The Art of My Life

by Ann Lee Miller

  Maybe they could be friends without benefits. On Christmas Eve they’d sat beside each other for the Koomer gift exchange and stayed up late talking about his classes, her student teaching this semester, Cal. Yeah, friends could work.

  He rubbed the stubble on his chin. Someday he’d take a shot at her.

  It wouldn’t be a shot. He’d win.

  Cal’s eyes slit open and afternoon sun fractured the darkness of sleep. He rolled over and burrowed into the cocoon of his pillow. He wasn’t awake enough to remember, just to know he didn’t want to remember. He strained back toward the oblivion of sleep, ached for it. But it was no use.

  Birds chirped loud enough to crack the jalousie windows that lined three sides of his studio-bedroom at Henna’s. A car door slammed across his skull. Red glowed from the underside of his eyelids. Still, he didn’t move.

  New Year’s Day barreled at him like bullet trains coming from every direction, converging in his head. He’d blown off November’s meeting with his probation officer, and now December’s, but he probably wouldn’t be picked up till he missed three appointments. That was what he banked on, anyway. Another month to come up with a plan of how to stay out of jail. Maybe he’d run. He sure as hell wasn’t going back to the Volusia County lockup.

  His eye caught on the stack of paintings he’d done of businesses in town. He should give them to Aly, but he’d been avoiding her—self-medicating his misery over the possibility of returning to jail with weed. After Christmas, they’d gotten Aly added to the Escape’s title, but things had been awkward. He’d tried to tell her he wanted to do things right, but he didn’t know if she really, deep down, believed waiting was best for her. He convinced himself a few days apart would settle things down between them.

  All he wanted was a bowl of Captain Crunch and to lose himself in another day of weed—minus Henna’s New Year’s Jack Daniels.

  The door smacked open against the wall.

  His pillow fell off the mattress six inches to the floor. “What the—?”

  Mom stood backlit in the doorway. “No one has seen or heard from you in five days. You’re not answering calls, texts, e-mails, Facebook. Nothing.” Starr stepped over dirty clothes strewn on the floor. “What’s going on, Cal?”

  Cal rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Nothing’s going on. It’s the holidays. I’m kicking back. Now you can see I’m fine. Go home.”

  “I have something to say to you.”

  “You couldn’t say it when I was awake?”

  “It’s two in the afternoon.”

  Starr kicked the jeans he’d worn yesterday out of her way and sat cross-legged on the nicked wood floor. She stared at him. “You’re making this hard.”

  “Just say whatever it is. I need a shower.” What he needed was to get his mother out of the house and roll a joint.

  “No kidding.” She waved a hand in front of her face. “And you’ve been smoking.”

  “It’s my life.”

  Her eyes bore into his, and he looked away. He didn’t want to feel the connection.

  “Cal, I came over here to apologize. I realized the other night that I’ve been hard on you. Critical—more so than I’ve been with the other kids.”

  “The golden children.”

  “A lot of—maybe most of—what I’ve criticized you for over the years has been because I worried about what other people would think. For the record, I don’t really care about the length of your hair, whether you go to college, what you do for a job. I’m sorry I tried to make you measure up to what I thought people expected.”

  Shock settled in his gut. The I forgive you he’d been taught to say stuck in his throat.

  “I-I was ostracized as a kid because my parents were potheads. My clothes and hair were never right until I learned to take care of myself as a teen. It hurt. I didn’t want you to go through that. But more, I didn’t want people to treat me the way they did when I was a kid. Can you understand?”

  He didn’t want to understand, didn’t want to let her get to him. But she had. “Yeah, I get it. It’s okay, Mom. I knew you loved me. Isn’t that the bottom line?”

  She went up on her knees and hugged him. And held on. She sat back on her heels. “I do care about—no. Let’s just leave it at that. I love you, Cal.” She unfolded to her feet with dancer’s grace and flowed out of the room.

  He knew what she cared about. She hated weed. And she loved God. Passions she would have imprinted onto his DNA if she’d had the ability. He still didn’t measure up.

