“Will you come find me?” Grace said.
“I won’t have to. We’ll walk out of this place together. And we won’t leave each other’s side. Because no one will realize. No one will know like we know.”
“They’ll think they do, Patch. They’ll think they can imagine it. And they’ll tilt their heads to one side in sympathy. They’ll make us see shrinks who’ve sat in fancy libraries in fancy universities and read stories like ours. They’ll reference Charcot and Freud, and William James and Pierre Janet. They’ll read the same books I do. And they’ll draw the same conclusions. Eventually.”
He took her hand. “What conclusions?”
“That people like us exist in a state of crisis. That it will be a miracle if we die of natural causes. We’ll turn to drink or drugs, and we won’t form close relationships because we’ll keep too much from others.”
“We don’t need anyone else,” he said.
“We do. You just don’t realize it yet. Unhealthy pursuits. We’ll exist at the extremes because the middle is where the healthy pass their time.”
“Will we be okay?” he asked, and could not stop the words from leaving his lips.
“Not one part of us.”
The memory veered him from a light sleep.
His stomach was hollow. Exhaustion cloaked him. He knew he could not keep it going much longer. Something vital would break.
He used his key and pushed the door and half expected the call of an alarm. Sammy lived in the apartment above, and Patch was light enough on his feet.
In the back room he turned on a small lamp and saw the restored industrial storage locker and inside found the oils and brushes, and in the center of the room was the easel, and a canvas lying in wait.
He spent an hour growing familiar.
He wore logger boots because though they were two sizes too large, they were close to new. He stuffed the toes with newspaper to cut the slip, and wrapped both heels with cotton to stave off the blistering. The day before he had walked eleven fruitless miles through Ellis County to a trailer park because he read it did not have power nor telephone lines and he figured they ought to know a girl was missing out there.
A light dew clung to the glass as he found a flat pencil and began to sketch. The paper was thick, and he felt each mark forge. His hand shook as he clutched the brush.
“Hold from the end.”
Sammy stood in last night’s suit and shirt and tie and watched him but said nothing more.
An hour later Patch saw a woman pass and linger at the door before stepping into the street where she threw a longing glance at the upstairs balcony before leaving.
“Was that the Sampson widow?” Patch asked as Sammy descended.
“I heard a rumor she fucked her last husband to death,” Sammy said, shirtless and barefoot. He carried a wine bottle, green against his tanned skin.
“Was it true?”
“Well, I’m still here, aren’t I? If I’m honest I’m a little disappointed.”
“I think most of the town is.”
Patch had painted eight strokes in browns and reds. Her hair burnt. He thinned with acetone and circled Grace’s eyes. He darkened the soft lines with ochre, titanium white over before he momentarily lost her.
He turned and paced before blocking the window with sheeting he found in a small closet. Only when the dark was total did he stop and find her again.
He heard the door open and then close, and when he finally pulled the sheet down and went back to work he noticed a small cup of coffee on the floor. He drank it down and his heart raced for the next two hours.
At the window he saw the steel fire escape from the building beside, the ironwork chewed with rust, and he took that color and made her hair.
He used the paint too sparingly.
He knew it was madness.
All of it madness.
He cursed.
“Patience,” Sammy said from the doorway.
“I don’t have the time for it.”