and maybe someday you can go back to it. I just feel better—”
“If I let it go for now,” I finish his sentence for him, and he goes in for another hug.
The lion inside me is having a hard time enduring his embrace, knowing that I’m lying. That it still has to come out and have at least one last roar.
I know I can’t just leave that water tower alone.
Artists make art, and I’ve come too far to give up being who I am just so my father will be less afraid. But for right now, in this moment, I can offer him what he needs.
I give him a kiss on his forehead and wrap my hands around his neck like I did when I was little. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “I’m going to be fine.”
There has been a gaping canyon between the two of us, and I realize he’s been trying to build his imperfect bridge in his own damaged way to reach the side where I’m standing alone.
And now I’m building my weak and splintering way toward him as I move to sit down on the coffee table across from his chair. We start slow by sharing memories of Ulster County Fairs gone by with their fried fritters and rickety thrill rides, and while we don’t discuss Mom, we allow space in the room for her memory.
Even Kelly lies down and rests her head on her front paws as she listens to our uneven laughter. It’s okay to relax a little for just a moment.
By the time we finally head up to bed, Dad and I have managed to hang a perilous string bridge across the chasm between us.
Swinging dangerously high, our bridge’s unfinished planks threaten to draw blood with the wood’s sharp edges. And neither side is quite secure. The whole thing could easily plummet into the bottomless canyon, especially if Dad ever finds out about my graffiti lions.
But I trust us enough to believe it will eventually become crossable. Because we are clumsily building our rickety-ass string bridge
with unbreakable strands of love.
Chapter Eighteen
The bell over the door at Danny’s is still reverberating from my entrance when I walk up to the register and ask, “You ready to hit this thing with me next week?”
Kat stands up from behind the counter where she’s busy working on a bright-pink display sign.
“Yes, absolutely.” She picks up her sheet of neon poster board and slides it onto the counter. “What are we hitting again?”
I look around to make sure nobody is in the store before I hiss, “The tower.”
“Oh my God, of course.” Kat points a thick marker at me. “The tower mural is going to be epic. Can’t wait to stick it to those Sparkle Soda assholes!”
“That’s right. This is an act of social rebellion. We are sticking it to those Sparkle jerks.”
Kat leans across the counter so she’s close to my face. “Listen, I know you’ve been going through some stuff with your dad. I was just wondering…if we happen to get caught…?”
“He and I are…well, we’re trying to reconnect.”
She grins. “That’s awesome.”
“Well…” I squint at her. “He may have the impression I’m done making art.”
“And why might he think that?”
I shrug. “What can I say? I’m trying to make peace and the guy hates art.”
She laughs. “So I’m assuming this means he won’t help us out if we get nailed.”
When I look back up, Kat is watching my face. “You need this, don’t you?”
I nod vigorously. “More than you know.”
“So then, let’s make sure we don’t get caught.”
We grin at each other, and I tell her, “I found a replacement for Hayes.”
“What happened to Hayes?” she asks.
“It’s—”
“Wait. Don’t tell me. It’s complex.”
I nod. “But my buddy Scott is in. He’s not experienced with painting. But he’s pretty artistic, and he can help move supplies and do some climbing and lifting. I think with his support, you and I will be fine.”
“Are you sure we can pull it off with just three people?”
“I was originally trying to figure out how to do it alone.” I shrug. “This is going to be a piece of cake.”
Kat sniffs me. “I’m detecting a light scent of… What is that?” She waves her hand toward her face as she inhales my aroma. “Oh yes, icing-covered bullshit.”
I laugh. “Okay, so it’s slightly impossible. But I’m still working on a few ideas for shortcuts, and if we go down, we’re gonna go down spraying.”
“That a girl,” Kat says.
I tell her I just need a few more days of prep work and grab a sheet of paper to start going over my plan. The two of us are so distracted by our discussion, I practically leap when the bell rings over the door.
“What are you two ladies plotting?”
Kat’s face lights up with a smile, and I turn to see Ken striding into the shop. He looks somehow more confident and in charge than usual. And maybe just a few inches taller.
I crumple up the page I’ve been writing on, but Kat looks purely happy to see the guy who could ruin everything. I hiss, “He can’t get suspicious.”
“Well then, I’d better act natural,” she whispers back. Louder, she says, “Hey, Ken. There’s something I wanted to show you back in the stockroom. Rory, you don’t mind keeping an eye on the store?”