“They are absolutely magnificent. Each one is a unique world all of its own.”
“Gracias,” he says. “That is very nice of you.”
Immediately I put it together. I thought he was the custodian or the gallery assistant, but clearly he is not. “You’re him. You’re you. You are Gerardo.”
“Sí, so yo. I am,” he says.
“I’m Mike Davis. I saw your work in Quito. It was magnificent. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. This work is so different. I’m sorry I thought you worked here.”
“Miguel, who runs the gallery, had his daughter’s birthday party today, so I offered to clean up for him. Thank you for the compliment. The work in Quito is from an earlier period, when I was really struggling. This work is very new. I’m still figuring it out. You are an artist, I assume?”
“Me? An artist?” My immediate response is to say no, but for some reason, I don’t. Not today. Today I’m not sure what I am. Instead I ask, “What makes you think that?”
“The looking. I was watching the way you looked at the paintings. You take all of it in; you think about how it works. You get inside the painting. That’s what an artist does.”
“Then I guess I am,” I say. Admitting this brings a sense of relief.
“May I ask what you are working on now?”
“Right now I’m trying to figure that out.”
He laughs a deep-bellied laugh. “Amigo, I understand that. Those paintings you saw in Quito. Those came after two years of struggling.”
“Really?” I ask, not sure how much to pry.
“I worked at my parents’ laundry in Quito since I was a boy, and then when they passed, it was expected that my brother and I would run it, and we did. I hated it. We fought every day. I was in my twenties and trying to paint, but I couldn’t make anything significant, so I was angry about that, and then that started to show in my work. My brother met a girl, and they stole all of the money from the business until there was nothing left. They ran off, and I was completely broke.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That’s awful.”
He laughs again. “No, it was wonderful. I was able to paint again, but this time I put my entire being in it. I had nothing to lose. I couldn’t do it when I was managing the laundry. It wasn’t the right…how do you say…‘atmosphere,’ I think. I wasn’t in the right place.”
“Like the frigate bird,” I mumble under my breath, thinking of how that bird needs to be in the air and not on the ground. Working at Biddle is like being tethered to the ground. It made me feel safe for a while, but it doesn’t do that anymore. It just makes me feel stuck. Painting has always made me fly. “The frigate bird needs to fly.”
“Excuse me?” he asks.
“Your story just reminded me of something. You’re an incredible painter.” I want to remember this conversation, this moment, this feeling of possibility. “I know this is silly and maybe very American of me, but I’d love to take a selfie with you.” I’m not interested in posting to social. I need to mark this moment.
“I’d be happy to.”
I take out my phone and stretch out my arm. I look at us on the screen for a second. Two artists.
As soon as I snap the photo, my phone starts to connect, and I see a stream of messages pinging on the screen: Biddle. Biddle. Biddle.
“Arrrgghh!” I let out a guttural moan.
I snap the picture and something inside me also clicks. It feels like the door to a secret room suddenly unlocking. In this moment I’m not confused at all.
I know what I have to do, and I can’t wait until I am back in San Diego. Enough. I can’t take it anymore. Not one more day, not one more second. I have to do it now. I have to do it here. I put my phone in my bag, and I take out the massive folder of papers.
“You’ve been so kind. I hate to ask for another favor, but do you think you might help me?”
“What do you need?”
“You said you were burning the garbage from the gallery out back. Do you think I could add something to the fire?” He looks at me with a mix of confusion and understanding.
“Sure. I’ll show you.” He leads me out of the gallery to the small yard behind the building with overgrown yucca plants along the edge.
A large steel trashcan has a small but intense fire burning. I find a few stray pages in my bag and stuff them into the bulging folder. With both hands I toss the entire folder onto the fire and say quietly but firmly, “I quit.” The orange swirling flames devour the paper, and I watch the word Biddle on the folder slowly turn to ash.
Chapter 32
Gerardo and I spend a few more hours talking about life and art, and when it is time to go, we exchange contact information so we can keep in touch. He wants to see images of my new work. I promise not only to send him the images but also to actually create the work.
I wander back toward the ship, and the streets don’t seem as dull and foreboding as they did this afternoon. Even the cove is beginning to sparkle a bit more brilliantly again. I grab a choclo empanada from a stand by the water and sit on a bench to enjoy the sweet corn filling.
I’m getting a signal, so I take out my phone and send two emails. The first is a polite but short email to Mr. Biddle explaining that I will not be able to take the promotion or return to work at Biddle. I’ll help him make an easy transition, but I simply can no longer work there.
The second email is much more enjoyable to write. “Hey, Terry. Hope the art supply store is doing well. Back in a few days. If you haven’t filled the framer position, let me know. I’m very interested.”
I send the email and turn my phone off. I quickly do a budget in my head. If I go to the less fancy gym and give up my indoor monthly parking space, I shouldn’t really struggle too much over the next few months.
