Homespun (2 page)

She lowered her gaze to the walls, where a kaleidoscope of imagery marched around the room. New York City’s angular skyline blended into a fairy-tale forest, which then became a scene of desolation with factories belching smoke and trees cut to stumps, dead fairies scattered like fallen leaves. The next part was painted over but she remembered what had been there—a viciously satirical Iraq war mural—

and part of it had become an abstract composition of blues, greens, and violets. The rest was blank and ready for something new. Kerry’s projects were forever in flux, never quite completed. He changed styles and subject matter as readily as he changed the color of his nail polish, dropping one half-completed project when another burst of inspiration or political fury hit him.

The bed needed to be made up, although Laura

suspected Kerry would spend most of his time in her father’s bedroom anyway. She opened the window to let in some fresh air, struggling as the sliding lower half of the old Homespun |
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window stuck on layers of antique paint. Holding back the drapes, she looked down at the rolling pastureland of Blue Thistle Farm, dotted with the grazing Cotswold and Border Leicester sheep that were the farm’s lifeblood.

There were sheep in the murals, too, if you looked closely enough, peeping out from behind the trees in the forest, wandering down the streets of Manhattan, even floating like puffy little clouds among the birds on the ceiling. Kerry’s life, Kerry’s aesthetic, entwining with theirs, spun together like different-colored strands of wool.

From the bedroom window, she could see some of the murals on the outbuildings. Kerry painted on anything that would hold still long enough—she’d heard her father tell him affectionately it was only a matter of time before he tried to paint a mural on a particularly lazy sheep.

Most of the farm’s barns and other outbuildings bore half-finished murals, displaying equal parts beauty and anger. Laura loved some of them, but others disturbed her, like the one on the back of the hayshed—Manhattan sinking in an ocean of blood.

Now what’s this?
she thought, catching a glimpse of her father’s stocky figure vanishing behind the main sheep barn—sans Kerry. They couldn’t possibly have had time to fight already, could they?

She left the door open for further airing of the room, made a mental note to make the bed later, and went back downstairs. Kerry was alone in the kitchen. He’d shed his sweater in the warmth of the house, and he was humming quietly to himself as he sliced roast beef onto a plate. He didn’t look upset. Perhaps whatever had happened between him and her father wasn’t too bad.

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“I leave you crazy kids alone…,” she said, feeling obscurely guilty, as if her own irrational jealousy had caused Owen to leave. She and her father were together so much that there was, at times, an almost psychic rapport between them. He could have picked up on her emotions and

withdrawn. “Where’s Daddy?”

“I don’t know where your father went,” Kerry said, not sounding particularly curious. “He started mumbling about something he had to do and ran off.”

Laura tried to squash her guilt and reached for the morning’s fresh-baked seed loaf in the antique breadbox on the countertop. Her father loved old things. He hadn’t grown up in this house, but he’d filled it with antiques, purchased cheaply in terrible condition and refinished with loving care.

Laura had often thought her father was no less an artist than Kerry, in his own way. He loved to take broken things and make them look new again.

“Typical,” she said. “I hope he’s got a good excuse.”

OWEN knelt alongside the driveway, gathering asters, fleabane, and goldenrod from the late-blooming wildflowers around the edges of the yard. The kitchen windows faced the east pasture; Kerry shouldn’t be able to see him as long as he stayed on this side of the house.

He always forgot how striking Kerry was. It was what had first caught his eye, twenty years ago, when he was still reeling from the death of Laura’s mother. He hadn’t been sure
what
to think when twenty-years-younger Kerry, pierced and tattooed, just a boy really, had come slithering up the icy driveway in his pointy-toed, slick-soled boots and Homespun |
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his impractical leather jacket. Kerry had been half-frozen, more than half drunk, and he’d wanted to paint a sign in return for a hot meal.

All those years ago….

Owen slid a hand into his pocket and touched the small box there. It was stupid, he knew, to carry it around with him every day while he did his chores. So small. So easy to lose. And yet, it had grown comfortable against his thigh, as familiar as the key ring and the pocket Leatherman multi-tool he was never without.

