Read The Art of My Life Online
Authors: Ann Lee Miller
Tags: #romance, #art, #sailing, #jail, #marijuana abuse
The Art of My Life (6 page)
September 14
I love the rush I feel when
I look at an exciting work, the quiver in my chest. I think I have
to buy the thing, frame it, hang it in my living room forever. But
there’s no guarantee the thrill will sustain long enough to justify
the cost. So, I vote for modest expense, no real sacrifice, a
painting that matches the décor of my life and evokes mild
appreciation. Stability.
Aly at
The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com
Cal inched the ship’s wheel starboard
and watched the wrinkle iron from the mainsail. Sun warmed his skin
while it peppered the Atlantic with diamonds of light and bleached
the water teal. Wind blew stiff fingers through his hair, and his
gaze fell on the white-haired couple sitting on the fore cabin
grinning at the day. For these two hours, he’d do the
same.
How many people got to do what they
loved for a career? He could sail all day, everyday without regret.
Gratitude welled up in his chest. He almost wanted to thank God,
but his mind banked away from the impulse.
Church was the family business. Dad
had pastored their church since before Jesse was born. If
church
lady
were listed in the dictionary, Mom’s picture would be
stamped beside it—her own little rebellion against Henna and Leaf.
Jesse had started a church almost by accident—a bunch of his
friends playing guitars on the beach one night. He doubted a Sunday
service had gone by without Missy showing up, from birth
on.
But he had chafed to move out since
his mid-teens. He didn’t want his life remote controlled by a God
who didn’t think he needed Aly. Control was something he wouldn’t
give up to anyone.
Gus, a meteorologist from Wichita,
circled a protective arm around his wife’s waist as they bounced on
the bow in the slight chop. This was their forty-second
anniversary. Sea spray misted his face and he licked the salt from
his lips. It tasted like hope.
These last couple of months since
Aly’s birthday, he’d been working on the boat in dry dock. The days
had crawled by, but he couldn’t see her until he had some success
under his belt. Maybe today. Ninety dollars was hardly
success.
But it was a start.
Cal looked up as Starr marched down
the dock toward
The Escape
in response to his text,
Come
get your stoned parents.
She’d be mortified. Everything was all
about appearances with Mom. He didn’t have the energy to care. He
hosed down the deck, his shoulders slumped.
Leaf held court with the THC
girls—Theodosia’s bony frame bookended between Henna’s cushy body
and the nymph and fairy tattoos cavorting up and down Chrissy’s
ham-hock arm. The women met fifty years ago when they all worked at
Winn-Dixie. Sparklers of female laughter shot from the cockpit in
the center of the boat.
Cal’s gaze collided with his mother’s.
“They were two hours late. I almost called the Coast Guard, which
would have landed them in jail—Boating Under the Influence.” He
jerked his head toward the bow. “They dive-bombed the dock coming
in.” He said it like it was Mom’s fault even though he knew Henna
and Leaf had always done whatever they pleased.
Starr frowned, and he followed her
gaze to the deep gash in the bow, the misshapen metal, rigging
sagging like collapsed tightropes.
“
I don’t have any more
control over them than I have over you,” she said.
“
They’re your
parents.”
“
They’re your suppliers.”
Her expression was pained, as though she wished she could call the
words back.
Cal’s eyes widened as he stared her
down. He wondered if she’d ever acknowledged this fact, even to
herself.
She pointed at her parents as though
she hadn’t surprised herself as much as him. “Think about this next
time you light up. Do you want to end up like them?”
He turned away, willing her harsh tone
to run off his back.
He heard her sigh behind him, then she
said in a weary voice, “Henna, Leaf, girls, let’s go.”
Leaf unspooled his wiry frame from the
cockpit and met Mom on the finger pier. “You sure no cops followed
you?”
“
As long as you’re not
disorderly, they can’t arrest you. Calm down.” She herded tittering
Theodosia, Chrissy, and her mother down the pier.
Cal folded his arms and watched their
progression down the dock.
Henna’s white hair and muumuu-draped
breasts hung loose nearly to her waist. “Thanks for the lift,
Starry, Starry bright! What goes around comes calling.”
The THC girls shouted their agreement.
Leaf slunk along the dock, eyes searching for New Smyrna Beach’s
finest.
Cal could feel Starr’s embarrassment
radiating back to him. The whole procession would be funny if he
couldn’t hear water lapping against the maimed bow behind
him.
Henna and Chrissy veered toward the
edge of the pier. Evie materialized, leapt off her boat, and
latched onto the women. “Need some help?” she said over her
shoulder to Mom. “Dealing with stoned people is one of my primo
life skills.”
“
Please.” Mom grabbed
Theodosia’s bony elbow and kept her eyes riveted to Leaf’s stealth
survey of the marina perimeter.
Cal should be the one helping his
mother, not Evie. But he’d spent hours pacing the dock worrying
about his grandparents, beating himself up for not going out on the
boat with them, and he was exhausted.
He watched Mom and Evie cajole and
heft the seniors into the minivan, then crouched on the bow to
unscrew the crumpled rail his grandparents had plowed into the
dock.
Dock light spilled onto the deck
around him. A warm breeze ruffled the hair on his arms, and he
shivered as though he were cold. Overhead, pale clouds piled up in
plum-colored sky.
Van Gogh’s eyes followed him from atop
the dock box as though he commiserated.
He should have taken business courses
in college. And passed them. Then, maybe he wouldn’t have chosen to
think optimistic when he couldn’t afford boat owner’s
insurance.
On the weathered boards below Van
Gogh, stood the sandwich sign he’d painted.
The Escape, 2-hour
sails $45 per person. (386) 689-8400 or
[email protected]
.
Fish had laid the sign down—who else could it have been?—every time
Cal left the dock. What a two-year-old.
