Page 137 of Painting Celia

A dumpster.

If Celia didn’t like it, he’d haul the thing away himself. And what proof for Hector’s grandmother! Art beautifying her community!

Hector offered León a pair of latex gloves, but he shook his head.

“This one’s all you, mano. Do your stuff, then we’ll get the women here to see.”

Hector began spraying on preliminary shapes, large scallops and circles. León pulled up a box near the alley fence and sat to enjoy the show. It wasn’t his style, it wasn’t his work, but it was still paint.

•••

Kelsey came in to finalize the social media calendar. She’d given notice at La Creche last week, newly installed as Incubadora’s official promotions manager. The salary was competitive, a considerable bump up from retail stylist. Celia was just glad Kelsey had accepted without feeling weird about it.

They lined up colored sticky notes across the front desk, debating which posts should go out before others. The first would go live tonight, promoting the grand opening.

Celia leaned on the counter, but Kelsey sat to discuss the posts from memory, leaning back in the office chair, feet up on a box. Her belly was roundly noticeable as she approached five months pregnant.

“Why didn’t—” Celia started.

The front door whipped open as León bounded in, and her heart skipped a beat. Would that reaction never stop?

Kelsey didn’t even look up at the sound. “I can’t believe you didn’t know,” she said, eyes closed. “They’ve been off fishing for two weeks. Didn’t you notice how quiet the group chat was?”

León broke in, impatient. “Celia, can you come out and look at something?”

•••

León held his breath as he watched her reaction, heart thumping hard.

Celia’s dumpster had been transformed, lively and vibrant. She stood solemnly, reading the story on it. At the bottom writhed a mass of dark green vines. Out of it, a bridge rose, soaring on recurring white arches like wings, flying to the top right where colorful flowers bloomed. The freehand wasn’t precise, obviously made swiftly with few paint colors. But the swirls and arcs were graceful, the colors harmonious.

“A white bridge,” she said.

León sucked in a breath, his stomach sinking. Damn. How had he forgotten her thing about bridges? But she didn’t get that lost look in her eyes; instead she turned a glowing smile on Hector.

“It’s beautiful.”

Hector stood taller, his slim shoulders straightening eagerly. “It’s the new bridge, sixth street.”

“Ya llegué, Hector.”

All turned to see Hector’s grandmother at the mouth of the alley, round in her bundled coat and a flowered plastic hood over her hair. Her grandson tripped to her side, their conversation quiet. Hector gestured in earnest, forearms colorful with overspray, his grandmother slowly shaking her head.

Celia watched wistfully, the lines of her body slowly drawing tighter. León felt his own body tense in response, his palms sweating. She wanted this. Let it happen. Let him see her happy again.

Hector led his grandmother closer, describing the swirls of color with hands and voice. She stopped some feet from the transformed dumpster.

“Pretty,” she said, then looked at Celia. “What Hector says, it’s true?”

Celia clasped her hands at her chest, eyes hopeful. “We have space here, a place to live. Free. So he can make more art like this.”

León bounced on the balls of his feet. “Hector has talent! This could be the start of his career.”

“There are teachers here,” Hector added. “And León made thousands of dollars selling paintings.”

“Imagine these streets, alive with Hector’s murals,” León said.

Hector’s grandmother looked at each of them in turn, then slowly nodded. “Vale. Okay,” she said. The intake of breath from all of them was audible. “But he comes back for dinner on Sundays.”

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