I stare out at the water and think about the last twenty-four hours. Benton has dumped me. Again. And I quit my job. Darwin wrote that on the Galapagos Islands, he was able to actually see the changes brought by evolution. I wonder what he would think about the changes I’ve made. I feel at peace with my decision to quit Biddle, but coming to terms with the fact that Benton and I will never be together is not as easy.
I finish the last bit of empanada and start walking along the rocky coast, breathing in the salt air, when I spot something I never thought I would see in my entire life.
At first I think it’s an incredibly large seagull since it has black wings and is about the same shape, but it only takes a second to notice those marvelous blue webbed feet. The color is so much brighter and more neon aqua than I imagined. There is even blue around the bill and eyes, creating and beautiful tonal effect over the entire creature. I stare at the bird, and he stares right back at me as if he knows exactly why I am staring. He knows what makes him unique is what makes him beautiful. The blue-footed booby is teaching me a lesson I am just beginning to understand.
A loud siren startles him, and he spreads his wings and flies off over the sea. The siren gets louder and louder and seems to be coming from the direction of the square. I run back to see what the commotion is. People have gathered by the water’s edge at the cove. I see the woman from the café yesterday, and I walk over to her.
“Do you know what’s going on?” I ask.
“A tourist fell from one of the rock formations on the other side of the island. An ambulance boat was sent to bring the person back to the ship’s infirmary.”
“What?” I ask. My heart leaps into my throat, and my stomach seizes.
“There’s this dangerous hiking trail on Cerro Brujo, the Witch Rock. Someone died last year, so everyone is worried,” she says, looking out at the water with concern.
“Benton!” I say and run toward the port where the boat is docked. At this moment there is nothing else. There is only Benton. I run even faster than I did yesterday. Faster than I have ever run before in my life.
Chapter 33
I see the ambulance boat docked on the far side of the San Isabella III. I run
all the way down the dock and up the gangplank.
As soon as I enter the ship, I see Penny. She is covered in sweat and tears. I look closer and see there is blood on her face and down her body. “Penny, are you okay? They said someone was hurt. What happened? Are you okay? Where’s Benton?”
She throws her arms around me, and I hug her tightly. The dampness from her blouse transfers to my shirt, and we spend a second holding each other. I don’t know what I would do if something had happened to Penny.
“I’m fine, Mike, all the passengers are fine, but Benton. Oh my God.” She breaks down crying again.
“What?” I plead. “What about Benton?”
“He was above us on the rocks, showing us a bird’s nest or something, and one of the rocks gave way and…”
“What? What?” All I can remember is the woman from the café saying someone died on those rocks last year. If something happened to Benton….
“He fell. He fell all the way down. I ran to him and tried to help. Oh, Mike. He scraped the rocks on the way down, and there was blood everywhere.”
I run down the stairs to the ship’s infirmary. I know it’s near the staff quarters. Penny is not far behind.
I see the door marked Infirmary. I fly through the door, and there he is, covered in blood. His clothes look like razors have shredded them. His eyes are closed, and I can see he is breathing, but why isn’t he awake? The ship’s doctor is shocked by my entrance and tries to push me out the door.
“I’m Benton’s partner,” I say. “Look, you need to make him wake up. He has to wake up. He is a father. He just had a baby back in England. He has a child.” I think about the baby Benton has yet to meet. I think about what a wonderful father he will be and how he has to wake up.
I look over at the table where Benton is lying, and I see his eyes start to flutter a bit.
“Benton. Benton, wake up. Do it for me? Do it for your baby.”
Benton props himself up on his elbows. There is a look of excruciating pain on his face, but at least he is alive. Then he looks at me, and his expression of pain is replaced by sheer confusion.
“A father?” he asks and then turns to the doctor. “You said I only have a leg injury. Are you sure I don’t have a concussion? I have no idea what’s going on.”
“Benton, you’re okay. I’m so relieved.” The tension I’ve been carrying in the center of my body lessens just a bit.
“Michael, what are you talking about?” He croaks out the words through his pain.
It’s time to come clean about what I did.
“Benton, when you were on a wildlife hike the other day, a telegram came. I opened it and read it. I shouldn’t have, but I did. It came from Surreybridge. It said that the baby had been born. And that you are now a father. You’re a father, Benton.”
Benton lets out a snort. He starts giggling and then laughing. I can tell the laughing is causing him pain, but he can’t seem to stop himself.
Poor Benton. He can’t believe the news. “Baby, I know this is a shock. But it’s true. And I know you’ll be a wonderful father.”
“Well, I’ll try,” Benton says. “But right now I’m sure the little guy would prefer to be in the warm plasma-filled sack of his mother’s pouch.”
I don’t know much about female bodies, but I’m pretty sure they don’t have pouches. Or do they? “Now I’m confused. What are you talking about?”
