"Adam?"
My father's voice sounds raspy; I wish he didn't smoke so much. He stands in the doorway of our shed, knocking against the wooden doorframe to announce his presence.
I look at him to acknowledge I have noticed him.
He looks back at me with a questioning frown wrinkling his forehead. "What are you doing?"
"Have a look." I motion for him to come over to the desk where I have put up the old and dusty easel with a canvas on it. I've had to quickly rush over to the arts supply store because all the paint and brushes still left in the shed have dried out over the years of not being used.
At first, it had felt strange to paint on canvas again. When I had moved to Chicago after College graduation, I had eventually stopped painting and sculpting altogether, like a teenage habit you abandon when you grow up. Picking up a brush again felt like riding a bicycle after years of absence. You know how to do it, but the first few yards are uncertain and wobbly. A few brushstrokes, however, and I felt at home, comfortable, familiar.
Dad walks over the desk, standing behind me. He looks at the small painting that is almost finished. He places a hand on my shoulder that says more than words. To explain, I tell him, "It's for Joan."
I look up at my father and read the surprise in his eyes. "Are you two speaking again?" He knows the whole dirty story that drove me out of Arcadia.
"No," I admit. "But I hope we will be sooner or later."
He nods, and I sense he's not sure what to say. But there's no need, because I know he hopes for me that I'm right.
"It's beautiful, son," he finally says as he softly pats my shoulder and leaves the shed.
I take the brush and dip it into the mixture of orange and yellow on the palette to put the last finishing touches to the painting. Helen Girardi's face looks up at me from it, her face lit up by a warm smile. I survey it with squinted eyes, something one of the teachers at college taught us to do to get a better overall impression of the image. I am satisfied with it and carefully take it with me into the house on a newspaper page. It will dry faster in the warm rooms than in the cool and damp shed.
--...----...----...--
The nylon bag plops onto the back seat of the taxi with a thud as I throw it in. I'm all packed and ready to leave for the airport. I already said my goodbyes to my father earlier before he left the house. I get into the cab and instruct the driver to go to 2320 Euclid Avenue, shaking a few stray raindrops from my hair with my hand. In my lap, I clutch the picture of Helen Girardi, now framed and wrapped in transparent gift-wrap foil.
I watch the once familiar streets pass by as drops of water slide down the window in long streaks, propelled forward by the airstream. The snow from yesterday has all but melted, only tiny specs of dirty white remain in harbored and untouched corners here and there. As abruptly as the winter magic had come, it has vanished again from one day to the next. The damp cold makes my fingers freeze and I rub them together, wishing the driver would crank up the heat a little.
Too soon for my taste, we arrive in front of the house I have not set eyes on since I don't know when. I am hesitant to get out of the car, but I will have to, since the taxi driver has other customers to attend to. I hand him a few bills and step out into the street. Hesitantly, I approach the front door of the Girardi's rather imposing house, letting my finger hover over the doorbell button for a few seconds.
I finally gather all my resolve and courage and push down on it. I can hear the sound of a two-tone gong reverberating through the much too quiet house. A minute that feels like an hour passes and the door opens to reveal Mr. Girardi, clad in a black and red checkered bathrobe.
I want to open my mouth to say something, but Will Girardi beats me by a split second. "Adam. You've got some nerve showing up here." He makes no attempt to hide the contempt in his voice. "What makes you think you're welcome here?" He might as well have said, 'Get the fuck out!'
"Mr. Girardi, I'm very sorry for your loss," I mumble tonelessly.
"We don't want your condolences," he tells me loudly, abrasively. I hear Kevin's wheelchair approaching, no doubt having been alerted by his father's raised voice. Kevin appears next to his father and a flicker of hatred glitters in his eyes as they fix upon me. To his father, he says in a determined tone, "It's okay, Dad, I'll handle this."
As Will Girardi retreats slowly, Kevin addresses me with no less resentment, "I suggest you get the hell out of here before we call the cops and have you removed."
"Look," I try pleadingly. "I... I need to talk to Joan."
"Do you now?" Kevin asks sarcastically. "And you think she is gonna talk to you?"
"Just for a minute. Please." I try to force some urgency into my voice to not make it sound like I'm standing here like a beggar.
His gaze wanders to the picture I am holding and he recognizes what is on it. He grabs it from me before I can strengthen my hold on it. "And what's this? Man, you're some sick, twisted bastard."
"No!" I cry out as Kevin is about to fling the picture out onto the front porch. His arm, however, is halted by someone else's hand.
"Kevin, don't," I hear Joan saying. She takes the picture from Kevin's hand and I see her eyes quietly shimmering with tears as she studies it.
"I made it yesterday." I dare not look her in the eye as I try to explain, so I stare at my feet. "Your mother was an incredible woman and I wanted you to know that. I... I would like you to keep this." I point at the picture, still not meeting her eyes.
I know that this is all I will get, with Kevin still hovering next to Joan, so I quietly bid my farewell. "Goodbye, Joan. And for what it's worth, I am sorry. For everything."
I turn around and walk away, the nylon bag slung over my shoulder. Tears have formed in my own eyes, but this time I can blink them back into oblivion.
When I have reached the sidewalk in front of the house, I hear Joan's voice calling out my name. "Adam, wait!"
But I walk on as if I'm being drawn away from the house by an invisible force that won't let me stop. She comes running after me, calling my name, and I can only stop when she plants herself in front of me, blocking my way. "Adam, stop."
I do and look her in the eyes—really look into them—for the first time since we broke up and separated eight years ago. What I read in them makes me want to rip out my sorry, unworthy heart and throw it in the gutter for the rats to eat.
"I think we should talk," she says boldly, waiting for my answer.
"What could possibly make you want to talk to me?" Hello and welcome, self-pity, my constant companion.
"Don't you think it's time we talked?" she challenges me.
"I don't know. Maybe." I try to sound indifferent, but don't quite succeed. What I want to say is, 'No, I don't think so.'
"Adam, I'll be right back. Wait here. Please," she begs, and I already know that I don't have any choice but to obey. It is only then that I realize she is still in her pyjamas and wearing only slippers.
"Okay," I whisper. I watch her running back into the house and keep standing in the rain, hardly feeling the cold drops of water dripping from my hair, sliding down my neck into my collar.
--...----...----...--
