Page 17 of Icy Heart, Empty Chest

“ W hat do you want to know?” I asked warily.

“Tell me about the day he was arrested. The museum benefit. You were a sophomore,” he prompted.

“Yes, Damien, I was a sophomore.”

I swirled my beer bottle around, thinking back. I hated everything about that day. The anticipation and the horror.

“Let me set the scene.

“My father had been talking about this painting for months. He had finally gotten it to the museum and gotten it cleaned. He thought it had been lost to time and had been too over the moon to figure out its authenticity.

“So much so that the museum decided to host a benefit. It was a Thursday night, of all things. It was to be a light-appetizers-and-small-presentation type thing, some glad-handing with the politicians.

“My father didn’t care about any of that. He wanted to be in charge of its preservation but revenue is a thing to consider. The museum director insisted he show up to introduce the painting as part of the museum’s collection.

“I remember him, in his weary way, telling me that I didn’t have to go and that it was a school night.

“How could I not? I was so proud of him, putting in those long hours, bringing books back and forth to look at. I insisted on going with him, as dressed up as a sophomore girl could be.

“He told me earlier that week that this painting could put him on the map and that good things would come of it.

“I couldn’t have known how wrong he was going to be. I couldn’t have known the fallout from that one night.

“His arrest. His trial. His jail time.

“I thought about it at least once a day, ten years later. I should have just feigned illness, should have made him stay home.

“As soon as we got to the museum, my father’s friend pulled him aside.

He looked worried. My father didn’t though.

He was in his best suit, which was at least ten years old, likely last worn at my mother’s funeral.

He smiled and patted his friend’s arm but I couldn’t get the stony look he gave me out of my head.

“I remember asking him, in a childlike way, if there was something wrong. My father smiled and patted my shoulder, looking jubilant. No, nothing was wrong. Someone was mistaken about something but it was just a misunderstanding. I found it hard to believe him. As a child prone to worry, his friend’s expression was searing into my head.

I vowed to stick with him no matter what.

“I mingled a bit before his presentation, looking at the other showing pieces but mainly staying by his side. A lot of introductions to people I don’t remember, half of which asked if I was going to be in art like him. Of course I smiled and said yes.

“Of course, then it came time for the presentations. The museum director gave a small speech about the importance of the arts, for culture and for society. He ended with a pitch for money but as it was a benefit, any proceeds would have already gone to the museum. They were under no financial strain as far as my father ever knew or let on to me. He was fidgeting with his bow tie. The museum director was a tall fae, charismatic, welcoming, younger. My father was not the definition of aging gracefully. He’d ever been plagued with heart problems, was prone to a nervous disposition and often enjoyed the company of books more than people.

He’d always gladly explained what he knew but disliked the commotion of crowds.

“I had commented on that earlier. I asked him what he was going to do about the commotion. He gave me his half smile and said he’d just focus on me. Like he was teaching me an art lesson. I remember hugging him and saying I loved that.

“Now it was his turn to ascend the stage.

He nearly tripped over the light and got feedback from the microphone at first. He introduced himself as Theo, one of the Fae Golden Age experts with his doctorate in the subjects.

The painting was only a small thing, hardly bigger than most conventional computer monitors.

“He started with the subject, two nymphs in a field, one resting by a tree and another looking on by a nearby brook. He described the posing was of a specific age. The tree appeared to be ancient and imbued with magic. The painting’s magic itself had the breeze floating through the trees.

You could see the ripples in the paint of the water and the flowing of the first nymph’s hair.

The shadows were painted uniformly. The brushstrokes were clean and intentional. There was a softness to it.

“I think I remember almost every word that he said. At one point I thought I heard a commotion behind me.

“I ignored it. I knew not everyone was as appreciative of the arts as others.

“I just kept focused on him and he on me. After describing the authenticity of the frame, he opened it up to questions. It was at that time when I turned.

“Your father and two uniformed police officers were next to me.

“In his mild-mannered way, my father asked what their presence was for.

“Your father replied it was for him and that he was under arrest. The two officers of the Magical Force took to the stage and handcuffed him next to his painting.

“He was able to squeak out through his terror what the charges were.

“Your father, in his deep voice, told him that he was under arrest for suspicion of “fraud to the museum and theft.”

“My heart was pounding in my chest. I tried to push to his side but no one would let me through. I almost caught up to him when my father’s friend grabbed me by the arm.

“‘Don’t,’” he whispered. “‘Don’t let them see.’

“I didn’t pay attention to that and was shrieking after him.

“He took me back home later. I found the spare set of keys. I remember sitting in the shower with the heat on full blast. I couldn’t get warm. I couldn’t stop shaking. I was still a minor. No one would tell me anything. I had no other family but I knew what was expected of me.

“I got up for school, tired and alone. I made myself a lunch and forced myself to eat some breakfast. I’m certain I looked frightful.

I rode my bike to school and chained it.

And then the looks started. They’d stare at me for a second, turn away and talk.

I hadn’t turned on the computer but I had no doubts that in a small town like ours, word had gotten out, onto the web.

I reminded myself to cancel the newspaper.

I wasn’t going to like to see my father on the front page or in the gossip columns.

I had to steel myself in homeroom, the various classes.

“I remember being called to the principal’s office who stonily put a copy of today’s paper in front of me. My father’s back was to the camera and out of the corner of the shot was me.

“His message was perfunctory at least—is there anyone he could call or did I need anything.