For six months he’d carried that little box, knowing Kerry had to turn up again sooner or later. Like a stray cat they’d once fed, he always came back—drifting in, staying for a while, lighting up Owen’s life… and then slipping out again, back to the city.

The urge to drag Kerry off upstairs had been almost overwhelming…. But, no. Owen was fifty-five, and he’d always missed the boat when it came to romance. He’d proposed to Laura’s mother in a cow pasture, for cripes sakes. He could do better than that.

So he’d dumped Kerry in the kitchen, babbling

something about chores to do, and now he was gathering end-of-season wildflowers until his arms were full. Would Kerry even appreciate this kind of thing? Owen felt like a fool, all the more so once he’d crept in the side door, snuck upstairs and spread them all over the master bedroom. It looked like a hay bale had exploded.

They say it’s the thought that counts….

What else? There were candles downstairs in case of power outages… in the kitchen, though, where Kerry was. He remembered seeing a few in the woodshed, so he ducked out Homespun |
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the side door to collect those too. Nothing fancy, just long, plain white tapers. He improvised candleholders out of a couple of old tomato cans.
You’re really bad at this, Owen
Fortescue,
he told himself. Still, he set them up on the dresser. Better than nothing. At least it showed he was thinking ahead.

He also made sure the nightstand was well stocked.

Condoms. A tube of Kerry’s favorite, expensive, water-based lube. Crisco and nitrile gloves—probably not for the first night, but hopefully for later—

Oh, and Kerry’s room needed airing out. Though he

hoped Kerry would be sleeping in
his
bed, it’d make a nice, thoughtful gesture. Bearing an armful of fresh sheets, he almost collided with Laura in the hallway.

“Daddy, what are you
doing
up here? Hiding? Kerry’s been away for, how long is it this time, three or four months at least—”

“Six,” he said.
And two weeks and three days.
Not that he was counting.

“You don’t have to fix his bed right now. Dinner’s on the table. Come downstairs and eat.” She took the armload of sheets from him and dumped them on Kerry’s bed.

Fussing like her mother used to. There were times these days when he looked at Laura and it went straight through his heart; that was her mother’s turn of head, her mother’s turn of phrase. And yet, half of her was him, too—the Fortescue temper, the solid connection with the land.

The best of us both.

“Go downstairs,” he said, and steered her toward the door. But he lingered a moment longer. He hadn’t been in Kerry’s room since Kerry had left in the spring. It only stirred up longing, and besides, he’d always found this room slightly Homespun |
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unnerving. Sometimes it seemed like the murals rearranged themselves when his back was turned. Walls were supposed to be restful, not full of action and life.

Owen had never been an art guy. He liked landscapes; they were pretty and peaceful. And some of those

Renaissance guys had some nice stuff, not that he could name any of them. Before meeting Kerry, he would have rolled his eyes at protest art, considering it a pointless waste of time and money.
Build something,
he would have said, and when he looked at the kind of artists Kerry admired, people like Maplethorpe and Basquiat—
You call this art? Make
something beautiful instead.

But Kerry had shown him there could be beauty and

dignity in anger too. Like the hidden beauty unfolding from within Kerry’s lanky, bony frame, the soft, secret heart he guarded so closely.

Owen tucked his hand into his pocket, closed it once again around the ring box he’d carried like a talisman all these months.

“Daddy!” Laura said from the door.

“Coming,” he said, and left the room to its secrets.

Father and daughter descended the creaking stairs together.

Kerry was in the kitchen, setting the table. A tight black T-shirt framed the narrow planes of his body, and Owen couldn’t help carefully cataloguing all of the changes, every place that time had touched the beloved body he hadn’t seen in so long. Kerry’s hair was a couple inches longer, touched with gray. Owen’s own short hair had been gray for a decade, which only meant Kerry was catching up with him. Kerry’s elaborate tattoos twined down both arms, wrapping his thin wrists and climbing to the shaved nape of his neck.

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“No new ink?” Owen asked, wishing he could examine Kerry more closely from head to foot. Laura’s presence inhibited him from doing more than brushing their fingers together when Kerry handed him a plate of sliced bread; still, that small contact sent an electric quiver through him.