“Michael, I am the father—to a newborn wombat. That telegram must have come from the Surreybridge Zoo. I donated some money and a great deal of time to their fundraising campaign. They were so excited about the birth they said they would send a telegram when it happened.”
“And the onesie?” I ask immediately. “Why did you buy that?”
“Did you want the little fellow to freeze? Wombats don’t grow enough fur for warmth until they are least through nursing. Doesn’t everyone know that?”
The doctor interrupts. “Looks like you two have some talking to do. Mr. Aldridge, you’re stable. I’ve cleaned the wounds and we will take X-rays when we get to the mainland. You’re a bit banged up but I don’t believe anything is broken. It will take a few weeks to recover completely.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Benton says, and I echo him.
“Benton, I’m so glad you are okay,” Penny says. She gives him a kiss on his forehead and leaves with the doctor.
Once we are alone, there is a silence. I’m not sure what is going to happen. Will he be angry? Sad? Hurt? Relieved?
The silence sits in the room for a few seconds, and then we look at each other, and at the same time, we both start laughing.
“Oh, Benton. I was so panicked something happened to you.”
“So was I. I don’t know what happened. The rock gave out, and then I was on the ground. Then I was on the ambulance boat, and I don’t remember much else.”
“But you’re going to be fine.”
“Well, eventually, yes. It will take a few weeks.”
Then without even a second thought, I blurt, “I quit my job. Come back to San Diego. Let me take care of you there.”
“You what? You quit your job?”
“Yes. I did. I burned every last spreadsheet, budget report, and contract in a trash fire in town. Come back to San Diego with me. Just for a few weeks. Until you’re better. I think I’ll be working at Terry’s store as a framer. The store is right around the corner from the apartment, so it will be easy to take care of you.”
Benton closes his eyes, and for a second I’m worried something is wrong, but then he opens them and looks at me with remorse. “Michael, I actually haven’t been completely honest with you.”
“Is this about that twink on Instagram? Penny told me all about him.” I’m not being accusatory. It’s more like a surrender.
“That’s part of it.”
“I get it,” I say. Just because he isn’t a father doesn’t mean he doesn’t have some hot young thing waiting for him.
“No, you don’t. You see, there is no twink on Instagram. I mean, not entirely. There is a chap, but he’s my cousin, not a boyfriend.”
Yes, yes, yes. I knew it. Actually I was totally fooled, but I don’t care.
“There isn’t anyone waiting for you in the UK?”
“No,” he says quietly.
“So you might want to come back to San Diego with me?” I ask hopefully.
“That’s what I have wanted for a while now. That’s why I contacted Penny.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I knew Penny was arranging this tour, so the two of us concocted this plan to have us both be onboard.”
“You and Penny? The two of you? You two have been working together this whole time?”
“Yes, Michael,” he says as his eyes look down. “It wasn’t a very honest thing to do, and I really didn’t know how I would feel, but once I saw you, and once we were able to connect, I knew what I did was right. I hope you’re not mad at us. I hope it doesn’t change how you feel.”
I don’t feel betrayed. I feel grateful. “It’s hard to be mad at the two people I care about most in the world for teaching me a lesson I can’t seem to get through my own thick skull.”
Benton’s breathing is heavy, and I can tell he is in physical agony. My poor beautiful Benton is in so much pain, but when I look at him, I see there is as big a smile on his face as there is on mine. I grab his hand and gently hold his fingers.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything.”
“Is your mouth in too much pain for me to kiss you right now?”
“I can’t think of anything that would make me feel better.”
I put my mouth on his as softly as possible, and the magic is right there where it always was. It’s more of a promise and new beginning than anything else. The kiss is sweet and loving. It feels like it is healing both of us at the same time, and it is exactly what we both need and want.
After our kiss, the pain medication and sedatives take o
ver, and Benton falls into a deep sleep. I sit on the chair next to the bed, holding his hand as he rests. Now that we are finally together again, I feel like I don’t want to let go of him again ever.
There is a small porthole in the infirmary room that looks out over the ocean. The sun is softly melting into the ocean, and the water embraces it lovingly. I’m holding Benton’s hand and looking out the window when I see a large black bird with a deep-red pouch flying out over the water. The frigate bird. He flies out over the ocean, higher and higher. Who knows if he will ever leave the sky?
About the Author
Philip William Stover splits his time between Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and New York City. He has an MFA in writing from the New School and is a clinical professor at New York University. As a freelance journalist his essays and reviews have appeared in Newsday, the Forward, the Tony Awards, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the Houston Chronicle, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, and other national publications. For many years he ghosted for an international best-selling women’s fiction author. He has published multiple middle-grade novels for Simon & Schuster and was the American Theater critic for About.com.
He grew up tearing the covers off of the romance novels he devoured so he wouldn’t get teased at school. Now he enjoys traveling the world with his husband of over twenty years and would never consider defacing any of the books he loves.
http://www.philipwilliamstover.com.
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