In the three weeks the
Escape
had been back in the water, he’d sailed twice and earned enough to
pay a fourth of the marina slip rental. There had been no money for
loan payments. He should buy some more time from the bank, but he
couldn’t suck it up enough to grovel to Aly.
He’d put out flyers at every condo and
hotel in New Smyrna Beach, designed a brochure for the Chamber of
Commerce, and opened an account with Trip Advisor. What more could
he do to jump-start the business without an IV of
capital?
He craved a joint with the urgency of
oxygen. Watching his stoned grandparents plow into the piling
should have made him scatter his weed on the water. But his stash,
compliments of Henna’s garden, was still duck taped inside of the
stabilizing keel where it jutted below water level. He could almost
smell the sweetness.
If he smoked now, it would take a
miracle to get the marijuana out of his system in the eleven days
till he had to report to his probation officer.
Fish churned
Zeke’s Ambition
into his slip and dumped a boatload of fishermen. Van Gogh bounded
off the dock box and nosed Fish while he cleated the mooring line
to the dock. Fish squatted and rubbed the dog’s ears. His gaze
panned down the dock, halting on the
Escape
and her damaged
bow.
Fish grimaced, and in Cal’s head, he
heard Fish say. “Sucks, man. We’ll fix it. No worries.”
But Fish turned away, crossed his
gangplank and disappeared into his boat.
Cal stepped onto the dock with the
misshapen rail in his hands. He turned to stare at the
Escape
. Aly’s mangled figurehead stared back at him like an
omen things were wrecked with Aly before they’d even launched. He
could repaint it someday, but the boat wouldn’t need dry dock for
another three years.
His mother’s words clanged in his
ears. No, he didn’t want to end up like his grandparents. This was
the first time he hadn’t appreciated his similarity to Henna and
Leaf.
If he was genetically wired to live
their life, he’d fight it for all he was worth.
October 14
Have you ever known exactly
what someone else should do to fix their opus or life, but you
can’t do anything about it because it’s their art, their existence?
You stomp your foot and fume, but they don’t rescue themselves—not
even if you spell out how in three easy steps. But turn to the
canvas on your own easel, the face in your mirror—and all of a
sudden you’re as clueless as your friend.
Aly at
www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com
Cal didn’t shower and shave—pointless,
facing October fourteenth without this month’s slip rent, much less
a loan payment. He coiled the anchor line on the bow.
Van Gogh’s tail drummed against the
cabin, and Cal looked up at Fish crossing the space between their
boats in long strides. “Stay,” Cal commanded his dog.
Fish stopped on the finger pier.
“What? No charters today?”
Van Gogh whined, his tail swishing
across the deck.
Like Van Gogh, Cal strained toward
Fish. He eyed Fish’s smirk. “Don’t gloat too much, I’m taking off
before I get evicted by the dock master.”
“
Here, let me help.” Fish
bent to loosen the mooring line. “Excuse me for being short on
sympathy. Not everybody’s grandma signs over a boat.”
Cal absorbed the blow. “You always
were a grudge-holder. I said I was sorry. What do you want? Title
to the boat?”
Fish held the
Escape’s
line,
poised to toss it onto the deck at Cal’s feet. “You gave me one
thing too many. I don’t want anything from you.”
Cal swore. He hated being at odds with
Fish.
A voice spoke from behind him. “And to
think I wasted my time looking up to you two.”
Cal’s head swiveled to where Missy
stood with her hands rooted to her hips. He hadn’t noticed her
walking up the dock.
Fish’s eyes flashed wide with
surprise, then chagrin.
She leveled her disgust on Fish.
“Yeah, you sure need rescued. Good luck with that little
project.”
He was the one who needed rescued, not
Fish. But it sure sounded like Missy took his side.
She stared down Fish till he handed
her the mooring line and strode off without a word.
Missy’s eyes followed Fish until he
disappeared into his boat. She turned toward Cal and her expression
softened.
“
You get your driver’s
license back today, right?”
His mind scrambled for the date he’d
been arrested and had his license suspended. “Yeah.”
“
I brought your car.
Thanks for letting me use it. I sort of took it over when you went
to jail.” Her eyes dropped to the dock as though she were
embarrassed.
“
It’s fine. I would have
suggested it if I’d thought of it.”
Missy’s chin lifted. “Thanks. I
washed, waxed, detailed, and filled it with gas. I bought the oil,
but I didn’t know how to change it, and I knew you did. I really,
really enjoyed having a car for six months.”
Missy’s gratitude washed over him,
dulling Fish’s digs and the disappointments of the day.
He’d do better by her. Starting now.
“I’m glad you enjoyed the Jeep. I couldn’t have used it
anyway.”
“
Give me a ride to
college—main campus, not the New Smyrna Beach
extension?”
He dropped from the bow to the dock
and took the line out of Missy’s hands. “Sure.” He re-cleated the
Escape
to the dock. He could certainly spare an
hour.
Missy glanced at him as he walked down
the pier beside her. “You were right the other day. I could have
texted you, called if I wanted to hang out so badly.”
He arched his brows.
“
And I wasn’t thinking
about how you must have been feeling. I focused on my own
feelings.”
Cal held the gate open for her, and
she stopped mid-way through.
She met his eyes. “I care about you. I
always will.” She said it on a sigh.
One of the knots in his stomach
unraveled. “Me, too.”
Missy opened the Jeep door, and he
stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Thanks.” His voice broke and
he cleared his throat. “Your making peace, the car, everything. It
comes at a good time.”
Missy smiled up at him. “You’re
welcome.”
An hour and a half later, Cal cast off
the rest of the lines, fired up the engine, and putted out of the
slip three hundred and fifty feet into the river. The anchor line
slithered through the chock till the anchor dug into the
silt-covered river bottom.