Page 29 of Center of Gravity

“Three thousand dollars for a fucking Chinese fan. Can you believe that?” he asked, flicking a glance to me.

“Doesn’t mean they’ll get that.” I shrugged.

“What’ve you got?” He nodded down at my feet.

“Civil War figurines. You paint them.”

He squinted at me. “What for?”

“I dunno. I think it’s supposed to be relaxing or something. That guy I told you about that I’m working for gave them to me.”

“He doesn’t want them?”

“They were his dad’s, and no.”

“This the one whose parents died in the same year?”

“That’s the one.”

“You’re giving me a dead guy’s stuff?”

“Well. Yeah, I guess I am. I didn’t think about it being morbid.”

“And if I knock off, you’ll just what, donate them? What’s the fucking point?” There was a vicious gleam in his eye and I couldn’t tell if he was about to go on a morose tear or a cynical one. But I thought it’d be one of those two.

“Jesus, Dad. I just thought it would be something different to do. Rob said his dad really enjoyed it.”

“All the way to the grave.”

God, the last twenty-four hours were characterized by me being way off-base. On everything.

I picked up the box and stood. “You’re right. Dumb idea. I’ll just stick them in the garage. Let them decay alongside my art career.”

Dad’s expression softened and he reached to catch me by the wrist.

“Hey, morbid is my job. Leave them. I’ll take a look.”

I set the box back down, but the look on my dad’s face said he wasn’t done.

“What?”

“You need to finish school. You need to go back when it starts up in the fall.”

I didn’t want to get into this discussion again. It came up at least once a week. Dad wanted to let the house go into foreclosure if necessary and move into a small apartment so I could finish school. Mom and I both agreed that the disruption and financial stress of that would be worse in the long run. Not just for Dad, but for everyone. I hated these discussions because they required me to try to think through my dad’s sickness in practical terms all the way to the possibility of him dying and it was just…it was fucking hard. Trust my dad to confront it head on, though.

“I just need to hurry up and either get better or kick the bucket so the life insurance will kick in.” My mom had started crying the first time he’d said it, and it was one of the few times since Dad had gotten sick that I’d been truly angry with him. Even if he was right.

“I’ll look into a loan or something,” I told him as he poked through the box. I’d told him this before, too, but I never did it. I had a hard time getting myself pumped up about finishing a stupid fucking senior project when my dad was dying, my mom was exhausted, and the financial situation was as volatile as a meth lab.

But when I left Dad to the figurines, I did go into the garage, both so I could wallow and stare at an empty sketchbook page.

I picked up a pencil and put a few aimless lines on the page, feeling the hesitation in my grip. I knew if I kept going, I’d start to lose myself, so I kept at it until my phone chimed a half hour later with a text from Rob:Can I ask a favor of you?

9

Rob

The call I’d gotten earlier had been from my boss, Richard.