Something Like Lightning (51 page)

Kelly already felt guilty about it. He would barely be able to make rent this month. He didn’t have enough money to send her a worthwhile present, and he definitely couldn’t afford what she really wanted.

“Is my baby coming to see me?” she asked, eyes shining.

At times like these, Kelly missed an old-fashioned telephone, because seeing his mother’s hopeful expression wasn’t easy. Maybe if he squeezed his food budget, he could manage a bus ticket. “Of course,” he said. “You know I’ll be there.”

Laisha read him like a book. “Is money tight, honey? We can send you a plane ticket.”

“Money is fine,” he lied. The pasta jar the tablet was propped against had been empty since he moved in. Then again, he’d managed to stretch his modeling savings for three years, which was an achievement in itself. Only recently was he beginning to run dry. “I’m not letting you give me a present on your birthday.”

“Okay,” she said, still not satisfied. “Have you sold anything from your big exhibition?”

“No,” he admitted. “And it’s just a record store that allowed me to hang a few things on the wall. Considering how many people listen to vinyl these days, it’s quite possible no one has seen them yet.”

“Maybe this will help.” His mother leaned over, treating him to a close-up of her cleavage as she rustled through papers on the kitchen table. Kelly poked at the screen, searching for an option to disable the video feed. “Your father cut this out of the paper last month, but I’m sure it’s still good. Here it is!” She leaned back, returning to focus and holding a scrap of newspaper that she read from.
“The Eric Conroy Foundation supports artistic voices struggling to be heard, exhibiting new talent at our gallery in downtown Austin or awarding grants and scholarships to budding individuals. For more information, please visit 
—then it has the website address right here. What do you think?”

Kelly smirked. “I don’t really see myself as a ‘budding individual.’” “No, but maybe they’d like to exhibit some of your photos. You’re a local artist who travels the world. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled.”

Kelly shrugged. “Maybe I’ll check it out while I’m there.”

“So you’re coming?” she asked.

“Yes,” Kelly said. “I’ll figure it all out and let you know my times tomorrow.”

“You sure you don’t need money?”

“I’m sure.”

The view on the screen went crazy for a moment, zooming around the kitchen. When it settled, it was pointed at his father’s man-boobs. Cleavage. Again. “Kelly,” he said. “I have bad news. Your Aunt Myrtle passed away. I’m so sorry. The good news is that she left you five hundred dollars.”

Kelly shook his head. “I don’t have an Aunt Myrtle.”

“You don’t anymore,” his father said with a chuckle.

“Really? Your sister just died and you’re joking about it? Or is it mom’s sister you’re laughing over, which seems even colder.”

“Uh... She was more of a family friend who we pretended was an aunt.”

“Nice try,” Kelly said. “Tell my little brother I love him. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have more important things to do than talk to two crazy old people.”

“We love you!” his parents said simultaneously.

“I love you too.”

Kelly tapped the icon to hang up. Then he turned around to face the cramped kitchen. He had some beans to count. Half he would eat, the rest would go toward bus fare.

The Eric Conroy Gallery was just on the edge of the Second Street District in downtown Austin. After parking, Kelly had to wander up and down side streets to find the location, almost missing it behind the overgrown trees. As he crossed the street and saw the art displayed in the window, his gut filled with dread. Once he had approached galleries with interest, curious about what other photographers were doing, or checking out the art on display despite not understanding the medium. Then of course the owner would approach him, eager to make a sale, and be disappointed when learning he was yet another artist hoping to put bread on the table.

At least today he had an appointment. Mr. Wyman had sounded nice enough on the phone. A little gruff, maybe, but he didn’t sigh in irritation like the last few gallery owners, or hang up the phone after uttering those two dreaded words:
Not interested.

Kelly adjusted the portfolio folder under his arm and opened the front door. The gallery consisted of at least three rooms. In addition to the main space he stood in now, two wings branched off, one to each side. A desk sat farther back in the room, currently unoccupied. Kelly approached it slowly while glancing around. Only paintings hung on the wall. There wasn’t a photo in sight. Had he told Mr. Wyman which medium he worked in? He sure hoped so, or all this might be a waste of time. He passed a sculpture of an old man, arms so long the knuckles touched the floor, and tried to take this as a positive sign that the Eric Conroy Gallery was open to many forms of art.

