Rough Canvas (6 page)

Eden with a hundred flashing swords, because while living in New York City, he’d never even had his wallet picked. His neighbors and total strangers actually took turns finding his keys, cards or other mislaid belongings and returning them.

Had the episode with the wood chipper been the same thing he’d just pointed out to Elaine? A subliminal suicide wish for his hands, so the loss of his art was no longer a choice which could eat at his soul? It made Marcus even more furious.

“Just go away and don’t come back,” she said, her voice breaking over the syllables.

“That’s up to your son to decide. If he needs me, I’m here for him. It’s between the two of us, not you.”

“You’re just manipulating him for your own purposes.”

“Manipulating? That’s a pretty big word for around here. You must be filling up your lonely evenings with extra courses at the community college.”

Okay, that was petty and downright cruel. Thomas
was
going to kill him. It was past time to get out of here.

“You think you have us all figured out, don’t you?” Elaine squared her shoulders, not even swiping at the tears that had fought past her restraint and spilled onto her cheeks. “Narrow-minded, ignorant backwoods country people who pound their Bibles.

Well, I’ve raised children long enough to recognize one with a chip on his shoulder I didn’t put there. You think twice before you use this family as the whipping post for your past, and sacrifice my son on the altar of your demons.”

Marcus stopped, his hand on the car door. He increased his grip, holding himself where he was instead of lashing out at her as he wished to do.

“Why is it so fucking difficult for you to love him as he is?”

“I do love my son. How dare you—”

29

Joey W. Hill

“No, you don’t.” He cut across her. “You love what you want him to be, something you want so much you’ve convinced yourself it
is
him. He senses it, knows it, and so he’ll spend his entire life here, trying to be everything he thinks you want him to be and nothing that he is.”

“Aren’t you doing the same thing?” she shot back. “Don’t you love him only for

what you want him to be?”

He inclined his head, flashed his teeth. “I want him to have it all, everything his talent deserves, every dream he’s ever had. I want to see it happen for him.”

All I ever wanted was…him.

To hell with it. He shouldn’t be doing and saying things she had no way of

comprehending, things that would just feed her revulsion and fear of who and what he was, but he was weary of anger. He stared down at his own reflection in the window, spoke to it instead of her.

“When he was living with me, there was one night… I couldn’t sleep. I got some

wine, came back and leaned against the bedroom door. There he was, asleep, the

moonlight on every inch of him.” Every perfect naked inch.

When he turned his head, from the color in her face, he knew he’d made that clear enough, but he had no intention of stopping now.

“Those incredibly talented fingers were on my pillow. He did that whenever I got up at night, to know when I came back. I looked at him and I couldn’t speak, couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t even move.”

He made a fist, pressed it against his chest. “I wanted everything for him. I wanted to see him achieve every dream, embrace every desire. I wanted to protect him from anyone who would cause him harm or a moment’s pain, tear them apart with my bare hands. Never let him out of my sight, even as I wanted him to stretch out his wings as far as they could go and soar. And at the bottom, top and middle of it all, I just wanted to stand there, just that way forever. Not disturb him. Just look at him and love him. Do nothing but simply love him for everything he is, a creation too perfect to be anything but God’s gift to the rest of us.”

He straightened. “You may recognize my ‘chip’, but you don’t know what that chip made me. Don’t you
ever
assume you fucking know who I am.”

Getting into the car, he slammed the door and left her standing on the side of the road. Her face was in her hands, her shoulders shaking. His gut was in a hard aching ball. No wonder Thomas was probably getting an ulcer. But even as he thought it, he couldn’t ignore the way it felt, leaving her like that. He was a bastard. A selfish bastard.

Just as she said. Just as Thomas had said.

You don’t know him the way you think you do…

“Want to bet?” he muttered grimly.
You have no idea.

30

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You’ll be in my bed.

A hard shiver went through Thomas, as it had every time that arrogant statement stroked through his mind, making his blood run hot and thick through his vitals.

