Part 7 (1/2)
65.
”How long have you guys been working on all this?” I ask Damian, and silently curse the quiver in my voice.
”I guess it's been, like, three years.”
”I can't believe it.” I wipe away the traitorous tears, hating myself for appearing so weak, for feeling so weak.
I turn my back on Damian and begin to wander among the pieces. ”Here's that yield sign he got in trouble for stealing.” I sniff and stop in front of a mammoth statue that has the shape of a man's silhouette, constructed of gnarled metal rods, with the triangular traffic sign for a head.
”Basically,” Damian starts with a chuckle, ”everything Nate was ever accused of taking without permission' is down here. In one of these pieces.”
”And the paintings?” I ask.
”I made the paintings,” Damian admits abashedly.
”They are amazing,” I whisper. The canvases look like bruised flesh with slashes of violet and black pigment, metal parts sticking out of small hills of oil paint. I walk closer and see that there are all sorts of objects concealed in the canvases: b.u.t.tons, nails and bolts, a small wrench, computer keyboard letters.
We stand together and survey the cluttered, chaotic gallery. There are car parts that look like they came from Nate's first car, which he also wrecked; broken bits of furniture; sc.r.a.ps of fabric. I'm pretty sure I recognize a pattern from an old set
66.
of my mother's sheets. Everything precarious and wild. Yet there is a rhythm to the pieces, a poetry and a logic.
”I always thought that one day he would grow up and stop destroying everything,” I say quietly. ”And it turns out, he already had.” I turn to Damian. ”Why did you bring me here, show me all of this?” I ask.
Maybe if I stare at him long enough, hard enough, I'll be able to pierce his brittle exterior and learn some truth. Some kind of truth. There has to be a meaning to all of it, a secret that he will reveal to me. Because I never, never believed that Nate -- or Damian -- might be capable of creating such ,.. such beauty.
None of it makes any sense. All the time everyone thought they were just out to destroy and take everything apart, they were creating and building this wonder. My chest hurts. My chest hurts and I think my heart might be breaking. Again.
”I don't know why,” Damian replies. ”Ever since I saw you in school, I've been thinking about it. That's why I was following you. I mean, your mom made it pretty clear at the funeral that I wasn't welcome anymore, and I didn't think you'd want to see me, either. I didn't know how else to tell you about this, except to bring you here to see it.” Damian pauses, averting his eyes. ”And I think -- I think Nate would have wanted you to know.” The words fall between us like a thousand raindrops.
”Well. Thank you.”
67.
Silently, I weave between the sculptures and pa.s.s all around the barn walls one more time, as Damian stands by, watching.
”What is this one?” I've stopped in front of a large round stone with a tall metal pole poking from its flat top. Several two-by-six boards have been nailed together, and are leaning against the wall behind the pole and stone.
”Oh, that was ... well, that was Nate's last piece. He never finished it.... Obviously.” Damian has come to stand next to me. ”I think he was going to mount those boards onto the rod when he was done, but I'm not sure what he was going to do with the wood itself.”
I circle the stone base, and kneel down to study the boards, which are marked with soft gray swirls and dots and lines and smudges.
”His last piece, huh?” I turn to look at Damian. He nods. I look back at the pieces of wood. I wonder what it is, what Nate was going to do with them. I will never know.
Finally, I rise and realize that I've made an illegal stop after school with the Bradleys' Number One Most Undesirable. I pull out my cell phone and check the time. It's just after four. ”I should go home, before my parents get there first. Would you take me?” I ask Damian.
”Sure. Let's go. But, first --” Damian grabs the phone out of my hand and punches some b.u.t.tons. He hands it back to me with a grin and says, ”Just in case.” Then he leads me through
68.
the barn, out into the fresh air, and back to his car. And the whole time my ears feel like they've ignited and my heart is racing. Did he just give me his number? Oh my gosh ...
Damian drives slowly through town, crossing back over Union Street. I watch the ramshackle houses trickle past. Then the houses begin to grow nicer and the lawns better kept when we near my neighborhood. I can't think of a thing to say. I'm still flabbergasted.
But the silence between us is comfortable. When I'm sure he's concentrating on driving, I turn to study him. His gray eyes are focused intently on the road. They are light against his caramel skin. He looks lonely, terribly lonely. And then it occurs to me that he is bereft, too, in a way. He lost his best friend. I haven't seen him hanging around with anyone at school, certainly no one from his and Nate's old gang.
I don't actually know anything about Damian, who his friends are, what his family is like.
Turns out I hardly knew my brother, either.
As all these thoughts are pa.s.sing through my mind, I'm not paying attention when we finally pull up in front of my house. So, I don't notice my mother's car in the open garage, or my mother pacing back and forth on the front porch.
”Uh, Cora?” Damian mumbles as he comes to a stop. ”Cora,” he repeats, s.n.a.t.c.hing me back to planet Earth.
”What?” I reply, then, ”Oh, no,” as I notice my mom noticing Damian's car and me in it.
69.
My mother freezes, her eyes popping wide open with shock then narrowing with anger. She starts to stride toward the car, then stops, and begins waving her arm, motioning for me to get out of the car -- Right That Instant.