The Art of My Life (22 page)

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.