Leaving the Comfort Cafe (21 page)

She felt his refusal. Not in a blatant kind of way, but just in the nagging kind of way when you worry about whether or not you left your stove on when you leave for a trip. They said nothing the rest of the way. She leaned away from his shoulder. Austin got his arm back. Rhett gave a low snort. Austin knew what he was saying:

You owe me one, kid.

Back at the hotel, Austin unpacked while Kerry showered. He took the bed by the window. The window overlooked a park rimmed with palm trees and a large pineapple fountain. Down below, a jazz musician was playing his saxophone for tips. A young couple walking and holding hands stopped to sit on a bench. A large statue peered over the inhabitants from atop a marble column. Austin reckoned it was some governor or Civil War hero, possibly both.

He felt a deep wave of nausea overtake him and he was afraid he was going to be sick. His stomach cramped and he took off his shirt and stretched out underneath the cool sheets. He turned with his back toward the bathroom, hoping that Kerry would think that he was asleep when she came out.

He was asleep when she came out. Not of exhaustion or of relief or even of sickness, but just out of sheer necessity.

Charleston Green is barely a green at all. It’s a special color blended during a time when the Yankees only sent black paint to the South Carolina port town after the Civil War, knowing the rebels would roast during the summer with black paint adorning their houses. But the Charlestonians, like Southerners tend to do, found a way to take this albatross and make it into a badge of honor. They took eight parts black with two parts yellow and created a color dubbed Charleston Green. It is Charleston Green that adorns the houses and shutters in the genteel town, and it was this Charleston Green that held a fascination for Kerry. They once again passed the station where the carriages waited for their next hire. Austin caught a glimpse of Rhett as his owner shined his leather harness. Austin couldn’t help but wonder if the owner thought he and Kerry had a romantic roll in the hay when they got back to the hotel.

Kerry was somewhat distant, but it was covered up with her fascination of Market Street. She sat for what seemed like hours watching the African-American weavers making elaborate baskets and wreaths out of sweet grass, continuing a tradition that was seeped from their roots in Africa. In the market area, there were stores with two hundred different types of hot sauce and Gullah recipe books from traditions passed down since the first slaves were brought into the port before the Civil War. There were small potters who created elaborate pieces reflecting the palmetto tree of South Carolina’s state flag. Kerry took several photographs with her digital camera, often taking several photos of the same object from different angles. She said it would be useful later when she decided to do watercolors.

“Watercolors? I didn’t know you did watercolors. I thought you only worked with oil and pastels.”

“A lot has changed since we were in school, Austin. Let me tell you, the world, it’s not such a fantastic place.”

But it can be, he wanted to say, and he wanted to tell her about the evening in the amphitheatre, and the raspberry pie at the Comfort Café, and the ponies, but he knew it was inappropriate. Besides, he didn’t have the feeling she would listen to him anyway.

While Kerry poked her head into an art gallery to see if they handled works on consignment, Austin walked along the front dock by the main street. Across the water was Fort Sumter, where the first shots of the Civil War were fired.

“Excuse me,” he asked a local who was tending to a boat beside one of those signs that said Wildlife Boat Tours. “Are there any kayak trips to the outer islands, there?”

“My friend and I give tours on the side for the Island Wake Kayak Company. We’d be glad to set you up if you’re interested.”

“Is it difficult to learn?”

“Nah. These are recreational kayaks. They’re pretty stable. You have to make a concerted effort to tip them.”

“Thanks.” Austin walked away. He could tell the man was disappointed that he did not receive any business as a result of the conversation. But one last question. “Are there any wild ponies on these islands?”

The look on the man’s face told him there wasn’t.

When he found Kerry, she was still talking with the owner of the art gallery, asking questions about clientele and the rent for businesses on the property. “It gets pretty slow outside of tourist season,” the woman said. “But that’s when you get a lot of business from natives from other parts of the state. Want to avoid the tourist crowd. Aside from a few hurricanes now and then, it’s a great place to live.”

“Hurricanes?”