  His breath hurt in his chest.

  Aly sat at her tiny desk on board the Escape peering out the porthole at the gray first day of January. Misty rain snaked down the plexiglass like the humiliation of Cal’s rejection. Three strikes and she was out—she’d verbally offered him sex, told him she loved him, and now, basically tried to seduce him. Wow, some chastity vow.

  If Daddy knew, he’d be saying, “I told you so.” About the business. About her general sluttiness. Not that he had any room to talk after knocking up his front-office girl.

  She’d had one text from Cal since Christmas, something generic telling her to take the week off between Christmas and New Years’ while he painted.

  When she’d seen Cal’s tattoo, she’d thought he loved her. Really loved her. Had always loved her. And maybe he had when he was a teenager. Now, he cared about her, was attracted to her at times, but not enough to sleep with her. If she’d known Gar had herpes, she wouldn’t have slept with him. Maybe that was Cal’s thinking, too.

  A tiny piece of her was glad she’d pushed him into making a statement, even if it hadn’t been verbal. At least, now she knew where she stood. And Cal had kept her from breaking her abstinence vow. He’d spared her diving back into a vat of guilt. Somehow, she couldn’t come up with any gratitude.

  January First—the day to start getting over Cal. Maybe this was the year she’d actually accomplish it. Her mind slipped back in the next heartbeat to Cal’s lips on hers. Good luck with that.

  One distasteful task she could accomplish was admitting the charter business would never take off. Cal had been willing to admit defeat before she had.

  She needed to focus on building a new business, maybe the gallery she always wanted to open. She’d never been lucky in love, but at least she had the drive and business brain to run her own business.

  She’d only given Cal Daddy’s money. She still had the money she’d been squirreling away since she graduated college. If they sold the Escape…. No, she couldn’t sell a boat Cal’s grandparents had owned for twenty years. There had to be another way.

  She needed to talk to Cal about dissolving the business.

  Her phone vibrated against her stomach in her sweatshirt pocket. She startled and yanked it out.

  A text from Cal.

  Shock coursed through Cal as he stared at his grandmother. “You want me to rip out your pot garden?”

  The white ponytail sprouting from the top of her head bobbed. “Do it while I’m gone, before I change my mind. Every dog has his day, and mine is—” She searched for the word while her muumuu fluttered in the breeze from the ceiling fan. “Flying the coop.” She reached over and grasped his chin, pulled his cheek to her lips. “You’re a good boy. You’ll find your way.”

  He watched her gather up her bag-lady purse walk out the front door, the papery kiss sealing her confidence that he would carry out her wishes. He couldn’t help feeling like Henna just gave him an opportunity to quit smoking weed. He knew it was time. Past time. But he didn’t want to quit.

  He’d rip out Henna’s garden, source of his weed, but Henna couldn’t make him give up weed any more than Mom or Aly could. He could tap into a new supply chain easy enough.

  He doubted Henna was doing this for his sake since she’d smoked for decades and obviously saw nothing wrong with the practice. But who knew how his grandmother’s misfiring mind worked. At sixty-eight, retired from Winn Dixie for three years, she deserved to rest. Leaf would
just have to subsist on what he made selling hot dogs and chips. But hoo boy, Leaf would be PO’d.

  He wondered if Henna had some kind of sixth sense. When the police came looking for him for violating probation, this was the first place they’d look since he’d given Henna’s as his address. He didn’t want to think about that now.

  Cal walked out the back door and sunk onto the steps staring at the rain-slicked leaves glistening in the first sun he’d seen all week.

  Henna had planted late this year, and the stalks stretched to the housetop ready for harvest. A couple days of drying and curing and he’d have a year’s supply of weed for him, Leaf, and Leaf’s customers. Cal had helped Henna enough to master the drying process. But she wanted all signs of cannabis gone by the time she got home. He could finish the process on the Escape….

