In Sight of Stars(21)

“Good with me,” I say. I want to forget everything, everything except spending a day in the city with Sarah Wood. She lets me take her hand, and we walk through the corridor until we reach the marble walls and high, ornate ceiling of the Main Concourse. In the center, I stop and say, “Look up,” and I point out the constellations in the blue-green ceiling.

“Wow,” she says. “I never realized those were there.”

“And, see that?” I indicate the westernmost corner of the ceiling. “The crab, Cancer, over there?” She nods. “Now, look at its left claw, then follow that straight ahead to where the green part meets the cream.” She squints, confused, like she can’t see what I’m pointing to, and I say, “Do you see that small dark square?”

“Now I do. Yeah,” she says excitedly.

“That’s there on purpose. It’s part of a restoration they did years ago to clean the ceiling, the mural, the whole nine yards. They left that little square to show the accumulation of dirt. And to make sure the restoration didn’t hurt the artwork.”

“Really?”

“I swear. That square is a mix of dirt, fumes, and cigarette smoke.”

“Gross,” she says. “But fascinating.”

“And, this,” I say, steering her to the gold, four-faced clock over the pagoda, “is worth millions. And, beneath it is supposedly a secret spiral staircase that goes to the lower level and a top-secret room.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“How do you know all this?” she asks.

“My father.” I swallow back a lump and plow forward now that I’ve started. “He loved this kind of stuff. He was always telling me myths and stories about the city, and the world and—” But, I stop. I can’t. We’ve made a pact, and I don’t want to get all choked up thinking about him. It’s the first time I’ve been back to the city since we moved, and I already feel him everywhere around me.

“Klee?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re awesome. Stop brooding.” She swings my hand, then skips to the exit, pulling me along with her into the bright outdoors.

*

At MoMA, I find myself mimicking my father’s stories as I tell her about the exhibits. Like in the Matisse room, when we reach his Swimming Pool cutout: “Can you imagine,” I say, “two thousand hours to replace the burlap, fiber by fiber…”

I should heed Cleto’s advice, but Sarah seems interested and, maybe, impressed. And, anyway, it’s not like I know how to help myself.

After the Van Goghs, which don’t include Sorrow like I was hoping but do include his olive tree series from Arles, the period during which he became obsessed with Japanese printmaking, I decide we’ve seen enough and head us up 7th Avenue toward the park. Things grow quiet between us, though I’m not sure why. Maybe we’re still in hushed mode from the museum, or maybe it’s the ghosts of my father that seem to pop up on every corner.

“Did I ever tell you about the ship carpenter, Lozier?” Dad asks.

“Yes, the guy who convinced everyone they should try to saw Manhattan in half…”

My chest tightens as I shake off the memory. It’s unseasonably warm for October, and I pull off my sweatshirt and carry it in my hands. Sarah keeps pace next to me, though every once in a while she has to do a little skip to keep up. I turn and watch her, and smile. I need to stay light. I need to be fun. She won’t want anything to do with some fragile wuss who keeps losing it over his dead father.

At 59th Street we cross Columbus Circle and head north up Central Park West.

Sarah leans into me. “You sure know a lot about Van Gogh.” She nudges me when I don’t answer.

“My father loved him.”

“What happened to him?”

“Van Gogh?”

“No, your father.”

I shake my head, heart pounding. I really can’t talk about this now. “We made a pact, remember?” Blood rushes to my ears. “Nothing but good stuff. Like you said.”

“Okay, fine, so tell me about you. Is that what you want, to be able to paint like Van Gogh?” The question makes me dizzy. I try not to think big, or in the future tense about my own art. My father proved it wasn’t a real career.

“Who doesn’t?” I say finally. “But, it’s pretty na?ve, because, seriously, what are the chances? That’s why I picked Fine Arts, Boston. They have a dual major, business and art, so I can do anything after. I could go to law school like my father…” I swallow hard, trying not to hate myself for sounding like him. Well, not him, but my mother. “It’s hard to make a living as an artist, is all.”

“I bet you could.” She squeezes my arm. “I tease you, but you’re really, really good.”

Warmth creeps up my neck, my cheeks. “Those pieces in Tarantoli’s? Those aren’t my best. I haven’t felt much like painting since…” I stop again. “It’s been hard to find my rhythm here at Northhollow.”

“Well, if that’s not your best, then you must be awesome,” she says. “Everyone talks about it. About how talented you are. I’m not the only one who’s noticed, Klee.”

I give her a look because I’m pretty sure exactly zero and a half percent of the population of Northhollow know, or care, what I do or who I am. “Everyone?”