Page 102 of Perfect Mess

For a moment, Gary’s face was as dark as the sky in Twisted Oak. “Yeah.”

I was tempted to ask him about her, curious to know what happened between them. But if Gary wanted to talk about it, I decided it would be better to let him bring it up. I had heard enough divorce horror stories from Ralph to understand it was a topic that was usually better left locked away in the dark.

Sensing it would be best to change the subject, I said, “Well, they really are good. I’m surprised you haven’t been doing it longer. Especially since you were already a house painter.”

“Actually, I started painting houses at the same time I started doing these.” Gary rearranged the painting on the front post. “Wright Stuff Painting was my uncle’s business. He let me come on part time when I needed to, well, do something productive. Then last month he retired. So now, well, I guess I’m running his business all on my own.”

Gary, being relatively new to the house painting business, certainly explained a lot. No wonder he felt compelled to express his personal opinions about my choice of color palette. And as an artist, I guess I could see why he might have been captivated by the classic kitsch of Aunt Catherine’s wallpaper. Mr. Wright was getting more and more interesting by the day. “What did you do before you started painting?” I asked.

“I was an architect.”

“You were an architect?” I felt my jaw drop.

“Mary, please. I got a perfect score in AP Calculus. Me being an architect should not be a big surprise.”

Gary was right. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Gary was super smart. Probably a genius. Back in school, he was probably the smartest kid in our class. He could have done anything. I asked the question that had to be asked. “How did you go from being an architect to painting houses?”

“Long story,” Gary deflected.

I looked around the tent. There were no customers. In fact, there hadn’t been a single customer since we finished setting up. The only person even close to the tent was a woman in a Metallica t-shirt walking a chihuahua, and she didn’t seem like the art buying type. “I think we’ve got time.”

Gary could tell I wasn’t going to just let it go without an explanation. He took a deep breath and seemed to brace himself. “When Ann and I first got married, before Kyle was born, I worked for this big architecture firm. They had clients all over the world.” Something about the look on Gary’s face reminded me of the little blue bird from his painting. “I traveled a lot. Australia. Dubai. Bangladesh. Do you know where Bangladesh is?”

“Actually, I do.” I had looked it up.Where Jack learned massage.

“Yeah, well, it’s an eighteen hour flight.”Something definitely happened to that little blue bird.“Once Anne was gone.”Something bad.“I had to be there for Kyle.”Something tragic.

My head felt like a helium balloon that had drifted off into space. I had to blink a few times to make my eyes refocus.

Deftly changing the subject, Gary pointed to the paintings on the display rack. “So you really like my work? You’re not just saying that?”

I pointed to Last Flight. “That one’s my favorite. I really like the colors. Especially how the dark tones blend with the light.” I walked over to get a closer look. “Like these red lines weaving through the bark of the tree. And this splotch of purple between the blacks and the grays.” I pointed to the corner of the canvas. “This bit of yellow here. The sun fighting through the darkness.”

I took a step back so I could take it all in. “You know what I think?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“I think the little blue bird turns out just fine. I think she buckles down, rides out the storm.”

Gary only smiled, not confirming yes or no.

“I think she’s holding on to that hint of sunshine. Holding on to that last glimmer of hope. Last Flight means it’s the last time she feels like she has to run away. Because she learns to overcome the darkness. She doesn’t have to be afraid.” When Gary didn’t answer, I asked, “What do you think?”

“I think you should take it.”

“What, the painting?”

Gary nodded. “I want you to have it. Put it up in your aunt’s house. After all, those gray clouds would go perfectly with the greige.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t. You should sell it. Somebody is going to come along any minute now and snap that one up for sure.”

I followed Gary’s eyes as he looked around the vicinity of his tent. There was no one even looking in our general direction. Except the woman in the Metallica t-shirt, waiting for her chihuahua to poop.

“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Gary said.

I pointed to the tent at the end of the row. “Well, it is hard to compete with the neon unicorn portraits,” I admitted. “Especially the ones where they’re sliding down rainbows.”

Gary cast a sidelong glare at the tent at the far end of the artist’s section, where the neon unicorn artist, a twenty-something year-old with dragon tattoos and nose piercings, wrapped up another sale.

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