  Digging out the roots, hauling off the crop, was more than a one-man job. Cal sucked in a deep breath and let it out. He texted Aly to come help. Phone half way back to his pocket, he paused, then texted Fish. Maybe Fish would forgive him today and throw his strong back into ripping out the garden. Like that would happen. Cal headed for the growing shed for a shovel.

  A half hour later he looked up and saw Aly standing in the kitchen doorway bathed in sunlight. She blinked hurt out of her eyes and came down the steps. He so had to pull his head out of his ass and explain the night he showed her his tattoo.

  “Thanks for coming.” He wiped sweat off his forehead with the crook of his arm. The morning’s rain had turned Henna’s yard into a sauna. “Sorry I haven’t been around.”

  Her eyes bore into him and he wondered if she’d always see him as a pothead. If he quit today, maybe she’d change her opinion of him.

  “I hope you let your granny’s decision motivate you to quit smoking.”

  Bingo.

  But Aly wasn’t done. “Weed only undermines your talent—you might be the Monet of our generation. You’re easily the most talented artist I’ve come across. But who will know if you smoke your life away?”

  Her praise expanded his chest, but the rest of her words jabbed the center of his back like a divine elbow. He’d been headed toward giving up weed for a long time, but was he ready to actually do it? He didn’t mind making a choice, but it had to be his choice—not even God would force his hand.

  After Henna’s, the second place the police would look for him was on the Escape. Not a good idea for a place to store who knew how many pounds of illegal substance. If he gave the harvest to Leaf, Cal would still have access to weed. But Henna didn’t want Leaf to have it or she would have said so.

  If he bagged it and set it on the curb for the yard waste guys to pick up, Henna might get busted. He’d torch the weed. It was the only option left.

  Fish threw open the back door and jogged down the steps, Missy in his wake.

  Cal jerked his chin toward them, gratitude swimming through his gut. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I’m not doing this for you. It’s for Henna.”

  The surly tone of Fish’s voice ran off Cal’s back. Fish had showed. Like the day he towed the Escape off the sand bar. No matter what Fish said, he was there for Cal. The warmth Aly’s Monet comment had sparked spread to a smile. “Say whatever you want, Fish. I’m glad you came. Grab a hoe from the shed.”

  Cal eyed his sister. “What are you doing here?”

  Missy shrugged. “Fish texted me. What do you want me to do?”

  “You knew about Henna’s growing?”

  Missy narrowed her eyes. “I may be the last to find out all the family business, but I’m not stupid. I know what a marijuana leaf looks like.”

  “After we harvest, you guys can take whatever you want home,” Cal said.

  Missy took a hoe from Fish. “I’ve never smoked, and I’m never going to.”

  Fish drove a shovel into the loam. “I’ll stick to alcohol. Weed’s no good for my career.”

  Cal picked up the scythe, hearing the words Fish didn’t need to say. “Whatever. Let’s get busy. Henna wants this done by the time she gets home this evening.” He divvied up jobs, and they went to work.

  When the crop had been hacked and bundled into black garbage sacks and they’d scavenged almond and apple butter sandwiches, free range scrambled eggs and hummus, from Henna’s kitchen, they loaded the bags into Cal’s Jeep, Fish’s truck, and Aly’s trunk and back seat.

  “Where to?” Fish said.

  “Out to Oak Hill where we used to have keggers.”

  An hour and a half later, Cal leaned his hands on the open window of Fish’s truck and peered at his friend in the glow of the marijuana fire. “I really appreciate this.”

  “It was important,” Missy said from the passenger side.

  Fish broke his eyes away from Cal’s. “I said it was for Henna.”

  “You ought to just give in and forgive me. You know you’re going to.”

  Fish glared at the fire through the windshield. “Like crap I am.”

  Cal shifted his gaze to his sister. “Missy, talk sense to him. You forgave me.”

  Missy poked Fish in the ribs with her finger, and Fish swatted it away, a look Cal couldn’t decipher exchanging between them.

  Fish glanced at him. “We’re getting out of here. I don’t want an arrest for a marijuana bonfire showing up in the papers ten years from now.” But the anger was missing from his voice. Fish was softening.

