Guilt (7 page)

Chapter Eight

It was November before Mr. Dart returned the artwork from the inspirational assignment back to his students, evaluated and graded. The teacher took the time to write a few sentences of critique on index cards and attached them to each drawing with a paper clip. Before passing them back to the class, he emphasized to the sensitive impressionable teenagers that these observations were only his opinion, and were in no way meant to be the final word on their abilities. His appraisal was intended to steer them in the right direction inspirationally, not to crush their artistic spirit.

Claire figured that her artworks displayed the vivid imagination that she knew swirled around inside her head. She expected the critiques for each drawing to commend her interpretations on the poem, story excerpt and newspaper article. What she sought was approval for the work of her hand more than for the use of her mind.

When the drawings were set down in front of her she reached for them with eager hands. Her enthusiasm for the critiques led to swift and severe disappointment. The letter grade she received was an A minus, but Mr. Dart never seemed to score lower than that, so the importance of the grade meant nothing. What struck her so hard were the man's comments on each work. He seemed to think very little of her imagination.

The pastel, which was meant to be a self-portrait as she sailed along the river of life, was called cliché. The colored pencil piece had been declared an easy way out of the assignment as she created "a rather general looking farm that didn't really touch on the personal feelings that the excerpt
should
have evoked" (she wondered if Corry had received the same statement for his similar theme). The comment on the last work disappointed her most of all. The happy ending that she imagined for the missing girl was dismissed as being a way of refusing to address a troublesome topic because she couldn't cope with its sadness. It basically told her that she skirted around unpleasantness, which underscored her naivety of the world.

She tried not to take it personally like Mr. Dart asked his students not to, but the critique struck her on a level that she never comprehended she'd be assessed on. She found herself questioning the depth of her mind. Did she limit her own imagination, create her own psychological boundaries, because she didn't want to explore her feelings? This young woman who yearned to get out of Brickerton, knowing there was a bigger world she wanted to see, couldn't comprehend that this world wasn't always pretty and happy and easy going? Was she really that naïve?

In the midst of her quandary Claire became aware of something Corry was doing. He had begun to crumple his own artwork within his clenched fists. Without considering, she reacted, grabbing his forearm to stay his hand. He looked up, startled, and Claire realized that she made physical contact with her classmate. She felt awkward about it, and pulled her hand back.

Corry's face slowly went from startled back to its previous expression. He looked disturbed and couldn't hide his perturbation. His critiques must have disappointed him as much as Claire's had upset her. Having become familiar with him over the last few weeks, she felt compelled to speak. Maybe they could rectify their disappointment by realizing that they both received the same harsh criticism.

"Don't worry about what he wrote," she said. "His opinion isn't everything." Too bad she had a difficult time following her own advice, because she knew that the art teacher's opinion did mean a great deal to her.

Instead of the understanding smile that she was expecting to get in reply, Corry looked pained and averted his face. "It's not what he wrote." He replied after a moment. "I just don't want this picture." His hand began to clamp around the corners of the paper again, ready to crumple it further.

"Wait," Claire cried under her breath. That got the Freak's attention, and he observed the interaction with amusement. "Don't do that. You're artwork is great. You can't get rid of it."

"It's not worth keeping." He took a breath, wanting to continue to destroy the art, but feeling unsure now in front of Claire.

"Boo hoo," the Freak began a fake pout.

"Shut up," Claire snarled at him. The Freak raised his eye brows in surprise, and said nothing more. When she looked back at Corry, she saw his jaw clenching and his lip curling up in disgust, but he didn't look at the Freak. He just stared at his drawing.

"Well, if you don't want it, I'll take it." Claire said.

Corry looked confused. He didn't understand Claire's concern, and didn't seem to be able to grasp his own thoughts at the moment.

When he failed to move, Claire took hold of the paper, ready to grab it away from him. "Can I have it?"

It took a few more seconds for him to respond, but he let go of it. "Sure. I guess so." His expression didn't change, but he didn't stop her from taking it.

Claire looked at it. It was the charcoal drawing from the newspaper article. Before he could change his mind, she slid the paper into her own portfolio to get it out of sight.

She couldn't fully explain to herself why she reacted the way she did towards Corry's strange conduct, but the thought of this talented artist destroying his own skilled work agitated her. Unlike the Freak, who tended to create gruesome images for the sake of doing so, and because the sight of blood and gore thrilled his demented young mind, Corry's works were full of heart. Even if his works were melancholy, one could tell that he felt the pain and sorrow of the world through his art. He was beyond the artistic ability and mentality of the average teenager. Such talent had to be preserved, even if it mean protecting it from the artist himself.

Corry shoved the other two drawings into his own portfolio, but crumpled up the index card that held the critique for the charcoal drawing. The class period moved onward, and Corry returned to his former state of awkward silence. Claire could detect the tension from his sulking, and felt it darken her own mood.

On his way out the door at the end of class,Corry threw the index card in the trash. Claire held back until he left the classroom, and then fished the card from the top of the trash bin. She was curious about what Mr. Dart could have said that made the boy react the way he did.