Kelly set his portfolio on the desk, noticing the door to a back room just as someone came through it. The guy was handsome. Dark skin, darker hair, and eyes like ice. The man stopped in his tracks, half a sandwich hanging out of his mouth, and stared back. They knew each other, didn’t they? Kelly had travelled endlessly and met a lot of people over the last few years. His mind raced through a catalog of faces and places, trying to find a match. Maybe he wasn’t looking far enough back. Maybe this was from before he left Austin.

Oh.

Tim, Jason Grant’s imaginary boyfriend. This was... awkward? Or perhaps it was a good opportunity. Kelly couldn’t decide if it hurt his chances or not, so he put on his best poker face and pretended they were strangers. Tim seemed to adopt a similar strategy, or maybe he didn’t remember Kelly at all. Either way, he walked to the desk and set the remaining sandwich on a piece of junk mail.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I have an appointment with a Mr. Wyman.”

“Kelly,” Tim said, but not as a question. His expression betrayed him momentarily, as he either made the connection or chastised himself for not having done so sooner. He extended a hand. “I’m Tim.”

“Nice to meet you,” Kelly said as they shook.

They stared at each other another moment. Then Tim gestured with his head.

“That your portfolio?”

“Yes indeed.”

“Great. Pull up a chair and let’s take a look.”

Before Kelly sat, he opened the large folder and took out a few stacks. “They’re organized by theme,” he explained. “Landscapes, architecture, portraits, and abstract. I don’t do a lot of that last category, and you might be wondering why architecture isn’t grouped with landscapes, which to me refers more to nature, even though I put the animal photos in with portraits. Of course sometimes people are in the landscapes, complicating matters. I tried to go by percentages of what makes up each composition.”

Tim glanced up at him. “Don’t forget to breathe. You might as well kick back and get comfortable. Art speaks for itself.”

Kelly sat and tried to appear casual, even though his muscles were tense. Every photo Tim flipped through made Kelly want to launch into another barrage of explanations. But Tim was right. If his photos were good enough, they would tell their own story.

“I like this one,” Tim said, holding up an image of a gritty old farmer standing next to his tractor, one hand resting on the bonnet like it was his faithful steed. “Ohio?”

“Kansas,” Kelly said. “Same as that one.”

To capture the next image, Kelly had climbed halfway up a utility pole. The only things in-frame were waves and waves of wheat, ready to be harvested.

Tim grunted and continued flipping through the photos, occasionally setting one aside. Kelly hoped that was a good sign. He seemed more interested in architecture than landscapes, singling out more of those photos, especially a series Kelly had taken of abandoned buildings and homes in Detroit that were slowly deteriorating. Then came efforts of a more personal nature.

That smoky photo of Jared, or the one of William staring off into the distance that always made his heart melt. A transsexual couple he had befriended in New York, each heading in opposite directions in regard to their genders. A photo of Royal on the beach in Florida, eyebrows raised over his sunglasses, a group of girls farther down the sand mirrored in the lenses. That had been a good catch. Tim flipped through more familiar faces, pausing when he got to one of Kelly. It was the only selfportrait he had included, one he hoped was humble since in it he was about to trip over a dog, a look of sheer joy on his face as he ran for the first time in years. Not that his artificial leg could be seen, because Nathaniel was in the foreground, blocking it from view. His limbs were slightly blurred, arms and legs in almost the exact same position as Kelly’s, as if they were in synch. Kelly’s imminent fall suggested otherwise. In more than one way.

Tim stared long and hard at this photo. Then he set it down. “You a runner?”

“Yes,” Kelly said. He allowed himself a mischievous smile. “Confused?”

Tim considered him. “You remember me.”

Kelly nodded. “Of course. Last time we met, I didn’t have this swanky peg leg.” He stood and walked around the desk, lifting up one leg of his slacks until he got to the knee.

“You can run on that thing?” Tim asked with interest.

“That and anything else I want. They upgraded me to an X3 recently. Now I’m waterproof. Showers, swimming pools, random assaults by water balloons—whatever happens, I’m good.”

“Maybe we can go for a jog together sometime,” Tim said. “I’d love to see you in action.”