  The truck bumped off down the dirt road.

  Cal joined Aly where she stood facing the fire in the gold-honey-amber light. His shoulder touched hers. The rain must have bypassed Oak Hill. The dried-out kindling they’d scavenged did its job, the still-green stalks caught now in the crackling heat.

  Even upwind, the sweet smell he loved filled the air.

  Aly broke the connection and turned toward him. “Give it up, Cal. I’m begging you.”

  He opened his mouth, the words stuck on his tongue.

  “Don’t tell me what I want to hear. Just do it.” She pivoted and started toward her car.

  Her curtness stung. He grabbed hold of her wrist. “I hurt you on Christmas. I’m sorry. I don’t know how to fix things.”

  Tawny flames danced on Aly’s face. “I shouldn’t have done… what I did. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

  Bone-scraping sadness peered at him through her eyes, and he’d do anything to take it away. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Aly sucked in a ragged breath. “I… I can’t right now…. Just quit weed, okay?”

  He stared at her. He couldn’t lie to Aly. When he said the words, they needed to be true. Finally, he gave a slight nod he hoped she’d read somewhere between I’m done with marijuana and I’ll think about what you said.

  She squeezed his hands and ran to her car. When she turned to get in, sallow light picked up the tear tracks down her face.

  Deep in his gut, he knew he was the cause of Aly’s pain—Evie, jail, dragging Aly onboard a sinking business, avoiding her since Christmas because he spent the time wallowing in his own crap instead of thinking about what she might be feeling. Even his smoking seemed to nearly cost her life. She was better off without him.

  Her tail lights jostled away.

  But he would never be better off without her.

  Walking around to the other side of the fire and inhaling the smoke would be so easy. But Aly’s pleas anchored his feet to the pine needle strewn sand.

  A page from a sketchbook he’d drawn the night Aly agreed to become his business partner drifted into his head—only tonight the bare-bones drawing took on the flesh and texture of paint. Almost like a photograph of a painting, the picture revealed every nuance of color, each brush stoke complete.

  A man, representing Cal’s inner person, looked skyward toward a break in the clouds. Light, picked up dust motes in the air and spilled onto his face, shoulders, and arms that lifted slightly from his sides.

  Wonder fluttered through him, disturbing his plan to get high tonight like he had every night
since Christmas. The art grabbed hold of him; he didn’t grasp for it.

  Change hung in the air like the scent of rain behind the smoke. He didn’t know how he knew, but if he surrendered himself to transferring stroke by stroke the picture in his head onto canvas—the process would metamorphose him. He felt a stirring in his gut, a rising up out of his miserable life.

  Something similar had happened once before. Raine had broken up with him. He’d been swimming in chemical oblivion for days when Aly showed up at Cody’s where he’d crashed. She’d come over with her own troubles—a pregnancy scare—and fallen asleep on the fold-out couch beside him. When she woke, he’d snapped a picture of her with his phone, with a compulsion to capture Sleepy Aly on canvas. And he had. Painting that picture had kept him sober till the initial brunt of Raine’s rejection eased.

  He didn’t know if the visions come from the cerebral cortex of his brain, but he’d done thousands of paintings building one stroke on another. These were the only two that had come to him complete.

  Both times the paintings had materialized while he was spinning into self-destruct—as though an unseen hand grabbed his armpit and corrected his course. A hand he’d felt in the surf at seventeen and at church on Christmas Eve and in the Atlantic when Aly was invisible. A hand he’d run from most of his life.

  He took a long look at the night sky, climbed into the Jeep, and sped away from the sticky-sweet smell that had chased him since middle school.

  Art would save him a second time.

  Chapter 19

  January 1

  You can only have goals for one person in life—yourself—because you are the only person you can control. You can hope your friends make good choices, but ultimately, it’s up to them.

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

  Fish glanced at Missy in the glow from the truck dashboard as they crept along the lumpy dirt road out of the woods.