Page 101 of Perfect Mess

“Would you mind helping me unload these bins?” Gary pointed to a stack of large plastic containers.

“Sure.” When Gary suggested we meet up at the farmer’s market, he had been a bit sketchy about the details. All I knew for sure was that I was there to “help out.”

Gary opened the top bin and pulled out a piece of painted canvas. “Here,” Gary said, handing me one of his paintings. “Put this one in the front. There should already be hooks for hanging.”

I took the painting from him and made my way to the front of the tent. “To the left or to the right?” I asked. The two support posts that held up the front of the tent were filled with tiny holes to adjust the height of the legs. There were hooks in the top and middle holes, just big enough to fit into the clasps on the back of the frames.

“Left,” said Gary. “Wait, which one is that again?”

I turned the painting around so it was facing me, and for the first time, got a good look at Gary’s handiwork. “It’s a tree,” I said.

“What kind of tree?”

“I don’t know. A green and brown one. With branches. And leaves.” When Gary cocked his eyebrow, I said, “Sorry, I’m not a professional arborist.” I turned the painting around so Gary could decide what kind of tree it was for himself.

“Twisted Oak,” Gary said. “Put that one on the right.” Then he turned around and rummaged through the bin for another painting.

As I hung Twisted Oak on the middle hook of the right post, I had to admit that Gary’s painting wasn’t half bad. It was actually kind of good. The tree, an oak tree, I presumed, rose from a windswept hill, branches twisting and turning in every direction. A blackening sky loomed overhead. In the shadows of a swatch of dappled sun, yellow daisies poked up through the weeds. There was a certain darkness to the painting. But also beauty. And hope.

We spent the next thirty minutes arranging Gary’s artwork all over the tent. The pieces that weren’t framed sat in bins so passersby could sort through them at their leisure. But in the whole time we were setting up, there were no passersby.

As Gary hung a painting of a cypress tree dripping with Spanish moss, I took a moment to admire another piece he had set up by the cash box on the table. It also showed what I assumed was an oak tree, limbs reaching out and curling in on themselves like an animal’s talons. Like the Twisted Oak painting, a coming storm clouded the sky in this one. Nestled in one branch, a patchwork of twigs and thatch cradled a tiny blue bird, its feathers ruffled in the breeze.

I was so lost in the colors and the textures I didn’t realize that Gary was looking over my shoulder, standing close.

“That one’s called Last Flight,” he said.

“Sounds ominous.”

Gary shrugged. “It’s just a name.”

“But nothing happens to the bird, right?”

Gary’s eyebrow quivered. And a small smirk curled his lips.

“Something happens to the bird, doesn’t it?”

“Mary, it’s only a painting.”

“Yes, well, maybe you need to work on your picture naming.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Gary followed me as I strolled through the tent, looking at his other artwork. It was mostly landscapes. A quiet river snaking through a leafless forest. A snowcapped mountain melting in the morning sun. More trees. Lots of trees. Splintered branches. Hollowed trunks. Yellowed leaves.

“You know, some of these are pretty good. A little dark. But good.”

“Some of them?”

“Well, they’re all good. But a couple of them, I don’t know.” I struggled to find the right words. “It’s like they’re saying something.”

I guess I had found the right words because Gary smiled. “Thanks.”

“How long have you been painting?” I pointed to Last Flight. “Painting artwork, I mean. Not houses.”

“A few years,” Gary answered.

I did the math and made an educated guess. “After Anne was gone.”

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