She intended to unfold the card on her way to Algebra class, but Corry came up beside her in the hall. She jumped at his unexpected presence, and barely managed to hide the card from his view.

"I wanted to apologize," he said. "My actions in class today were probably a little - strange . . .You know, when I tried to throw that picture away."

"Not at all," Claire lied. What was she supposed to say?

"I just . . . wasn't very happy with that drawing." He justified.

She thought that was a bit of a vague explanation, but didn't think it would be right to question him on it. They fell silent, the earlier exchange over the drawing still making them feel uncomfortable. He continued walking with her until she approached her classroom, then said good bye and that he'd see her tomorrow in art class. She responded likewise and ducked into the room.

When she seated herself at her desk, she pulled out the index card from the pocket of her jeans, where she had hidden it, and scanned the critique. Mr. Dart's assessment of Corry's work was very positive. In fact, it was exactly what Claire had expected to receive regarding her own work. She read it again more thoroughly. The art teacher commended him on both his style and his imagination.

Claire sat there wondering what could have made Corry react so negatively to such praise. Algebra class began soon after, and she dismissed the issue. When she left school for the day she threw the card in the trash on her way out the door.

Apparently, Corry just couldn't handle a compliment.

Chapter Nine

I stared at the black and white picture that accompanied the obituary. The photo was pixilated and dark, and it had faded during its time in my portfolio, but his features were still visible. The newspaper used Corry's yearbook picture. It was the most recent photo of him, being taken only a few weeks before his death.

I'd forgotten exactly what his features looked like. Although I thought of him many times, his physical appearance seemed to have dulled in my memory. He was a year older than me when I knew him. I remembered him seeming nearly grown up, then. Whether it was his physical visage or the quiet intelligence I saw in his eyes, he had appeared to be so mature to me. Looking at him twelve years later, though, I could see the ingenuous innocence and the young boy that he really was. Oh, God, he was too young to die.

He deserved to live . . . more than I did. I felt like I was wasting my life. And there's the irony of it all, since wasting my life was exactly what I swore to myself that I would never do.

The obituary mentioned Kain as part of the family that the deceased left behind, but didn't note anything about him beyond stating that he was Corry's brother and a senior at Brickerton High School. I moved my attention back to the charcoal drawing that Corry allowed me to keep. It still looked magnificent to me.

The scene was so well detailed that I couldn't imagine how he had finished it in only two fifty-five minute class periods. It was a wooded landscape, detailed down to the individual maple trees, the scant undergrowth and the decaying leaves on the ground. The intricate weaving of the tree branches and the scattering of boulders that had most likely been deposited by glaciers eons ago exhibited the care that had been taken by the artist's hand.

The truly amazing feature about the drawing was something that almost escaped the eyes, but once caught, it held you: the faint suggestion of a gravestone. Barely discernible, it blended itself amongst the leaf covered forest floor, sandwiched between two slopes of a dry gully. Almost invisible, as though the grave was there, and yet not.

I never really looked at the drawing this intently before. I had shoved it into my portfolio when Corry gave it to me, and didn't want to look at it after he had died. Then, it was forgotten. Studying it now, I felt sure that is was Corry's way of giving the missing girl a marked grave. Her body was never found and the case went cold, so the poor child never received a proper burial. Corry's drawing gave her something she never had in reality. A type of closure.

Was I the only one who couldn't get closure from Corry?

I dragged myself away from the gravestone, and looked at the big picture, again. That's when I recognized the landscape. It was an unmistakable place.

The depiction showed an unusual landmark, a large mound of earth, I knew to be about ten feet high and located deep in the woods beyond the high school. It was surrounded by a steep gully that led to sloping cliffs, which enclosed the mound on three sides like a horseshoe. The whole area was blanketed in dead leaves and shadowed by a thick tangle of deciduous trees.

The mound itself was long and broad, which gave someone the idea at some point that it looked like the burial mound of a giant, and it had been referred to as The Giant's Grave ever since. A small circular indentation at the top of the mound had been dug out long ago to create a pit that could contain a fire. I called that the Giant's Belly Button, but I doubted that anyone before me ever named it as such.

My Great Aunt Mimmsy used to tell me stories about her childhood in Brickerton, back when it was still a thriving railroad metropolis. According to her, The Giant's Grave was a favorite Sunday picnic spot for the locals during the late spring and summer months. People would come from miles around after church to socialize and share picnic lunches.

Great Grand Uncle Willard (who died long before I was born) had a well of mineral water outside the front door of his house, which happened to be near the entrance to the Giant's Trail. He would pump water out as people filled up their jugs, and they'd all trek up to the Grave together. A parade of Sunday revelers.

The tradition had died out at least two generations ago, much to my disappointment. I'd always wanted to partake in that particular community gathering. Perhaps I romanticized it, but the idea of it seemed so quaint and peaceful in my imagination. The place wasn't much to look at by the time I'd seen it, but I loved to fantasize what it was like to have a Victorian picnic or roaring twenties fête amongst the trees and rocks, atop a giant's grave.