Michelangelos Shoulder

Michelangelo's Shoulder

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Michelangelo's Shoulder, by John
Moncure Wetterau
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Title: Michelangelo's Shoulder
Author: John Moncure Wetterau
Release Date: February 9, 2004 [eBook #11003]
Language: English
Character set encoding: US-ASCII
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK
MICHELANGELO'S SHOULDER***
Copyright (c) 2003 by John Moncure Wetterau

Michelangelo's Shoulder

John Moncure Wetterau

(c) copyright 2003 by John Moncure Wetterau.
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons
Attribution-NoDerivs-NonCommercial License. Essentially, anyone is
free to copy, distribute, or perform this copyrighted work for
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ISBN #: 0-9729587-3-8
Published by: Fox Print Books 137 Emery Street Portland, ME 04102
[email protected] 207.775.6860
Some of these stories first appeared in Archipelago and The Paumanok
Review. Cover drawing: "Shan" by Finn.

for w.cat

Michelangelo's Shoulder
It dawned hot in Georgia. Don rubbed his head and blinked. He got out
of bed and paused before a makeshift easel where a drawing, taped to a
board, showed a woman sitting on a park bench. She was large, dressed
in layers of multi-colored cotton. She reminded him of the Renoir
woman in her plush living room, the dog sprawled at her feet, but she
was smarter. The line across her eyebrows and tapering along her jaw
was right. He'd left out a lot, but that didn't matter. If what was there
was true enough, you knew the rest--like a Michelangelo shoulder
emerging from stone.
He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face.
After coffee and a piece of toast, he rolled the drawing and took it to
the park where the woman fed pigeons every day. She wasn't there. She
wasn't there the next day, either. The following day Don brought a loaf
of bread, sat on her bench, and tossed white pellets into the air. Birds
fought for each piece. He prepared the remaining bread and scattered it
in one throw. "There you go--something for everybody. She'll be back
soon."
A week later, she showed up. Don moved aside and asked, "Where you
been?"
"Took sick."
"I've been feeding the pigeons."
"I was worrying. Thank you."
"I did a drawing of you. I wanted to name it, but--I didn't know your
name."
"Ruby."
"Ruby, ah. I'm Don. You want to see it? I'll bring it tomorrow."

"Sure."
"O.K. How you feeling?"
"Better, now."
"Good." He walked to his usual bench and sat down. The sun beat on
the live oak trees and sage-green strings of Spanish moss while the
birds made happy sounds in front of Ruby. She had lost weight, he
thought, but it was hard to tell, the way she dressed. She was a beauty
once. He remembered his bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror. None
of us getting any younger. He would give her the drawing in the
morning and take off. It was time to leave Savannah, past time. Head
for Portland again. Look up Lorna.
Lorna. The Art Students League. It seemed like last week that she was
looking carefully into his eyes and shaking his hand, curious and
unafraid, different from him in many ways, but similar in that. Painter's
eyes, he thought, clear and unblinking. Couldn't tell how good she was,
though--eyes are one thing; talent is another. And hard work is another.
She lived in a studio behind her parents' house on a mountain
road--what was it called?--the Glasco Turnpike. Her father, Lad
Charles, was a painter, a friendly guy who wore bow ties and was well
liked in town. Lorna was protected, highly educated, out of reach for
Don Delahanty.
He was blocky. She was slim. His neck was thick and turned with his
body; her neck was graceful and turned by itself. His eyes were a slatey
blue--the color of the sea on a cloudy day. Hers were almond with
flecks of green. He was fair skinned. Lorna was tanned. His hair was
sand colored, prematurely grizzled. Hers was light brown, sun streaked,
thick, and cut short--perfect for small gold earrings. She brought with
her the smell of spring. He smelled like upstate New York--dirt, dairy
farms, and industrial towns. She was kind. They both were, although he
had a bitter streak that dragged