Part 6 (2/2)

I pause before answering him. That's a big fat yes. ”Ah, a little bit.”

He nods and turns the ignition. The car roars; it is a lion of an automobile. I jump.

”Don't worry. I'll drive carefully,” Damian tells me. He grins cheekily, but true to his word, Damian drives as slowly and deliberately as my mother. We sit in silence for a while, until Damian speaks. ”Hey, do you mind if I show you something before I take you home?”

”What is it?”

”Well, it's hard to explain. I'd rather just show you.”

I can't imagine what he could possibly want to show me. An insatiable curiosity grips me. ”All right, I guess.” Those bees start kicking around in my gut again, like they're trying to sting me back to reason and out of this really stupid haze of pliancy.

”Good,” he says, and smiles again.

62.

Soon, Damian crosses the county road and turns right onto Union Street. He's heading east, away from my neighborhood and out toward the fields of the Wright farm. Oh, where are we going? I wonder. This is likely the stupidest thing I've ever done. There is a racket of bees buzzing in my ears, p.r.i.c.king my stomach with angry stings. Two minutes later, we're pulling off the road and onto a gravel track. Damian slows before stopping altogether in front of a tall gray barn.

”We're here,” Damian announces with that same cheeky grin as we get out of the car. He heads down an overgrown path and takes hold of one of the barn's ma.s.sive double doors. Damian waves me over. ”Come on!”

I hover at the entry way to the dim, yawning s.p.a.ce. Motes of dust flicker in the single shaft of sunlight that penetrates the crack between the doors. Damian flicks a light switch, and I can make out a host of bulky shapes standing at attention, but I can't tell what they are. I start to feel nervous again. What am I doing here, with him?

Despite my trepidation, I follow Damian into the barn. I step gingerly, cringing as the wooden floorboards creak and groan beneath me. Damian treads lightly as a cat, carefully placing his feet to avoid the complaining planks.

”Look, what are we doing here?” I ask.

”You'll see,” he answers. ”The Wrights let Nate and me use their barn in exchange for help with some ch.o.r.es around the farm,” Damian explains.

63.

”You and Nate worked on the farm?” My voice cracks with disbelief, ”You'll see,” Damian repeats.

When we reach the back of the barn, Damian strikes another switch, and golden light floods the s.p.a.ce, I suck in a sharp breath, ”Oh my.”

There, before us, lay a jungle of sculptures, hulking pieces of twisted metal and torn wood, jumbles of wire and slabs of stone. Giant canvases covered with thick, violent slabs of oil paint, and other things hang on the walls.

”What is all this?”

”This is my studio. It was, ah, Nate's and mine,” Damian says in answer.

”Yours and Nate's?” I ask. ”You made all of this?”

”We both worked here,” Damian explains nervously.

”When -- how -- how did you make all this?” I stutter.

”Well, I have a welding workshop in here; it's over there, around in the corner, behind those sculptures. And, you know, we, uh, collected all this stuff to use, and --”

I interrupt, ”You're telling me that you and my brother made all of this?”

”Yes. I just told you --”

”I know what you told me, but how come ...” My voice trails off as I gaze around the room, my eyes crawling over each piece. I can barely process any of it.

”Cora?” Damian asks.

64.

I turn to look at him. ”How come I never knew Nate was an artist?” A towering dam of tears is piling up, burning behind my eyes, threatening to spill over my cheeks.

”He didn't... No one knew but him and me,” Damian responds softly. ”He didn't want to tell anyone.”

A vision of Nate, at ten or eleven, racing into the living room, a sheet of paper flapping in his hand, pops into my head.

”Look!” my brother cried, holding out the page to our grandfather, our dad's father, who was visiting for the day. It was a drawing of a dog.

Grandpa drew a breath, his cheeks caving in and his lips puckering. ”Did you trace this, son?” he'd asked. He'd lifted me from his lap, where we'd been reading a story together.

Nate solemnly shook his head. ”No, sir,” he'd replied. ”I drew it.”

My grandfather held up the drawing close, close, and lifted his gla.s.ses and peered at it. I stood up on tiptoe, straining to see the page, but my grandfather would not lower it. ”Are you telling the truth?” Grandpa growled. At Nate's vehement nod, he said, ”Son, if you truly drew this, well, then I'd say you have a mighty fine talent. Mighty fine.” And Nate had grown pink, a proud flush.

That's the only time I can recall seeing Nate show any interest in art. I knew he doodled, but nothing like this.

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