“It’s not—ah—God!”
He’d rushed to stand up and collected the table with his knee.
“Clay—please.”
For the first time, he studied the face in front of him. It was an older version of me, but the eyes not caught by fire. All the rest of him, though: the black hair, even the tiredness looked the same.
He pulled his chair out properly this time, but the Murderer held up a hand. “Stop.”
But Clay was ready to walk, and not just out of the room.
“No,” he said, “I—”
Again, the hand. Worn and calloused. Workman’s hands. He waved as if at a fly on a birthday cake. “Shh. What do you think’s out there?”
Which meant:
What was it that made you come here?
All Clay heard was the insects. The single note.
Then the thought of something great.
He stood, bent-postured against the table. He lied, he said, “There’s nothing.”
The Murderer wasn’t fooled. “No, Clay, it brought you here, but you’re afraid, so it’s easier to sit here and argue.”
Clay straightened. “What are you even talking about?”
“I’m saying it’s okay—” He broke off, and slowly studied him. A boy he couldn’t touch, or reach. “I don’t know how long you stood in those trees yesterday, but you must have come out for a reason….”
Jesus.
The thought came in with the heat.
He saw me. All afternoon.
And “Stay,” said the Murderer, “and eat. Because tomorrow I have to show you—there’s something you need to see.”
In terms of Michael and Abbey Dunbar, I guess it’s time to ask:
What was the real happiness between them?
What was the truth?
The true one?
Let’s start with the artwork.
Sure, he could paint well, often beautifully; he could capture a face, or see things a certain way. He could realize it on canvas or paper, but when it came down to it, he knew: he worked twice as hard as the students around him, who could all produce somehow faster. And he was truly gifted in only one area, which was something he also clung to.
He was good at painting Abbey.
* * *
—
Several times, he’d nearly quit art school altogether.