Michelangelos Shoulder | Page 3

"Don, you must take something at least--for the materials." She went

into the living room and returned with a check which she handed to
him. "I have wanted that painting for so long," she said, breaking a
silence.
"That's a hell of a lot of materials."
"Good. More paintings! It's worth ten times that."
"Quite so," Riles said.
"Well." Don raised his glass. "Thanks."
"Bon voyage." They clinked glasses and that was that. Riles and Kai
were skilled at 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