Page 22 of Fair Catch
Art had been my passion ever since I could remember. Where Gavin had obsessed over sports growing up, I’d harassed Mom and Dad to take me to every museum in our city and any we visited, too. I loved soccer, of course, and enjoyed messing around on the football field with Gavin when he played on Little League teams. But for me, there was nothing like spending an afternoon in a museum.
When I was little, I’m sure it was just joy from looking at pretty things, from sculptures and paintings that made my imagination run wild. But as I grew older, I learned to truly appreciate it. I could distinguish where a piece was from before I even read a plaque, and could narrow down to what time period if I looked long enough. I started understanding what made a painting modern versus abstract or impressionism versus expressionism. I found I could easily detect a Monet, or a Picasso, or a Van Gogh. And as I grew up, I felt the urge to decorate my room and our entire house with those aesthetics in mind, with art being the first and foremost thought.
The space above my headboard was perfect for the painting I held in my hands — the mosaic of tiny squares making up a larger image of ducks and other birds frolicking in the Charles River. I climbed up onto the mattress with a nail between my teeth, hammer tucked under one arm and painting laid safe and secure at the foot of the bed. Once I had the nail in place, I hung the painting, using a small leveler to ensure it was straight.
“Need help with that?”
Zeke’s voice surprised me, and I jumped, nearly knocking the painting off the wall before I steadied myself and the frame.
I blew out a breathy laugh at myself.
“I’m good,” I said without turning around, and I sat back on my heels, tilting my head to one side as I took in the painting.
“You sure? I can reach higher than you, you know. And there’s no stepladder around here.”
I turned to find Zeke holding a Dalí print I’d begged Dad to buy me when we visited the museum in Tampa, and I blanched, hastily crawling off the bed and ripping it from his hands.
“Don’t touch my things.”
He arched a brow, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I was just looking. Not my fault you’re hiding freaky paintings in a box under your bed.”
My eyes turned to slits. “It’s not freaky. It’s surrealist. It’s meant to be unnerving.”
Zeke’s eyes slipped to the print in my hands, and they widened at the headless woman with a white, nearly transparent dress hugging her ample curves. Next to her stood a ghastly figure of a man holding a long stick, and the woman held a string tied to a third dismantled figure, all of them set in a scene of barren wasteland with haunting rocks and sand and gray sky.
“It succeeded.”
I couldn’t help but smile at that, and maybe it was the exhaustion from the week, or the pre-game jitters, or the fact that I was touching art again, but my shoulders relaxed, and I handed it back to him.
“It’s called Enchanted Beach. Believe it or not, this was actually one of his more controlled and balanced pieces.” I nodded toward the white wall above my desk. “Can you hang it there for me?”
“Wow, you’re actually going to let me help?”
“Don’t make me regret it,” I said, shoving the hammer into his chest.
Zeke was quiet while he hung the frame, and I watched him every step of the way, making sure he took the same care with making it perfect as I did. Something foreign tugged at my chest, like a string wrapped around a rib that I’d completely forgotten about until I felt the pull.
A flash of Zeke as a kid hit me, his wide and bright smile, his laugh. I remembered for just a breath what it was like to be carefree, to be a little girl with a crush on my brother’s best friend.
But the feeling slipped as quickly as it had come.
When I’d ensured Zeke had leveled the frame appropriately, I dug under my bed to pull out the biggest piece I had, one covered with a thick blanket. I unveiled it and gave a happy sigh.
It was street art, but on a canvas, bright neon colors dancing across the white background. Up close, it might only look like paint splatters, but as the viewer backed up, a whole slew of enigmatic images could be seen — a seductive woman with lush lips of roses, tree branches for her hair, a waterfall for her neck. The earth spread out around her, and above her, an endless starry night.
“That’s beautiful,” Zeke remarked.
“It was painted by a homeless man in Dorchester,” I said, hanging my hands on my hips and looking around the room. “John Blackman.”
