Via Dolorosa(6)
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Wonder if it’ll affect the cicadas.”
“Wouldn’t know.”
“Ever seen them? I never have. Sort of curious.”
“Never seen them,” Nick said.
“They’re supposed to be enormous. That they come out and swarm all over everything. Kill the trees, lay eggs in the bark…”
“Wouldn’t know.”
“So how much longer will you be here, Lieutenant?”
“Until I’m finished,” Nick told him.
“Will it take you long to finish now?”
“I don’t know. I can never really tell until it’s nearly done.”
“Every morning I look at it, and then I look again every night when I close this place down to see what you’ve added to it throughout each day. Past few days it hasn’t changed much. I just figured you might be done. Are you finished with the sketching part?”
“With the sketching part,” Nick said. “Yeah, I think so.”
“It’s really damn impressive. I mean, I’m no artist, you know, but it’s certainly something to see. You have a talent.”
“Thank you.”
“So will you start painting it soon, do you think?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Unless my lousy goddamn hand refuses to cooperate.”
“Is it giving you trouble?” the bartender said, but would not look at the hand.
“It’s all right for now. Sometimes it aches and goes stupid and useless on me, but right now, sitting here, the damn thing is fine. It’s working with it that’s the tough part. And, really, the sketching is the hardest part. It’s the fine details that make the hand weak.” It certainly was the fine details, Nick understood, although he was new in understanding all of it. The mural was the first thing he’d attempted to paint since coming back from Iraq.
“Well, the sketch looks really damn good, Lieutenant.”
“I’m not so happy with it.”
“Seriously?”
“It lacks nuance.”
“Oh,” said the bartender.
“You know anything about nuance?”
“Not in paintings,” the bartender admitted. “No.”
“Nuance,” Nick explained, “is what makes it all real and worthwhile. It’s the details. It’s the things we incorporate that you need to see and experience firsthand to even know they exist in order to recreate them and give them a sense of honesty.”
“Hell, I’m sure there’s nuance, Lieutenant.”
“I’m not so sure,” Nick said. “And can we quash the lieutenant business?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. D’Nofrio.”
“My name is Nick. You’re just about the same age as me, Roger, for Christ’s sake.”
“All right,” the bartender said, then added, “Nick.”
“Forget it. I didn’t mean to jump on your back. Call me whatever you want.”
“It’s fine.”
He drank some more scotch and could tell the bartender was thinking something but he could not tell what it was. “Come on, Roger. I’m just sulking here.” He tried hard to sound pleasant. “Don’t they sulk much back where you’re from?”
“Milwaukee,” Roger said. “And yes, they sulk. But it’s Wisconsin. They have a hell of a lot more to sulk about.”
“All right, all right,” Nick said, bested. “I’m just giving you a hard time because I’m tired and dissatisfied with the sketch and, anyway, my hand’s been hurting like a bastard lately. Come on—no more back jumping.”
“You didn’t jump on my back,” Roger said. He was tall, very tall, with close-cropped, sand-colored hair and severe blue eyes—eyes that were much steadier than Nick’s own. “I didn’t feel any jump, sir.”
“Good for you, then.”
Roger, the bartender, chuckled good-naturedly.
“Tell me why I feel like I’m fifty years old, Roger.”
“I think sometimes you look twice that.”
“Thank you.”
“Maybe you’re just tired.”
“Yeah,” Nick said, nodding. “Tired. Good. Always tired. What a son of a bitch, right?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a little cold in here.”
“Is it?”
“Do you feel it?”
“I think it’s warm, actually.”
“Oh.” He felt a skip in the groove of his own warped consciousness. “Are you married, Roger?”
“Sir?”
“Are you married?” he said again.
“I was at one time,” said Roger.
“How long?”
“Seven years.”
“Wow. That’s some time. You’re young, I mean.”
“We married very young.”
“On purpose?”
“I’m sorry—?”
“What I meant was, there weren’t any, ah, extenuating circumstances, if you…well, you know…”
“Oh, no. No.” Roger said, “She wasn’t pregnant.”