Kerry’s shy smile crept out. “Ink. Listen to you talking that big-city jive.”

Laura dragged another chair to the table for him—

usually it was just the two of them. Kerry slid a hand under the table, twining his fingers through Owen’s. It meant Kerry had to eat with his left hand. He didn’t seem to mind.

“So how is your art coming along, Uncle Kerry?” Laura asked politely, passing the plate of roast beef.

Kerry’s slight hesitation was normal; he always balked when they asked him about his life away from the farm. The difference was now he would talk about it, sometimes, when he was relaxed and comfortable and in the mood. “Got commissioned for a mural at a pretty trendy restaurant in Harlem.”

“Well, that’s good, right?” Owen said, squeezing his hand under the table. “Lots of exposure.”

“I guess so.” The melancholy in his voice couldn’t quite mask the rising note of pleasure that always crept in when he talked about art.

Owen wondered, sometimes, who’d stomped on Kerry so hard that he felt his own ability to create beauty was something he had to hide. Owen Fortescue was not a violent man, but there were times when he wished he could stomp that person right back.

They’d talked about Kerry’s career sometimes, just the two of them, in the dark. Where it was going. Where it wasn’t Homespun |
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going. Kerry had dreamed big once upon a time—dreamed of his guerilla art taking society by storm, of shows at exclusive galleries, of opening people’s eyes with paintings that changed the world. His dreams were smaller now. Selling enough art to pay the rent, mostly. Fitting enough beauty to sustain him into the gaps in a life made up of temporary, menial jobs.

There had been only one time that Owen had offered him money, scraping together a little that he and Laura couldn’t spare, but didn’t begrudge. Kerry had looked at it, at him, and Owen would never forget the rage and betrayal in his eyes.

“I’m not your goddamn rentboy,” he spat, and walked out, leaving Owen sputtering and struggling to explain to Laura, who had been about fourteen at the time. Kerry hadn’t come back to the farm for a year. Owen had never offered him money again, and Kerry had become even more close-mouthed for a while, about the city and any struggles he might face there.

Laura cleared her throat, and Owen looked up quickly, jolted back to the here and now. The conversation had moved on without him, and now Laura’s plate was clean, and Kerry had somehow managed to clear away half his food with only his left hand. Owen’s had barely been touched.

Kerry’s smile, fixed only on him, was fond and soft.

Something made Laura’s eyes skate away from it, and she rose, taking her plate.

“I’ve got the dishes tonight,” she said. “Go on.” And whatever had been sharp in her a moment ago was soft-edged now. “Have fun, Daddy.”

“I’m glad I have permission,” Owen said, drawing Kerry up by the hand.

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Kerry’s eyes darted back and forth between Owen and Laura, looking as if he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh along or not. Owen knew Kerry still sometimes got lost in the depths between father and daughter, the infinitely shaded subtleties of their in-jokes, their unspoken little arguments and apologies. He slid an arm around Kerry’s slim waist, wanting to say it was all right, not quite sure how.

Instead he turned them both away from the warmth and light of the kitchen, toward the stairs, toward the bedroom with its bower of wildflowers. His free hand dropped into his pocket, worrying at the ring box like a good-luck charm.

Please don’t let me screw this up tonight.

As they climbed the stairs, hip to hip, Kerry’s hand worked its way under Owen’s shirt to caress the strip of skin above the waistband of his jeans, and he knew, then, it really
was
going to be okay. They’d begun to fall toward each other once again, as they always did after one of Kerry’s absences, jostling around each other until they found the way to line up and click.

At the top of the stairs he stopped, bringing Kerry to a halt with him. The only light came up the stairs from the kitchen, muting the world into soft shades of gold and gray.

Kerry’s eyes gleamed in the dim light, and the slant of his body held a questioning note.

Owen had been raised in a generation and a culture that didn’t express affection in public. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d seen his parents hold hands, let alone kiss. But here, it was dark, there was no one to see. No one to judge. Distant clinks of dishes indicated Laura’s presence below them in the kitchen.