“It’s the Atlantic Coast, honey. What did you expect?”

When Kerry saw Austin waiting, she left the gallery.

“I was wondering,” Austin said. “Have you ever been kayaking? I mean, I have a friend who has been wanting to go, and I thought it might be good to try it out before—”

“I hate water.”

“You hate water?”

“I hate water.”

“And you want to live on the coast?”

She sat down on one of the wooden benches that decorated the sidewalk, specifically designed for tourists with bad ankles and weak knees who grew tired of walking a long time before other members in their vacation party.

“It’s an issue of business, Austin, not a great view.”

“I thought your gallery was going great.”

“It is going great, it’s just that, it’s not going great enough to be able to afford New York. At least, not a nice place in New York.”

Austin wondered how she defined the term “nice.”

“I just…I dunno. I was thinking if I set up a gallery here, it would be cheaper to live, cheaper to rent, and I could always travel to New York for the occasional exhibit of my edgier work.”

Austin sat down beside her.

“You can say all you want to about the great artists. The abstract painters. Their brilliance, their vision. But the bottom line is, it’s not what people buy to go in their living room. People like the pictures of birds, and seascapes and lighthouses. They like tall pine trees and meadows and little puppy dogs that come up and lick your face. They don’t like things that make them think. That challenges them. They like the thing that makes them feel good. Makes them feel comfortable,” she said.

“And you’re trying to convince yourself you’re not selling out.”

“My profs would be mortified. Austin, we used to make fun of people who painted old houses or streetscapes and thought they were being ‘true’ artists. But now I realize why they do it. It’s what people like. It’s bread and butter. Do you think I’m selling out?” Austin knew she was talking about herself, but he felt, somehow, that the question was actually about him. Was he selling out?

He deftly avoided the issue. “I think even Shakespeare had to pay the rent.”

There were so many galleries to explore. Some edgy, some tame, some with wild graffiti sprawled on the windows, some with tasteful gilded letters announcing the ownership.

When Austin and Kerry entered Winged Specials, he sensed something different; something heavy laced in the air like a thick cloud of incense that kept visitors from knowing joints were smoked right before they arrived. Kerry rang the bell at the front counter for service, which Austin thought was strange for an art gallery.

Then softly, gracefully, Blythe came out from the back storage area of the store.

Somewhere, Austin’s stomach flew out the window, found Rhett, saddled him up and rode away.

Unfortunately, Austin’s body was still in the room, and he began to sweat profusely, as if on cue. Blythe had a clear, clever smile, almost as if she wanted to let him know she wasn’t going to pull anything, though she certainly could if she so desired. She was wearing a black top, tight around the bosom, no doubt to showcase that skinny girls like Kerry don’t have big breasts.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?” She approached Kerry, forming her words deliberately, like someone who had just learned how to speak.

Under no circumstances should Kerry learn this is Blythe.
Austin felt guilty almost as soon as he thought it. After all, surely Kerry could put two and two together. Then he tried to calculate the possibility of him pulling apart two fighting women and not getting a black eye himself in the process. A black eye that would surely resonate with the town hall and Conyers gossip vine.

“Are you the owner of this gallery?” Kerry asked, blissfully.

“No, that would be my cousin, Dylan.” Blythe gestured to the thirty-something hippie who was straightening one of the framed prints.

Kerry immediately walked over to Dylan and launched into her spiel about how she was a New York artist. Dylan rolled his eyes. Perhaps she hoped to impress him by being a New York artist, but many times in the South the mention of New York had the opposite effect.

Austin noticed there were several prints of horses. Foals, mares, and even one taken looking straight up into their big brown eyes. He pulled Blythe aside and pointed at the pictures.

“These are the ones you told me about? Your inspiration?” It was strange, because he always thought his first words to Blythe after their argument would be something different, of apologies and plans, of telling her that Kerry wasn’t exactly what he thought she was supposed to be, that life wasn’t what he thought it was supposed to be, that he felt as if everything had been mixed into a blender, spun around, and then slopped onto his plate, when he was perfectly content with what he had on his plate in the first place.

