Harder (Caroline & West #2)(86)

I don’t know if what I want to make would come out beautiful, but f*ck, I’ve got things I want to try just for the sake of trying it, glass I want to melt and metal I want to cut up and this idea I had for if you could take a tree and cut it into slices and suspend them, somehow, vertically, so you could see what the tree looked like when it was alive the same time you could see inside the tree and read the story of its life.

I don’t know if that’s art.

I guess it is if I say it is. If it makes people feel or think when they look at it.

I don’t know if it would be good art. Could be it’s just playing. But giving myself a chance to figure it out—that’s what I want.

That’s what I want for me, and that’s what I want for Frankie, too—to be able to see me doing that, so she knows it’s okay if she wants to do it herself.

I’m starting to see that if I get what I need, Frankie’s going to get what she needs, too. That what’s good for me and what’s good for Caroline is what’s good for my sister.

“Where’d Rikki go?” I ask.

“Back to her office,” Annie says.

I check the clock and I’m surprised to see it’s seventy-five minutes since I got here. I was supposed to be stopping for a minute. I’ve got to get dinner sorted out. But it’s late enough now that Caroline’s probably fed Frankie.

“I’d better head out,” I say. “Thanks for showing me this stuff.”

“You want to grab dinner?” Raffe asks. “Annie and I were going to go into town for subs.”

“Thanks, but I can’t.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I’m reminded of that day with Krishna, when he came up to me outside the art building and harassed me into coming over for dinner.

He’s back in Chicago for the break.

I think tonight I’ll give him a call.

“Would you guys want to come out to my place?” I ask. “Not tonight, because I don’t know what Caroline’s got going on, but I don’t know, tomorrow? Day after? I have to warn you I’ve got a kid sister living with me, so if you’re not into kids …”

I trail off.

I guess what I’m saying is, I’ve got some baggage. I live off-campus with my girlfriend and my little sister. I don’t really know how to have friends, and I can be a grouchy f*cker if things aren’t going my way, but I’d like to talk about art with you. Both of you.

It takes a year, waiting for their reply, and I age a decade.

“Kids are good,” Annie says.

“Is there anything we should bring?” Raffe asks.

It’s that easy.

Just that f*cking easy.





Caroline


Spring comes late in Iowa, but that year was an exception. The December snow gave way to a frozen January, clear and blue, everything crystalline and sparkling.

West’s eyes under that sky were all fire and ice.

His hands were cold when they moved beneath my jacket over warm skin, and I would shriek, but I loved the shock of it.

The shock of having him. Keeping him.

How that could become normal–how it could fall into a rhythm of busy days and familiar nights, but still surprise me into gratitude over and over again.

February was projects and papers, phone calls and television interviews. It was waking up early to drive to the Quad Cities for hair and makeup so I could film something for the morning news. Seeing my name in the Des Moines Register, sitting in a hotel conference room and answering questions for eight state senators, none of whom implied I was a slut.

All of whom shook my hand and thanked me for my service to the citizens of Iowa.

February was reading about nonprofits, political action groups, and campus organizations. Talking to activists. Thinking about guest speakers.

Planning for a future with no walls on any horizon.

February was Frankie making friends with a girl named Nadine and bringing her home to play once, then a second time, then as many nights as the two of them could get away with it.

It was Quinn back from Florence and me making time to see all her pictures and hear about her Italian escapades.

It was me making time for Bridget, too, to listen to how things were going with Krishna and give her advice she didn’t need because actually, it turned out, things were going pretty well.

It was the beginning of art therapy for Frankie, her nightmares easing up, my insomnia getting a little bit less intense.

February was West at the studio or out in Laurie’s shop. West talking about Raffe and Annie, West telling me what he was making, what he would try next, what he’d failed at but he had an idea, he had another idea, he had a new idea.

I gained ten pounds in February.

Then it was March, and it rained so much that the world turned brown and squelching. The snow melted away. The rug inside the front door developed a crust of mud. We had to leave our shoes on garbage bags to keep flakes of dirt from falling off us everywhere we walked.

Spring break marked a year since West left Putnam for Oregon. We gave Frankie over to the Collinses and drove to Iowa City for dinner, just the two of us. Appetizers and main courses and dessert over a flickering candle, plates passed back and forth across the table, more to talk about than we could ever say.

I laughed a lot at that dinner, because my life was so full it spilled over. West pulled me close in the truck, kissed me with the rain pounding onto the roof and the windows until I was breathless and laughing all over again.