Michelangelos Shoulder | Page 3

such things; they had a knack for moving on. It was a part of their youthfulness. Good genes helped, too, Don thought. Not to mention the financial wisdom of dear departed Redmond.
An hour later Don said goodnight. Feeling almost a member of the family, he went downstairs and fell asleep on the bed in the basement.
The next day he made his way to the park. "Mornin', Ruby."
"Morning to you. You late today."
"Going to be a long day. I'm taking the train north."
"Oh, my."
Don pulled the drawing from the cardboard tube and unrolled it, holding it up for her to see.
"Wooo," she said, "I used to be better lookin'."
"You still good looking."
"I like it."
"I signed it here." He pointed.
"Don Dela--hanty," she read.
"An original Delehanty. You hang on to it, maybe it will be worth something, someday."
"What you mean?"
He rolled the drawing and put it back in the tube. "It's for you; it's a present." He held it out. Ruby hesitated and then took it.
"Been a while since I had a present."
"So," Don said, "take care. See you when I get back."
"Lord willing. Thank you. Thank you for the present." The walls came down and she smiled like a girl.
"My pleasure." He bowed and walked toward the river. The Silver Meteor was due at 5:50.

Don got to bed with Lorna that summer. She wasn't quite it, though he loved her and would never tell her that. He did a portrait of her, his best yet, and gave it to Molly knowing that Lorna wouldn't accept it or would feel guilty for not paying if she did. The days were long and intense, but the summer was gone in a flash.
Strangely, he was offered a show in New York--his other long time dream--by a gallery owner who was after Lorna. He did not want to be involved in their relationship. He turned the show down, pretending that the requirements were too much trouble. It probably wouldn't have worked out, anyway, he thought. Some people have a knack for dangling what you want in front of you; when you reach for it, it disappears.
Late in October he went over to Lorna's and said goodbye. She seemed sad and a bit relieved. Molly had tears in her eyes and hugged him wholeheartedly.
The next morning a cold rain was bringing down the leaves as Don carried his bag to the bus station. The shoulders of his tan raincoat were wet through when he boarded the Greyhound for Boston. Three rows back, he found an empty seat by a window and looked out at the glistening street. He saw a painting, full of light.

Waiting for Happiness
Spring comes late in Maine. Snow changes to rain; branch tips redden; you can see your breath. Not a whole lot different than winter until the daffodils, crab apples, and forsythia bloom. The sun skips off the water, impossibly bright, impossibly blue. You can almost almost hear the cracking of seeds, buried and forgotten.
Charlie Garrett was as hardnosed as most. He kept going, did what he had to. "Ninety percent of success is showing up," Woody Allen said. Charlie repeated that in dire times--before medical checkups or visits to his brother, Orson.
Orson knew a lot about success and never hesitated to pass it on. "What you need, Charlie, is a Cessna. You aren't supposed to spin them, but you can. That'll clear your head, Charlie, straight down, counting as a barn comes around--one time, two times, three times--correct and pull out nice and easy." Orson dipped his knees, lowering his flattened palm. Or a catboat: "A solid little Marshall, Charlie. Putter around, take some cutie coasting. You're in sailor heaven, man, all those islands."
"I know some cuties," Miranda had said.
"Last cutie took my silver garlic press. Well, she didn't take it; she borrowed it and never returned it."
"Call her up and get it back," Orson said.
"That's what she wants you to do." Miranda was the best thing about Orson.
"I got another one."
"Where the hell did you find a silver garlic press?" Orson was impressed.
"It's aluminum, I think, or a composite material."
"Oh."
It was always like that; motion was Orson's answer to everything. Charlie stretched and checked his watch. The ten o'clock ferry from Peaks Island was edging to the dock. Soon a few dozen passengers would walk off the ramp, carrying shopping bags, slipping day packs over one or both shoulders, holding dogs on leashes. Margery, short and polite, would be toward the end of the line, one hand on the railing, blinking as she looked up at the city buildings and around for him.
They were similar physically and recognized each other as related, not lovers, not brother and sister, but distant cousins perhaps or members of a tribe--the patient, the witness bearers. "There you are," she said. Charlie stood and they patted