“This is the girl in the picture?” Blythe asked. “The picture that is still on your desk, even though she rarely calls you except out of the blue when she needs a lift from the airport and wants to walk over you a little bit?”

Austin nodded.

“She looks different. She looks thin. Really thin. Is she one of those heroin chic artists or something?”

“Yeah, she does look kind of wan.” His voice held genuine concern. No romantic kindling. Just friendly concern.

“I hope she’s not puking up everything she’s been eating on this trip.” It was meant to be sarcastic, but there was some sincere worry there. Blythe did not wish anything overtly evil on anyone. A bad case of the runs, yes. An eating disorder, no.

“What are you doing here?”

“I decided, since we had to cancel our trip, I would just head down to Charleston and spend some time with Dylan. We haven’t had any bonding time since I had that falling out with my parents.”

Her gaze went to Dylan, who was pulling on his left earlobe while talking to Kerry.

“I’ve got to go, that’s the signal,” she said.

“The signal?”

“To rescue him. He doesn’t want to talk to her any more.”

At first, Austin thought this was some type of catty revenge existing only in the type of worlds girls revolve in, but when he approached the group and Blythe offered to show Kerry more of the gallery, he had to admit Dylan looked genuinely relieved.

Dylan peered at Austin from behind beatnik-type sunglasses. “So you’re Austin, huh?” he said.

“Yeah.”
What did she tell him about me? Is he going to kill me? He’s going to kill me. I’ll end up at the bottom of the harbor. What about Kerry? Will she find out? If she does, will I get killed twice?

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to Blythe,” Dylan said. “I mean, better than Cornell, the SATs. All that stuff. You know she came down here to spy on you.”

“I figured as much.”

“Don’t underestimate this one, man. She’s a tough cookie. I can remember when we were in fourth grade, instead of playing with Barbie and baby dolls, Blythe and I were playing with GI Joe’s and having mud ball artillery fights.”

Austin raised an eyebrow.

“Dylan laughed. “You know, it was a total shock to hear from her. For the first time last night, she talked about Chas. She hasn’t mentioned him in so long. She’s never opened up like that. Not even before all that happened. Man.”

“Are you warning me that if I upset your cousin, you’ll send the Shelley mafia to beat me up?

Dylan laughed, “No, man, we’re not all about that, you see. No way, man.”

Austin thought maybe it was Dylan who had burned a joint in the back of the gallery, and the incense was a desperate attempt to disguise the scent.

“It’s just that…look, Austin, I don’t care what you guys are doing in bed, okay? I say, get a piece whenever you can. I’m not going to stop a dude from getting laid, you know. But it’s just, if you’re going to cut Blythe loose, let her go easy, man. Let her down easy.”

“I’m not going to cut her loose. I just had to see…”

“Hey, none of my business. I’m not your shrink, man. Normally, I’d say take ‘em both. Get some when you can. But she’s my cousin, you know. She’s been through a lot, and I think she’s just getting over it. Let her down easy, man.”

They were quiet as Blythe led Kerry through the gallery.

“So, I don’t have to worry about you taking me out back and beating me up?”

“No way, man.” Dylan pursed his lips as if he were sucking on a cigarette. “But Blythe is another matter.”

****

Kerry checked into a few more art galleries. He could tell she was getting tired. It was as if she didn’t want to stop or slow down, fearing that if she did, she would be rejected. She came out of one of the art galleries and they were heading back to the hotel. Austin felt obligated to reveal Blythe to her.

“Kerry, you know the girl in that gallery, the Winged Special?”

“Yeah, I didn’t quite get her.”

“Excuse me?”

“I dunno. I just got this strange vibe from her. She was a little out there. Probably one of those students over at the college who just never got their act together enough to graduate.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I dunno. Nothing I could exactly put my finger on. But she knew more about art than I thought she would. I was talking to her about New York and art, and she tired to act like she was interested, but I could tell it was all fake. Who was she trying to impress?”

“Yeah, about that…”