He was insane. Two weeks had passed. He hadn’t intended to go, had known he

was risking too much. That check, the bills it immediately made disappear, couldn’t help but factor into it. But Thomas knew it was the least of his reasons for driving away from the hardware store and swinging onto the interstate.

When Marcus left, Thomas had walked out into the field with Kate, kept on

walking. For one weak moment, he’d been overcome with this irresistible warm…glow.

Marcus had come for him. He didn’t believe it. Couldn’t do a damn thing with it, but for just a little while, the horrible ache that had been with him for over a year had settled down.

It would be back in the dead of the night, of course. Probably ten times worse for having seen Marcus. But right then, he’d pushed the consequences away and stood in the field, aching in a good, stupid way, like a kid who’d gotten his first kiss.

Marcus had written his cell number on the ticket, but he hadn’t used either the number or the ticket. He knew he might back out if he stopped for anything, even to park at an airport and check his bag.

So he’d just gotten into his ancient Nova and driven. He had to stop twice along the turnpike to coax the car back to life, but his worn-out faithful steed revived each time, as if knowing she had to get him to the end of this quest.

However, nineteen hours later, as he drove through the winding two-lane highway deep in the Berkshires, populated with small towns where houses were likely to be constructed by their owners and locks weren’t included as part of the design, he was tired enough to be concocting horror stories about what he might find.

Marcus might have given up on him and invited someone else to come.

His lips twisted grimly. Well, tragic irony would be a good jump start, if that was the type of thing that got his artistic muse going. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

Images had once flowed through his mind as if the muse had set up house there. He could see the possibilities in…well, everything. For months, since the block occurred, he hadn’t had the energy or the courage to face what had caused the muse to depart so abruptly, cutting off the power, clearing out and leaving nothing.

He only knew at one time he’d been able to translate all the raw emotion of life to a canvas. Despite how close that emotion cut to his own life, his soul had somehow found a safe haven from which to observe without becoming a paralyzed part of it.

31

Joey W. Hill

It had been a week since Marcus had visited. When Thomas had made the decision

to take him up on his offer, his mother of course had been the most difficult obstacle, Rory a close second. Only Celeste, after all the screaming and tears were done with, had squeezed him in one of her generous hugs, bringing her bony body close, and

whispered, “Have a good trip.”

His mother had gone to church right before he left. She’d likely stay until he

returned, holding a solitary prayer vigil.

He’d told her he’d be back in six days. Made himself say it only once. Left the ledger out where she could see it, see what money like that on a regular basis could do for them.

With each mile between home and Marcus, he was torn between sick apprehension

and excitement. Need. Arousal. He’d taken a box of sketchpads, his pencils and

charcoals, but he didn’t know what he was doing or going to accomplish. He might destroy what was left of his sanity.

He’d left Marcus abruptly, both when his father died and then shortly thereafter when Rory was hurt. Then he hadn’t come back at all. If nothing else, they could do the proper goodbyes. Best case scenario, he’d get his muse jump-started from the beauty of the Berkshires, be Marcus’ lover for a week, be as generous and grateful as he could be, leave on friendly terms, and that was that. He’d handled it badly before, like an immature child. Marcus deserved better than that.

So it went, a jumble of thoughts he recognized as nervous babbling and

rationalizations as his foot pushed down on the pedal even harder. Nineteen hours, and he never even turned on the radio, just letting the cacophony of his mind keep him company. A couple times on the Pennsylvania turnpike he thought of hurtling over the edge of a cliff.

Now at last, he made the turn off the two-lane highway and drove for a few miles into deeper forest until he was on a dirt road. When he saw the red cedar mailbox that was the landmark for the house, he made the turn.

As he went up the hill, he saw the brown wooden cottage, blending into the close surrounding foliage. It had the look of a custom-designed chateau. The house was on pilings with a generous shaded patio below, while the upper level had a glassed-in sunroom that led out to a deck with a lattice-enclosed area for a hot tub. Turning around, he saw the incline gave the house a view of the layered vista of hills.

