Page 19 of Clear Path

He walked back through the lobby, let himself out, and locked the door behind him. He was grateful to Rory and genuinely wanted to help her get eyeballs on her new exhibition. He hoped that the plan they’d cooked up earlier in the morning would do just that.

As he started the short walk to his cottage situated off the trail before it reached Union Hill, he thought back over their conversation.

She’d begun by explaining that the show in Pittsburgh had been abruptly canceled. “Over creative differences,” she’d said. But the tightness around her mouth and the set of her slim shoulders suggested the differences had perhaps been more personal than artistic.

Evan didn’t pry. The reason was immaterial—whatever had precipitated it, the exhibit had been summarily canceled on short notice. And Rory was scrambling to find a new location to host the installation. Despite his reserve, after a moment, the ugly truth behind the cancellation spilled out of her.

He could have suggested the art school at the college where he taught. Or another history center or museum in the region. Even a church fellowship hall or a library. He knew people. Hehad colleagues and friends who worked at all these places and more. One of them, he imagined, would have been happy to provide Rory with a space.

But he didn’t mention any of them. It was clear to Evan that she needed more than a location—she needed an event. He’d crossed his legs at the ankles and rocked back in his chair. It was his thinking pose. She’d waited patiently until he sprang forward again.

“We need to borrow a page from protest art,” he declared.

“Protest art? It’s not really a protest. Yes, it’s social commentary, but?—”

“—Fine then, activist art,” he amended, warming to the subject. “From what you’ve told me aboutPush/Pullit goes beyond what the work you’ve done inVanishing Coal Country.You’ve not only recorded the stories you’re telling, you’re not only asking the viewer to feel something, to consider a point of view, you’re taking a stance. Aren’t you?”

He watched her consider the question. Finally, slowly, she said, “I suppose I am. I’m not simply presenting the situation. I’m, well, I’m making a judgment.”

She looked slightly queasy at this realization. He hurried to assure her, “It’s perfectly acceptable to stake out a position, Rory.”

“I guess. But I’m not one of the people being displaced. I don’t want to be predatory or to use them in some way.” She struggled to articulate her concern.

“Ah, but haven’t you been displaced? Otherwise, you’d be hanging your photos in the Hot Metal gallery.”

Once she’d seen the righteousness of her position, the idea to make a splash through a guerrilla art installation had seemed natural, almost inevitable. And he was more than happy to help her make it a reality.

He reached his front door, slightly winded from his brisk pace, and turned the key in the lock. He stepped inside, switched on the lamp, and stooped to pet Kathleen Guinan. The tuxedo cat wound herself around Evan’s ankle, rubbing her head on Evan’s shin and purring loudly.

“Ready for dinner?” he asked the cat, who responded by running to the pantry where her kibble was stored.

After feeding Kathleen Guinan and then himself, Evan went to bed early with a snifter of brandy and a well-worn copy ofHomelessness in America: A Forced March to Nowhere. Tomorrow would be a long and busy day. He’d be wise to get a good night’s sleep.

11

GAP Mile 104.7, Clarksville, PA

As Bodhi reached the Clarksville trailhead, a burly, barrel-chested man rose from a metal bench and took a pull from a vape pen. His beard was gray and neatly trimmed, and his substantial belly strained against a t-shirt featuring an anthropomorphic hamburger with an improbably wide grin.

“You Doctor King?” the man called when Bodhi was still twenty paces away.

“Bodhi’s fine,” he replied, closing the distance between them. His eyes flicked to the hamburger logo and the words “Billy’s Burgers” emblazoned beneath it. “I’m guessing you’re Billy.”

The man’s smile was even wider than that of the cartoon hamburger on his shirt. “I go by Will, but Billy’s Burgers has a better ring to it, marketing-wise. Alliteration.” He extended a beefy hand, which Bodhi shook. “Aunt Dot called ahead. She told me to fix you a meatless meal and put you up for the night.”

“That sounds like Dot.” Bodhi laughed as he shifted his pack slightly to relieve the pressure on his shoulders.

“She’s not really my aunt, but don’t tell her I said that.” Will jerked his thumb toward a red sedan parked behind him. “Figured I’d save you the extra mile of walking into town. Hope that’s okay.”

“I appreciate it.”

As Will drove, Bodhi lowered the passenger window and studied the town rolling by. In contrast to Clayton Falls’ picture-perfect town square, Clarksville appeared to have missed the revitalization train entirely. They passed one boarded-up storefront after another, their faded signs nothing more than obituaries for long-dead establishment. Only a handful of businesses showed signs of life: a grocery store; a vape shop; and a tavern called The Last Stop, its neon beer signs blinking in the late afternoon sun.

“Not much to see,” Will commented, seeming to read Bodhi’s thoughts. “Used to be different. Had three factories running at once—glass, steel fabrication, and railroad parts. Last one closed in ’08.” He navigated around a pothole large enough to swallow the sedan’s front tire. “The trail brings through tons of cyclists and hikers like you, but they don’t stop here. Why would they when they could stay someplace like Clinton Falls or Union Hill?”

“Places with more amenities,” Bodhi observed.

Will grunted his agreement. “The town’s tried to get grants, attract investors, lure developers with tax breaks. Nobody bites.” He turned down a narrow road that led away from the main strip. “My place is just up ahead, on the lake.”

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