Page 84 of The River Is Waiting

Next she asks me a series of softball questions. Was I trained as an artist or am I self-taught? What drew me to the Bruegel painting? How long did I work on the mural from start to finish? Then she leans close. “You were sentenced to prison after being convicted of negligent homicide in the death of your son, right?” I nod. “There’s rehabilitation, sure, but is there any getting over a tragedy like that?”

None of her goddamn business! “Can we please just talk about the mural?”

“Okay, sure,” she says. “Would you care to comment on the subversive nature of the work, Mr. Ledbetter?”

It’s a “gotcha” question, the kind I was dreading during my bouts of insomnia. When I glance over at Corrections’ PR person, it looks like she’s gone on high alert. I figure I’d better play dumb. “Subversive? What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve painted the prison property without the prison. Why?”

“Because I’m imagining the area centuries before therewasa prison—way back before the white European settlers came and it was Wequonnoc land.”

“Right. I get that. But that guy over there tells mehe’sin the mural.” She nods toward Javier, who’s chatting with one of the local politicians. “He says that’s him floating downriver with two other prisoners. Prisoners but no prison? Emmett Till and Trayvon Martin resurrected? An Indigenous tribe living again on the land? Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Ledbetter, but isn’t your painting a protest of sorts? Aren’t you arguing against white oppression? And wouldn’t some considerthatsubversive?”

Although she’s right, all I can think of to say is that all art is open to interpretation. She smirks as she jots down something on her pad. The photographer approaches, tapping the face of his wristwatch. “Come on, Abby,” he tells her. “We’re running late and I’ve got to get a shot of that ribbon-cutting.”

“Okay, last question then, Mr. Ledbetter,” she says. “Tell me about the little boy with the butterflies who’s way in the background. Is that your son? Your Icarus?”

Mrs. Millman runs interference for me before I can respond. “Corby, look who’s here!” Thinking it’s Emily—that maybe she got here in time to see the standing ovation they gave me—I see, instead, Lieutenant Cavagnero.

“Excuse me,” I tell the reporter. “There’s someone I need to talk to.” As I pass by Mrs. M, she gives me a wink.

Cavagnero’s face looks pale and drawn; he’s using a walker. “Good to see you, Ledbetter,” he says, limping slowly toward me. “If I’d have known you were anartiste, I would have exchanged your rake for a paintbrush.” I thank him for coming and ask how he’s doing. “Better than I was right after I took that spill,” he says. “A fractured pelvis is no joke, believe me. But anyway, congratulations. How’ve you been?”

I have the urge to tell him about getting kicked off the work crew and why. Instead, I say things are okay and that I’m looking forward to getting out in another ten months. “Oh, and that kid Solomon? He got transferred to a psych facility.”

“Good,” he says. “Never should have put him here in the first place. Now tell me about this mural of yours. What’s it mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean,” I tell him.

I stick pretty close to Cavagnero for the rest of the reception, avoiding as best I can any more questions or compliments. The commissioner and his gang leave shortly after theCourantfolks, followed by most of the others. When it’s only Javi, the Millmans, and me, Mrs. M tells me that several of the people she spoke with said how impressed they were with my work and that she thinks things went well. “I just hope all that praise wasn’t too painful for you.” She smiles.

“Excruciating,” I tell her. “Nah, just kidding. It was okay. Thanks for doing all this and for the kind words you spoke. Did you get a chance to lobby for more funding?”

“I did,” she says. “I spoke with Dr. Spears, the Unified School District superintendent, about beefing up the literacy materials for our new readers and maybe updating the law books in our collection. He’s invited me to call his office and make an appointment.”

“Sounds like a good sign. And by the way, thanks for rescuing me from that eager-beaver reporter.”

“You know, Corby, every time I stand in front of your mural, I see some detail I hadn’t noticed before. And when I discovered the little boy in the distance, I never presumed to ask you about him. Interacting with art is about beingimmersedin its mysteries, notsolvingthem—getting to the bottom of what they mean. That’s like asking Picasso why he misplaced Dora Maar’s eyes in the portraits he did of her. That reporter had no right to grill you like that, but she’s young; she didn’t know any better. Maybe she’ll learn.”

“Yeah, maybe. But anyway, thanks for rescuing me from her detective work. I appreciate it. Let me give Javier a hand with the chairs. Then I’m going to take off. I’m exhausted and I’m starting to get a headache.”

“It’s okay, hombre,” Javi says. “I got this. Now that you’re a celebrity, you don’t have to stack no chairs.” I start stacking anyway and tell him to knock off the celebrity shit. “Oh yeah, that’s right,” he says. “You onlymadethe mural, but I’minit. Guess that makesmethe celebrity.”

“Yeah, you’ll probably have people start asking you for your autograph.” He grins and says he’s going to charge five bucks a pop.

When I start to leave, Mrs. M tells me to hold on. Says she has something for me. She hurries into her office and comes out carrying a plastic bag bulging with leftover cookies. “As promised,” she says. “And this. It’s a printout of a poem that might interest you. Do you like poetry, Corby?”

“Not so much. My seventh-grade English teacher kind of killed that off when she made us memorize these corny poems she loved. ‘Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies.’?”

“Not a fan of Tennyson then,” she says.

“Nope. Or Vachel Lindsay either. We had to perform this poem ofhis called ‘The Potatoes’ Dance’ at an assembly. I had to do a solo: ‘There was just one sweet potato / He was golden brown and slim / The ladies loved his dancing / They danced all night with him.’ A couple of us tried to convince her that rap was poetry so maybe we could recite something by LL Cool J or Coolio, but she wasn’t buying it.”

She laughs. Says the poem she wants to share is by her favorite poet, W. H. Auden, and that it references the Bruegel painting that guided me as I created the mural. “I promise you don’t have to memorize it, but Auden might be more to your liking. If not, just toss it. Okay then. Get some rest. Don’t be a stranger.” She reaches over for another hug and I hug her back. The lavender scent is gone. I wonder why Emily was a no-show. Would she have been mad that I painted her and the kids in the mural? Would she have resented having to witness all that praise being heaped on the husband who had taken the life of her child?

Just outside the library entrance, a thin, elderly man who was at the program says he’s been waiting to speak to me. He’s well-dressed and soft-spoken—a retired-professor type, except for the skinny John Waters mustache above his top lip. “I won’t hold you up,” he says. “I just wanted to tell you I think your mural is exceptional. May I ask how much longer you have on your sentence?” When I tell him, he says, “That’s splendid. Not much more time at all.” For him, maybe.

He tells me he’s an art agent in New York but has been in Stonington Village for the past few days, doing some appraisals for an antiques dealer. “She was invited to your celebration but couldn’t go, so she had me put on the list in her place. I’m so glad she did. I wonder if you realize how talented you are.”

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