There was only one car, Marcus’ Maserati Spyder. Of course, he could have brought someone. He could be in there with a lover. Thomas put the Nova in park, gripped the steering wheel.

Don’t be a complete pussy, Thomas. Get out of the damn car.
But his mother’s tears, Rory’s accusing stare, the ache behind his eyes and in his back from driving like he had demons on his tail…the miles between this place, what it symbolized, and a farmhouse hardware store a handful of states away, loomed in his mind like a crash wall in a 32

Rough Canvas

driving test. Getting out would be like flooring a car that had no brakes. Nothing would stop him but the crash at the end of the road. The end of this week.

If Marcus had told him to come to New York, he couldn’t have done it. Perhaps

Marcus knew the quiet setting, the familiarity of trees and nature all around, wouldn’t only inspire his muse but reassure him, give him that final gentle push. He knew the Berkshires. Now that he was here, though, it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t get his hands to let go of the steering wheel, couldn’t reach for the door, get out. Who was he kidding? This was a mistake.

Then Marcus stepped out on the deck, glass of wine in hand. He wore slacks and a pale yellow shirt, open and fluttering loose, showing the smooth pectorals, ripple of muscled abs, the hint of his waist, the intimate crease of armpit as the breeze tried to edge the shirt off one broad shoulder. One hand was in his pocket and his feet were bare, his hair loose on his shoulders.

His green eyes were brilliant, even from here, filled with an intensity that washed over Thomas, drawing him into the fantasy of a tranquil, emerald lagoon where

everything else was sucked out to sea, to be churned in the surf where it couldn’t touch him. Not for one week.

He got out of the car, looked up at the other man. “One week.”

Thomas said it out loud first thing, because he knew it was the only restraint that would apply here. The limitation of time. From the look in Marcus’ eyes, he knew he understood that quite well.

What was that question, so often posed in movies between lovers in whimsical

moments? If you only had one week to have something you always wanted that you

could never have again, would you take it?

It was a banal reality show question whose significance he hadn’t appreciated

before. Yes. He would. Even knowing that walking away from it at the end of the week was more than he could bear.

“Leave your things for now and come up here.” Marcus nodded to the outside

stairwell that led up to the deck. “I’ve got a good Shiraz.” At Thomas’ grimace, he grinned. “But I can probably scrounge up a beer.”

“Now you’re talking.”

A nice, even conversation. Like everything was fine, like the air wasn’t so charged with energy that a single spark could ignite the forest around them.

Thomas came up the stairs, found Marcus already returning from inside, sliding the glass door back with a knee, beer in one hand. His favorite label, Bud Light. Marcus rarely drank beer, and when he did, it was an import.

“You knew I’d come.”

“Yes. For your art, I knew you’d come, even if you wouldn’t just for me.” There was no censure in his tone. Calm, civilized.

33

Joey W. Hill

When Thomas reached out to take the beer from Marcus’ hand, Marcus set it down

on the rail before they made contact, absurdly disappointing Thomas. He needed to play it cool, easy and Marcus was helping him.

He didn’t want Marcus to help him.

His stomach was taut with all the things Thomas did want, such that his hand

shook as he took the bottle to his lips. He covered it by turning away, looking at the view, when all he wanted to do was look at Marcus. “Spectacular. This place is a new one. When’d you discover it?”
With someone else?

“Friends of mine own it. They’re in the Bahamas, at my place there. We swap.”

Thomas nodded. Swallowed. He felt Marcus’ eyes on him and made himself turn

his head to look at him. Leaning his hips on the rail two feet away, Marcus drank his wine. The wind made the tail of his open shirt feather against Thomas’ forearm, drawing his attention to the fact there was only a foot between their hands on the railing.

Marcus’ long fingers, manicured, his knuckles perfectly proportioned. Thomas’

hands, calloused from farm work, several knuckles enlarged from a lifetime of drawing, brushwork. The tip of the one finger gone.