“I shook my head, lied and said my aunt was coming to take care of me. I remember repeating that lie a few times. As long as there was an “adult.”

“Then, there was the mail. He got quite a few letters from old colleagues, friends. I opened some. They were a comfort. Then others came, ones that just decimated his character. I just put them in a box after that.

“Bills also came in the mail.

“I distinctly remember the day I sat before his computer with my hands shaking. I knew his password involved my name. After a few tries I got it. Annie and Cora. My mother and I.

“It took a month for me to get down what I needed to do. My mom had a trust for me, one of my accounts. She had made me promise not to use it before college but I couldn’t keep that promise.

I still had to eat. I still had to live here.

I still had to make the house OK for Dad when he came home.

When he came home. I had to remind myself that with a good lawyer, he’d get through this. I had to think positive.

“I set up the mortgage to my trust, web access, the septic, the heating. Taxes. Everything was paid on time.

“I’d do my own food shopping, learning very soon the limitations to my own cooking knowledge.

Sometimes I would cook just to cook, save it for leftovers.

I just didn’t want to eat during that time.

Water, juice, tea or I’d get headaches. I used to like the house quiet but I came to realize later that I liked knowing my dad was here doing his own thing and I was here doing mine.

At some time in the night we’d have dinner and watch a movie, do a puzzle.

“I did a lot of cleaning during that time. A lot of his stuff I had to box and put away. My mother used to say he was notoriously messy. It was just the way his brain worked. Meticulous at work, scatterbrained at home.

“It was OK. I could do it myself.

“I refused to let the house fall to disarray. No matter how bad it got I wanted it to be like he never left.

“My only real contact during this time was my dad’s friend. He’d call to check in. I’d ignore the how-are-you-doing questions and launch straight into arraignment and trial. He’d sigh and tell me everything he could find out.

“When you, Damien, didn’t call or text, I thought it was your less than subtle way of backing away from me.

I thought you might have been embarrassed or angry at him or me.

By the end of that year, you weren’t talking to me much.

You didn’t avoid my eyes but you didn’t say much to me either.

Nothing comforting or caring from my oldest friend.

I wasn’t very welcoming either. I shut down the world around me.

Very few could get in if they tried. I thought it was the same with you.

You were collateral in all this. I thought maybe it killed you too to see him like this.

“When the trial started the media attention got overwhelming. There would be reporters outside my house every other night, doing a piece. Early on they would try to knock on the door. I opened once, not knowing. Never again. I still get haunted by the flashing of the cameras.

“The trial was its own special brand of hell. Tried and over with within a year and a half was ridiculously fast in our world. I couldn’t understand who could think my father a threat.

He had a perpetual cough and grey tinging his skin at all times.

He was never well and often went to the doctors and healers but only when it didn’t interfere with his work.

“I remember asking the friend, let’s call him Simon for this conversation, to pick me up to go to trial dates. He sighed and told me he should say no. He should protect me from the lies. I told him that I was a kid and I needed to see my dad. He didn’t have anything to say about that.

“The day came to cross-examine my father and the police detective that brought him in. A certain Lieutenant Daemon Whithorn. Father to my oldest friend. The biggest object of my ire.

“I remember them half dragging my father in and putting him on the stand. I knew he saw me. He didn’t dare smile but gave me a brief nod. I’d take what I could get. I was always close to tears those days and a few spilled over onto my skirt.

“Still, I paid attention.

“I saw my father’s court-appointed lawyer attempt to make his case.

My father was a very private citizen who had never had a criminal conviction before.

He was an expert in his field and had been authenticating pieces that were brought into the museum for decades.

The museum was his home and sanctuary; he valued and cherished every piece that was brought in, restored it meticulously for exhibition.

There was no motive to be found here. Any charges were erroneous and false.

My father was no criminal mastermind, just the victim of wrong information.

“Those from the museum made their case. Yes, my father had a long history with the museum.

He never had any disciplinary action against him.

He was used in other territories to look over other pieces.

His work had been invaluable to the museum.

In fact, the money brought in from the benefit that night would pay his salary alone for two years over.

“Then the lies started. They painted him as desperate. A single man raising a child on a single salary. Maybe he got greedy. He was ill. He couldn’t do this forever. Maybe he needed a backup plan, so to speak.

“Then Daemon took the stand.

“It was the smile I couldn’t stand. A smarmy smirk like he was about to serve the deepest justice.

“After some initial questions about his qualifications, the defense launched into it.

“Daemon smiled all fifty of his teeth and told the court the police department had received an anonymous tip about the museum.

As he handled those type of crimes, it fell on his desk.

The tip alleged that my father knew in advance that the painting was a fake and that there was a plan to sell it.

He was going to defraud the museum and pass off the fake as authentic.

“Simon would grit his teeth at the absurdity of it all.

He was confident that most of the charges would be dropped.

And most were, due to lack of evidence. All except the authenticity issue.

It ended up damning him. He refused to make a deal.

He said he had staked his reputation on this trial. He would walk a freed man.

“It all came down to reasonable doubt. At the sentencing, the judge told my father he had thought long and hard and had handed down the minimum sentence. Because they just couldn’t prove the reasonable doubt otherwise.

“I remember the look on his face during sentencing. I thought he’d faint, looking even more grey than normal. He was tugged away by guards to face his fate.

“‘Simon/Caesar’—Finneas, brought me outside and I remember immediately throwing up. He held my hair back, grimacing. The longest two years of my life would begin that day.”