This morning Guzman woke up a little eager to get the day started. The clock on the bedside table read 4:16 AM when he finally decided he couldn't lay there anymore. As much as he enjoyed feeling their skin on his he was overheating and his mind was far too busy. The long-johns, the jeans, and the sweater came on first. Then he doubled up on socks, laced into his tall boots, and pulled some gloves over his shaking fingers. Finally the puffy jacket zipped over his tight torso and he felt ready.
He ventures through the breezeway running his hands along the fake tree branches of a plastic evergreen or two and finds his way into the kitchen. There's a soft hum coming from the air vents above the stove and next to the sink, on his left, is a door leading into the garage. He switches the lock and and pushes the wood into the frame to step inside.
It's colder here but he's comfortable so he shuffles through gathering the items he will need for his decided project. A small garden shovel, a box of old fabric labeled 'donation', a bucket, and a heavy rolling paint brush. The pass-code given to him by his foster guardian kendall works on the door and he's stepping out into the chill of the early dark morning.
He begins his work. As he shovels snow into the bucket and crystallizes it with salt he's going over some memories in his mind. He didn't have the best parents in the world. As much as he hated to admit it his father was a thief and while that thief left him a lot of money in his bank account for when he turns eighteen he's very aware he doesn't deserve it. His mother, may she rest in peace, was an absolutely cross woman. She embodied her hatred in her subliminal acts of narcissism.
He' remembering all the cruel, outlandish things she'd said or done to him and Marina (his sister) as time goes along. With every mold here and every chizle there he crafts and thinks about the words, the moments, the stern unbending gazes of this woman who had so much control over them. Then he's stumbling with a mess of powder in his hands as he recalls the bullet going into her face that night at Las Encinas.
He sits for a bit. Feels the wet soaking through his clothes. Then, when he has enough strength, he looks up at what he's made. It's not a snowman. It's a snow sculpture. A trick he learned on trips to the arctic with his family. He'd been very good at the art within it all and never told anyone. This skill had always been preserved for just him. While everyone was out skiing or drinking down at the lodge he was with Harper Fink learning from a wacky american woman who's eclecticism outweighed his ability to objectify women. She'd always been very impressed with his work but he's wondering what she would think now.
"Is this your sister?" The voice behind him gave him a start.
He turned to see professor Knight all bundled up and wearing a face of concern. After he collected himself he was able to take in the reality of the moment. The sun was just beginning to come up, Kendall was offering him a cup of hot tea, and the streetlights had gone out.
He nods, "Yeah. What do you think?"
"You're talents are impeccable. I might could get you a scholarship to NYADA if you're interested. I know some people." He's kind, genuine, this is strange for Guzman. Perhaps there's something beneath the surface professor Knight isn't sharing with him.
"Are you worried about your husband?" He asks as he takes the mug into his gloved hands. Immediately the warmth floods him. Just holding the tea brings the warmth back into his fingers.
Kendall nods, "Of course. Still, he's a grown man. He can handle his own. My main concern right now is you and those boys in there. How are you?"
"I'm making it... It's the other two I'm worried about. Polo's been chasing so many ghosts I fear he's becoming one and Ander's symptoms seem to be manifesting as something the doctors can't explain." The two of them look upon the sculpture as they ponder this.
With a deep invigorating sigh Kendall says, "Maybe there's something missing."
"In our lives or in the sculpture." Guzman asks.
"You adopted four dogs yesterday." Kendall smirks, "Was that an impulse buy or something else?"
They look out at the lab mutts running around in the snow yipping at one another and burrowing with more energy and enthusiasm than either of the two gentleman could ever muster up. So young and care free. Just happy to be somewhere.
Guzman shrugs as he begins walking around the sculpture, "I just wanted to lift morale. They were unwanted and I felt like they needed us as much as we needed them."
"Dr. Mitchell tells me there's a new fellow at the hospital. A survivor from the shooting. Perhaps you could talk to him and ease your mind." Kendall offers up.
Then there's a revelation upon Guzman's face, "She wore a choker."
The puppies run over Kendall's feet and he bends down to pick something up out of the snow. The dopey pups brown collar is thin and light in his hand. With a shrug of his shoulders he hands it over to Guzman.
"Something tells me he won't run off too far. The four of them are a package deal." Kendall's smile is warm.
Guzman hands his half empty mug back and wraps the collar around the sculpture's neck. It looks completed. It feels completed.
Professor Knight pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of the artist with his master piece and sends it to a couple of friends. It really is something to behold.