She wrapped a blanket around herself in the dim light of her living room. Winter had come early to Cripple Creek, but she had yet to light a fire. It could wait. November was the month the town realized the end was near, but like her, it wanted to wish it away for another few weeks. There were still games to play, streets to walk, gifts of good cheer to give out. When you lit the fires, you accepted the snow, the bitter cold, the death of the year. When you lit the fires, you accepted the inevitable.
It wasn't time, though.
Did they say how long she had to wait?
They didn't, nor did they tell her it would be an experience unlike any other in her long life, a purgatory for the living. They were kind, at first, lifting her up from the depression she'd fallen into, showing her the way to peace, giving her a glimmer of hope in her hour of death. But they said she had to face the past, to accept herself like an alcoholic has to accept addiction, and then to see through different eyes.
What did that mean?
The Artist sat on her couch and looked at the still, dead fireplace. Should she get the firewood from the back, light it now, she thought she might see something in the flames she wasn't ready to see. Fire was a random dance of images, and when you thought you saw a face from the past it would be lapped up again with a burst of sparks. It was almost like memory in that respect: there one instant, gone the next but replaced with some other memory you didn't want to face.
She looked down at her sketchbook, closed on the coffee table in front of her. She knew she should draw something today, sketch something inane like a tree or a mountain or a blade of grass that fruitlessly held onto life even as snow fell around it. That would at least pass the time, but she was determined to sketch people.
They said to wait, and during the wait accept everything, see with different eyes. But whose eyes?
The Artist stood up and walked to a large window. Outside, snow covered the landscape in piles, not quite a blanket. Above it all, the heap-leeched mounds of the Cresson mine gave character to the landscape. Were it not for the mine and the hill it stood on, Pikes Peak would have loomed large, the massive granite edge of the caldera picturesque, bathed in purple and white. When she took time to travel the short distance to Victor to look for subjects or just to get another perspective on the district, she always viewed the mountain as more serene than the eastern edge most people recognized. On the western side, the lines were gentle, the snows heavier. In a strange way, being inside the caldera was more peaceful.
A man walked past on the road below her house. He was younger, but the tattered green checkered flannel shirt he wore and the almost drunken gait he seemed to have spoke of a history that was hard, painful. She smiled, not in pleasantries, but in remembrance. She was like that once, buried inside herself, battling with her mind. She even walked with the alcoholic's gait, a stride that was never consistent. She knew the man, though, knew he was not drunk nor was he high. He was lost and hurt, and although a few people tried to help him, there was nothing that could be done the man couldn't do himself. He had to remember, to accept, to move on.
It was what she had to do.
She wondered what she looked like to other people when she was younger, shortly after she ran away from home and found a group of people to share a bottle of vodka. Did she slur her words, curse at the motion of the ground as she walked, give herself to any man that had an ounce of weed? She knew she did, but how did that look? What did people see when their eyes fell open on her inebriated form? Did they see what Daddy saw in the sketches: worthless trash to bury in the backyard with Mommy?
The Artist stepped away from the window and looked back at her sketchbook. Despite the number of subjects she drew—a daily choice to pass the time, it seemed—she never looked back at her artwork. It was like that bunny, she thought. She felt pride in what she could do, but displaying it on the wall for her Daddy to see made her feel naked. If she displayed these sketches, she would expose herself to the world's criticism. She was good—too good—but the subjects were not material for general consumption, nor, she believed, were they things for her to look at when she felt she might need inspiration for another drawing. Life was inspiration and while it had been her life for years, now it was the lives of other people. Should she show off her artwork—to herself or to others—she would be showing off private things, like a peepshow manager tempting the audience with corruption or debauchery. No, the sketches in the book were to remain buried behind closed covers.
She didn't know if it was true or not, but it's what she believed they wanted her to do, in an unspoken way. The sketches may not help her remember, but perhaps they would help her see with different eyes.
With a huff of exasperation, the Artist picked up her sketchbook and left. It was time to find someone else to draw, someone interesting. As she walked down the steps to her house and crossed the driveway to the street, she thought about what it was that made her pick her subjects. Were they lost like her, broken in their own way, or was there something else that drew her in? They certainly weren't all interesting in their features. Sure, Nathan was both hardened and, she mused, handsome. That immigrant was different, perhaps a standout from the crowd. Maybe that was the reason; they all stood out in some way, like dandelions in a meadow of green.
As she passed the Carr Bed and Breakfast, she looked up at the windows. There was so much history in that building, so much of herself inside those walls, in fact. Ghosts, they said, wandered the rooms that were once classrooms full of students at a high school she once attended. How quaint the place still had blackboards in every room so the tenants could write their names. Did they ever stop to think of how many names on those blackboards were dead or criminals or suffering in ways they couldn't possibly imagine? Did they wonder about the Carols or Bobs or Isadores or Franks that slept in the same room they did? Did they see the blackboards as nothing more than a guest register or did they really think about what they represented?
For the Artist, the world was a place of history. People were books to read, chapter by chapter. Towns were libraries where one chapter contained the hearts of five or ten or a hundred other people whose own chapters contained their peers. Cities were full of libraries and in those cities, people were loaned to other libraries, infesting the chapters of other people who may never have known them. If she looked at those people as books, those towns as libraries, she could read what it was they had to say . . . if, indeed, they said anything.
What did those chapters say of her life? Had anyone ever pulled back her cover and read her story?
The Artist turned the corner onto Bennett Avenue and walked to her favorite bench across from the Spanish Mustang. There were a few people meandering about in the November chill, bundled up in thick jackets, holding coffee or cocoa, looking for the next casino to spend their money in. Mid-morning was magical on Bennett Avenue. The sun was over the hills, and the red brick façades of each ancient block exploded in vibrant colors. She loved the view, the glint off the second-story windows, the quiet of people still pushing hangovers or sleep from their bodies.
Except for that one, the man with the look of concentration on his face, like every step was dangerous. Dan Chappose pushed around a corner by the Brass Ass casino and stopped. He regarded a passerby with interest then looked up at the black and red art deco of the second story. He might have swooned at the architecture or he might have been too drunk to be aware that movements of his head like that were not wise. The Artist couldn't tell, but she assumed it wasn't admiration for the décor.
Slowly, she pulled the pencil from the spine of her sketchbook.
Dandelions in a meadow, she thought. They're all just dandelions.