Dream On(86)
“It’s not just for him. It’s for me too. I want to do this. I can’t explain it, but I have to.” I don’t say that I can’t explain because I don’t fully understand it myself. The festival starts tomorrow, and this is my last chance to do something that can make a real, tangible difference.
Yes, part of me is doing this simply because I know it will help Perry, and the thought of making him happy makes me happy too. But it also feels like my own personal revolution. My way of veering off my predetermined track and doing something that speaks to my soul, even if it’s risky. After a year of struggle and a lifetime of doing what’s expected of me, I need this more than I can articulate, even to Brie.
Grinning at the blank wall in front of us, I nudge Brie with my elbow. “Joy of painting aside, picturing the look on Roger Szymanski’s face when he sees his warehouse this weekend gives me life.”
“Well, I can’t think of a better reason than that,” Brie says, lifting her hand to high-five me. She gathers up the bag of paintbrushes. “Let’s get to it. Darkness is our friend, and the night won’t last forever.”
“Neither will Roger’s plan.” Unfolding the sketch I’d tucked into my back pocket earlier, I attach it to the wall with painter’s tape—the blueprint for my mural. I examine the jars of paint on the grass, pick one, and gently shake it before twisting off the lid. Brie hands me a flat, three-inch brush, and I dip it into the jar’s dusky purple depths. Lifting the paint-laden brush to the bare white wall before me, I make the first strokes of what I can only hope will be a game changer—for me, for Perry, for the city of Cleveland, for all of us.
I know the moment Brie and I arrive at West Twenty-Eighth and Jay Avenue at 10:40 on Saturday morning that something’s off. Twenty-Eighth Street is blocked off with traffic barricades between Providence and Jay, exactly like it’s supposed to be. But besides the dozens of tables and handful of volunteers dotting the street, the block is otherwise empty.
My lungs seize. Where are the tents?
I grab the nearest person wearing a green shirt. “Where are the tents?” I accidentally shout in the volunteer’s face, and he flinches.
His name is Alec, according to the name printed on his chest. I don’t recognize him, so he’s probably one of Perry and Devin’s friends from softball. “I’m sorry, um, but the event doesn’t start until noon,” he stammers.
Oh, right. I unbutton my white linen jacket and flash my own green volunteer T-shirt at him. I figured it’d be a good idea to wear it for the hours I can help today, and simply cover up when Smith & Boone attorneys start arriving.
Alec’s eyes widen in understanding. “Oh, you know the Szymanskis. Sorry, I thought you were just some random person.”
Brie circles a finger at her own green shirt. “Hello, we’re volunteers.”
“The tents?” I press.
“I don’t know where they are, sorry. Devin’s on the phone with the rental company now.”
“Where is he?”
Alec points at a spot halfway down the block, and I take off at a jog. I silently curse myself for not arriving earlier. But Brie and I didn’t get home from our painting escapades until almost three in the morning, and ten o’clock seemed like a reasonable time to set our alarms.
“What’s wrong?” Brie asks, trotting at my heels.
“The tents aren’t up. They were supposed to be delivered this morning and setup should have started by now.”
“Ohhhh, that’s not good.”
No, it’s not. I spot Devin farther up the block with his phone pressed to his ear, but it’s what’s in the distance behind him that makes me stop abruptly. Brie collides with my back with an oof. At the end of the street, behind the barricades at the corner of Providence and Twenty-Eighth, is Roger’s warehouse… and my mural.
It looks even more beautiful in the daytime than I’d ever hoped. Along the top of the white wall, “Blooms & Baubles” is painted in the same large purple font that’s on their sign, and the words “Delivering Joy to Ohio City Since 1946” are painted underneath with a large black arrow pointing directly to Perry’s shop. Below the words are a collage of people—old and young, Black and white, of every size, shape, and color—grouped arm in arm in front of a background of multicolored flowers raining down on them like swirling snowflakes.
A couple with a small child about Jackson and Liam’s age pauses to study the mural. The little boy points up at it, and his dad picks up him to give him a better view.
Brie loops her arm around my shoulders. “It’s beautiful, Cass. Truly.”
I let out a shaky laugh, my heart so full it threatens to burst like a pi?ata filled with rainbows. I almost forgot what it felt like to put a tiny piece of my soul on display… the joy of seeing others, even complete strangers, connect to it in some small way.
“Still no word from Perry yet?” she asks.
My smile fades. “No.” When I woke up this morning, I expected to find a voice mail or at least a text from Perry expressing his delight at the mural that appeared overnight on the side of his dad’s warehouse. But I haven’t heard a peep from him since yesterday. Maybe he doesn’t like it? Or maybe he thinks I stepped out of line and now he’s angry with me?