Page 9 of Cassie
Every day is easier
Hoss
Standing in the workshop, he looked at what Woody had done and grinned. “Prettiest goddamned frame you’ve ever made me, man,” he told his patch brother. Lying on the workbench between them was a rectangle made from three different kinds of wood, the inlay worked so fine it was seamless. An odd shape, because the sketch was much more rectangle than the norm, and even though it wasn’t mounted in the frame yet, he could see it in his mind’s eye. The lightly stained cherry used to accent the corners of the frame would highlight the bright blonde of the woman’s hair, while the ash that was her hoodie would offset the deeper shades of the burled oak along each long edge. “Beautiful,” he said softly.
“Matches the piece, brother,” Woody told him, his voice whiskey-rough with decades of sucking down sawdust in his workshop, washed away by cheap scotch and beer. “Who is she? Can’t remember ever seein’ this one around.”
“Only seen her to speak to once, man. Made an impression.” With a tip of his chin, he thanked Woody again, and reached out to pick up the frame. If he could get this back home in time, he could still organize the delivery for today. Tamara wasn’t happy he had decided to give one of his highest-paying collectors a freebie, but she could wallow in her disappointment for all he cared.
Standing in the hallway of their home with phone in hand, he looked up as Faith came through the door. “Hey, Dad,” she called, dumping her tablet case next to the couch. “Oh, wow,” she said softly as she rounded the counter into the kitchen and caught sight of the framed piece lying on the table. “That worked up nice.”
Walking towards her, he agreed, “Yeah, it did, didn’t it?” He was proud of this piece, something he hadn’t felt in a while. Working in the studio was satisfying, creating his snapshots, capturing the feelings that moments evoked in him was something that kept him going. His craft allowed him to loosen the ties held by anger and grief, helping evolve those emotions into something that people could see and appreciate. That was nice, but the act of getting it out there wherehecould see it was the best. Hoss punched the button to dial a saved number and waited.
The framed sketch, however, was something different. He had made something for Cassie, even without knowing it at the time. After he had looked at the piece, and then studied the walls of his workspace, he knew it didn’t deserve to be sentenced to obscure invisibility. Didn’t warrant being allotted only the most minimal of attention. This drawing rated the care that Cassie gave every piece she owned. She would delve into it, find the right emotion to accent and articulate, and then she would make itmoreby doing what she had done to the other paintings and sketches. Make it more than he could do on his own.
“Barry,” he said when the call connected finally. “Isaiah.” He waited for the normal pleasantries to be finished, and then drove forward for the purpose of the call. “I have a delivery for that Miss Williamson. The lady who boughtEndless Golden Beauty. When can you schedule the pickup?”
“Uh. She bought another piece? That’s awesome. I’ll call her and see when she wants it delivered. She’s…a little particular about timing.” Barry’s voice gave away the fact he was dancing around the difficulties that Cassie faced with them in her house, the same way he had done when Hoss had insisted on joining him for the previous delivery.
“No, she doesn’t know about this. I wanted it to be a surprise. A gift from me.” He smiled confidently because he understood exactly how much she would value the art.
He heard matching gasps of dismay, one from the phone and one from the kitchen beside him.
Faith said, “You can’t give her that picture of herself, Daddy.”
Barry said, “Boss, she doesn’t do surprises.”
Faith tugged at his arm and pulled his full attention to her. “Daddy, how well do you know her?”
“I’ll just give her a quick shout,” Barry said, and the call disconnected. Hoss gripped the phone tight, frustrated at the brushoff he hadn’t earned.
“When did you two first meet? At the last show? How long have you known her?” Faith’s questions didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t concentrate on her right now.
“Hold on a second, honey,” he said, hitting redial on the phone. “Crap,” he said when the tone indicated the line for the delivery company was busy. He hit redial again and Barry answered. Before the man could say anything other than “Hello,” Hoss told him, “Don’t contact her. I’ll find another way.” Thenhehung up on Barry.Fuckwad.
Turning to Faith, he said, “What do you mean I can’t give it to her?”
“Daddy, did you look at it?” She paused, then continued, speaking slowly, “I mean…did you reallyseeit?”
At her questions, he turned to the framed sketch again, eyes tracing over the lines and arcs, the whorls of dark and light that made up the drawing. Vulnerable and soft, the woman’s gaze was fixed on the man in the picture, his back to the viewer.Him. Cassie held her hopes and desires in her eyes, in her smile. His touch on her skin was possessive, tender in a way that told you the man cared deeply for her. This was a couple with a history of something good between them. Faith’s voice cracked when she said, “You can’t…that looks like you love her, Daddy. You can’t just surprise someone with that.”
He saw it, had surely known it when he was working on it. Knew what that emotion felt like, because it was something he saw in Faith’s face every day, different from what was in the sketch, but still love. His subconscious even knew it when he titled the piece,Declaration. What he saw in the sketch, what he had drawn there, was the kind of love he’d shared with Hope.Fuck.
“You’re right, Faynez,” he agreed softly, his hands reaching out for the edges of the frame, not willing to look at his daughter for fear of what he would learn from her expression. She made a distressed noise, and he shook his head, silencing whatever she’d been about to say. Throat tight, he told her, “I wasn’t thinking, baby.”
Without another word, he gathered up the frame and walked to the studio, adding the piece to one of the stacks leaning against the wall. He stood for a moment and stared at the beauty of the drawing framed in the work of love Woody had made, then turned his head, looking away.What the fuck were you thinking, old man?
After dragging a drape over the canvases, he twisted to look at the other sketches he had done of her. There were a dozen studies tacked to the working wall near an easel where he had begun a canvas using oil. It was his memorized view of her from the showing, in part profile, part silhouette, all beauty. In this scene, the painting she was looking at unremarkable, but her figure was vibrant, filling the canvas with life.
Drawn to it, unable to help himself, he picked up his palette, eyes on the unfinished painting as he squeezed additional pigment onto the board. Tipping his head to one side, he reached for a clean brush, dipped it into the paint and stroked the color onto the canvas.
***
Cassie
She woke, a scream trapped in her throat, feeling the stare of someone watching her, tracking her movements in the bed. Eyes tightly shut, she had a child’s belief that if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her. She knew who it was, knew their voices if not their names, heard the hushed whispers, fierce grunts as they tore her world apart.Get out, get out, get OUT!Shrieked in her head, the words had no more effect than the night she had uttered them aloud.
One slow breath at a time, she reclaimed her composure until she felt the muscles of her body relaxing. Sweat sticking the sheet to her legs, she kicked hard and shoved her limbs free into the chill of the air in her bedroom. Turning to her side, she folded her hands underneath her pillow and mouthed the words she wanted to be true. “It never happened.”
But it had. So, she breathed the words she knew in her gut were true. “I survived.”
An image of Mr. Rogers flashed through her head, the sound of the motorcycle sounding strong and courageous as he rode away, the heat from holding his hand still echoing through her flesh.My friends call me Hoss.In a whisper now, she promised herself, “Every day is easier.”
His voice rang in her memories, sure and patient, sounding like its own version of a promise that she was afraid of.I’ll make it work. I promise. She sighed and then, in a voice that was a little stronger than her previous whisper, she said, “I can do this.”
