All the Colors of the Dark — Chapter 91

91

Saint spent the next week placing calls and dragging her grandmother to faraway towns. From Camden County to Dade, Jasper to Ozark, she asked and harangued and outright begged until a couple of local news reporters agreed to come see the pirate kid who painted the life of a girl who might never have existed. For those on the fence she used the library machine to fax over copies of the prints, and so taken were they with his talent they agreed to run something.

In the small office of the Monta Clare Tribune Saint sat in front of reporter Daisy Creason, who kicked her feet up onto the desk and chewed

on a pencil as she looked at the print.

“This is the girl?” Daisy said.

“I mean, it might be.”

Daisy furrowed her brow.

“If you run it, I’ll get the pirate kid to quit bothering you,” Saint lied.

Daisy nodded quickly in agreement.

On the fateful night Saint arrived an hour early and saw Patch through the window sweeping the floor as Misty hung lantern lights from a makeshift bar that Sammy propped up. The works hung on each wall, a half dozen in number, no variation in their brilliance.

Saint waited the hour in the churchyard and when Norma finally made the slow walk up she met her at the gate and the two walked in together.

“Is his mother coming?” Norma said.

Sammy stared into his brandy. “No point anyone coming. The idiot’s decided he won’t sell any of them. And I’ve got a guy heading in from the city.”

Saint hid at the dark end of the gallery as it began to fill with locals, a couple of reporters and city folk she did not recognize. Misty’s parents held center, for that night content that their daughter had selected such a promising artist to court.

She did not notice Jimmy Walters until she smelled the cologne, light and fresh.

“I have a ferret,” he said, by way of an opener.

“And I suppose you want to introduce it to my beaver.”

Jimmy blushed but managed to add a laugh. He wore a satin shirt that clung to his chest. Saint sometimes saw him running by the old railroad.

He cleared his throat. “The ferret’s heart beats two hundred and fifty times each minute.”

Judging by the shake in his voice and the dark patches beneath each arm, Saint guessed Jimmy’s was an even match.

Sometimes she allowed him to walk with her when she headed into the woodland with her camera. He mostly knew to stay silent, though she felt his eagerness like a constriction, his need to be something that she would notice. She did not know why he cared, why he saw something in her that

she herself knew was not there.

“Saint,” he said.

She turned back.

“I know you don’t look at me like you do Patch. But I’m here asking you to prom, and he isn’t.” Jimmy smiled again and went back to join his mother, who stared at Callie Montrose.

Saint glanced around for him, then saw the back door open and found Patch sitting alone on the terrace, the night sky washed with stars so bright

they filled their own canvas.

“You’re famous now.”

He looked up and smiled for the first time that evening. “Hey, Saint.”

“Hey, kid.”

He stood and for a moment she thought he was going to hug her, but he

stayed back by the railing.

“Sammy is pissed with me.”

“He’s a drunkard idiot.”

“How have you been, Saint?”

She tucked her hair behind her ear. She had worn a retainer for eighteen long months, and when she smiled he did not notice her tooth had straightened. She was still small, her face told she might have been far younger, the freckles still crossed her nose though she wore lighter frames

now.

“I’ve been…I’ve been here.”

He smiled. She tried not to feel it in the pit of her stomach, in the ache

of her chest.

“You work in a mine.”

“I can’t sell the paintings.”

Saint looked to the sky. “The more people that see what you see…you hang them here or maybe you send them on their way, maybe they end up on the right wall at the right time and something happens.”

Patch looked out across the lights of Monta Clare. “It’s not real, is it?

This can’t be my life, Saint.”

Saint looked back in through the window, where Misty stood in conversation, though her eyes scanned the room for him. “You got the girl though, Patch.”

“Some nights I lie in the dark and I can’t find her anymore.”

She wanted to tell him she still searched. That when she looked at him

she knew she would never give up.

“Is my mother inside?”

“Could be. There’s so many people, you know?”

He saw through it. Smiled.

“You think I should sell my paintings?” he said.

“Maybe you put some of her life out there. And see what comes back.”

Inside Patch found Sammy at the bar and words were exchanged.

Saint found Norma standing alone before the painting of the white house. “It’s so beautiful,” Norma said.

Sammy introduced Patch to a lady named Aileen who had stood staring at the street scene, Grace’s Main Street, for near an hour. She told him it

was a thing of beauty, that it would hang in her husband’s office, like a window to someplace nicer. Sammy told her a price and she shook his hand lightly and thanked him kindly and reached for her checkbook. His very first sale.

Saint stepped out for a moment and saw Dr. Tooms across the street.

“You coming in?”

He smiled, shook his head. “He’s doing all right?” Tooms strained his

eyes to make out Patch among the crowd.

“He’s still looking for the girl.”

He turned.

“Dr. Tooms. I’m sorry. For what I did.”

“You were looking out for your friend.”

“I was. But I’m still sorry.”

“The girl in the painting. Grace. I hope he finds her. She deserves to be

found.”

“They all do,” Saint said.

She turned and saw he watched the Callie Montrose painting.

“Beautiful,” Saint said, though when she turned back he had gone, up the street, toward the church.

Saint spent a long time moving from piece to piece with Norma clutching her arm. Once again she stopped by the white house, rooted to the spot.

“It’s like where my mother grew up. In that photograph you have,” Saint

said.

“A damn sight grander.”

“But still, it reminds me of her.”

“You did a good thing for that boy, Saint.”

An hour later all but a couple of paintings carried a small red sticker.

Patch stood guard over Grace Number One, and though a man from St.

Louis offered a decent sum, and Sammy cussed something awful, Patch would not sell her.

Another hour and the booze ran low. Nix showed late and stared at Callie Montrose.

“How much?” he said.

“No price. Says she’s not his to sell,” Sammy said.

Nix smiled at that, tipped his hat to Patch and headed out.

“I’ll pay you back,” Saint said, smiling widely.

“You never ask for anything,” Norma said.

“I once asked for bees, Grandma.” Saint kissed Norma’s cheek and hugged her tightly.

The next day they would take delivery of a single painting.

Saint would hang the white house above her piano and watch it as she played.

Outside she found Sammy lighting a cigar.

“He’s brilliant,” Saint said.

Sammy stared at Grace Number One through the glass. “He isn’t, not yet. Too many touch-ups. The boy doesn’t know when to let go.”

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