2.
 The marks were all over America, maybe the world, but Mick Thompson hadn't traveled that far. Not yet, he thought glowing inside as he tiptoed down the night path to the car. He carried his easel under one arm and his suitcase in the other hand. One day he would sell his paintings in New York and London and Rome, but for now he had to rely on his older brother's sense of practical survival.
Lisa, his fiancee, and Ben, his older brother, were in the car already. Ben had unscrewed the dome light so they were less likely to be seen in the dirt driveway between the darkened houses. It was a moonless night, but the sky was clear and starlight cast a mercurial glow. Mick recognized Lisa's shadow by the big frizz of beautiful hair. The other, lumpier shadow was that of Ben, who hunched in the rear seat. When Mick drew closer, he saw in the light of a street lamp that Ben was just rolling up his .38 revolver in a white linen cloth.
"Hurry," Lisa whispered to Mick.
Mick slipped open the trunk. Ben had unscrewed the light there also, and Mick had to feel around, pushing pillows this way and blankets that way to make room for his easel and suitcase. Cosmetics rattled faintly in a cardboard box, and Mick inhaled the mingled fragrance of their life together—Lisa's flower perfume, Ben's assertive Tycoon aftershave, Mick's woodruff deodorant. His paints and a few other possessions were already stashed. As he closed the trunk lid, Mick cast a regretful glance back at the house that had been his home—their home—for nearly a year.
"Hurry!" growled Ben.
The house was a Victorian four-family structure. If its gingerbread decorations had once stood out amid gables and cornices, now what stood out was the attitude of the landlord, a 30-year Navy veteran with a slim frame, red face, and piercing menthe eyes. The more the three got behind in rent, the fiercer the landlord's eyes became, and the redder his complexion.
"Honey," Lisa pleaded. "Mickey, we've got to get out of here." He loved her voice, though sometimes it could be used to express petulance, disapproval, even momentary cruelty. She had a fine voice; and it added to Mick's ardor that she'd sung backup to a rock band that had later been on national TV. They could make love and listen to her singing; they could time their climaxes in the old whispering house, with time suspended, just she and Mick, he tangled in her long, thin white limbs while she moaned and thrashed.
Mick cast yet another glance back at the house. On the second floor beside them lived two sisters. One was Em, paraplegic and confined to a wheelchair. The other was Monica, a stunning beauty who, in his painterly opinion, might not have the body of a Lisa, but Lisa's face was plain compared to the luminous beauty of Monica's. Mick felt a mixture of longing and guilt, knowing he'd never see either one of them again. He felt torn and frustrated, because he had dreamed of painting Monica. And that seemed to be how life went, this constant moving on.
"Hurry, Mickey!" No petulance this moment, just urgency.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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