“Sure,” Kelly said. “Just try to keep up.” He returned to his seat and rolled down his pant leg. “I actually have your boss to thank for this. I used to model for Marcello years ago, and he’s been paying for any expenses ever since. Believe me when I say prosthetic limbs aren’t cheap. Not when they’re this state-of-the-art.”

“Big guy, big heart,” Tim said, “although he isn’t my boss. Marcello is my...” He appeared puzzled. “The thought is kind of disturbing, but I guess you could say Marcello is my best friend. Speaking of which, I didn’t know you were close to this guy.” He tapped on the photo. “That’s Nathaniel, right?”

“Yeah,” Kelly said, his voice a little hoarse. “Listen, it’s cool that we both know the same people, and as much as I really want this gig, I don’t want it for the wrong reasons. Judge my photos by their own merits, if they have any at all.”

“They definitely do,” Tim said. “You have some themes going here that will really resonate with the public. I’d like to single out a few, and assuming this is just a sample, maybe bulk up some of those themes for the exhibition. I’d also recommend a small selection that tells your story in images. Sort of a visual biography. We can work together on that and 5}

“Wait,” Kelly said, trying not to grin. “Is this all hypothetical? Or are we really going to do this?”

“Oh, it’s going to happen!” Tim said. “The world needs to see what real photography looks like again. Enough with the selfies! The only question is when. Your contact information has you living in New York. Is that current?”

Kelly nodded. “I’m down here visiting my family.”

“How long?”

“Just a week, but I could always come back later in the year, if need be.”

Tim cleared his desk enough to check a large planner. “Or, if you can extend your stay by another week, yours could replace an exhibition that was canceled because the artist burned all his paintings in protest.”

“What was he protesting against?”

“Success, I guess, because you can’t sell a pile of ashes. We’d have to start advertising and get invitations sent out right away. Sound good?” Kelly chuckled madly. “Let’s do it!”

“Cool,” Tim said. “Now comes the boring part.”

First they went over a basic contract. The gallery was non-profit, so if by some miracle Kelly sold anything, he would keep all the profits. He had to agree not to hold the gallery liable for anything that went wrong, but aside from that, it was all straightforward. Then he assembled a list of people he wanted to invite. Kelly doubted anyone he knew would travel across the country to join him, so he starting scrolling through his cell phone for old friends who still lived in the area.

“Should I invite Jason?” Kelly asked.

Tim grimaced. “Lately, anything that reminds him of William makes him start moping around. A month ago we were watching TV together when a Coast Guard recruitment commercial came on. Jason got up, went to the kitchen, and came back with a bottle of rum and a bad attitude.”

“Really? So they’re no longer...”

Tim shook his head. “I don’t think so. And I planned on using some of your photos of William. I suppose we could leave them out.”

“That’s okay,” Kelly said. “I’ll catch up with him some other time.”

“Marcello will want to be there,” Tim said, jotting down his name. “And I’m assuming you’ll want Nathaniel there as well.”

Kelly opened his mouth to correct him, but not a sound came out. Tim’s attention was on the list, his messy handwriting already spelling out the most precious name from his past. One Kelly still found on his lips occasionally, and even though he managed to avoid speaking it, the name was forever scribbled across his heart.

Not all of Kelly’s modeling jobs had been memorable, but there was one he was unlikely to ever forget. He’d been flown to Belgium, where a high-end client wanted to advertise a new line of winter scarves. What better way to do draw attention to such an item of clothing than make sure it was all the model wore? Kelly had been stripped bare, given a ridiculously long scarf, and had been asked to stride back and forth through knee-deep snow. Luckily the snow was fake, as was the winter backdrop, but he was still uncomfortable. Creative use of tape ensured the scarf just happened to be covering his business. Most of the time. When it came unstuck under the hot studio lights, the photographers would pause until this could be corrected. But Kelly had still checked every single image to make sure his integrity hadn’t been compromised.

As exposed as he’d felt back then, that was nothing compared to how he felt now. His exhibition was in full swing, every wall covered in his photos. Strangers were pouring in from the street, grabbing free drinks and scrutinizing his art. They had no reason to be kind, or to hold back in their opinions. Part of Kelly felt like hiding, but the rest had him patrolling the room, ready to defend himself if need be. So far everything seemed to be going well. Occasionally he took breaks from his nervous marching to greet old friends.