(First published in Edge: Tales of Suspense)
PICTURE A WORLD
by
Stephen D. Rogers
Michael took another pull from the bottle of tequila, the bite blurring the lines of loneliness. It would be so easy to paint himself out of the picture the way Lisa had, so easy except for the deadline.
The architect wanted delivery tomorrow before he met with his bankers. No painting meant no payment. No payment meant no more tequila and even tequila couldn't be allowed to stand in the way of tequila.
Michael placed the bottle out of sight and turned to face the canvas.
The house was pencilled in, a corner lot, the perspective based on the architect's drawings. There was a car on the left for size and a little girl on the right for the human element, three trees and a few clouds a puffy white.
Welcome to the neighborhood.
Michael opened a tube of oil and squeezed the paint onto the palette, repeated the process until he had the colors he required to make the colors he needed.
The architect was window crazy and nothing was harder to paint than windows. In perspective, the closer the window the more transparent the glass. As the windows pulled back towards the horizon the glass became more reflective. Then there was the surface itself.
Michael blended blues, grays, and whites.
Leaving the picture window for last, Michael slowly painted the rest of the windows, frame by frame. He paused every fifteen minutes to check that the glass captured the light correctly.
In college he had called himself an artist and preached art for art's sake. That was the luxury of being a college student. When else did idealism feel like realism?
Six months after graduating, he found himself applying for a position as a civilian dispatcher to pay off his loans. When he couldn't convince his ever dwindling circle of friends that he wasn't a cop, he decided to grab the extra money and become one.
Anti-establishment hero becomes a tool of the oppressors.
Lisa helped him come to grips with the way things were. He even grew to like the job, at least the protect and serve part. He was a good cop and he knew it.
Now five years later he was an artist again. Just last week he bought a used car outright with the proceeds from his first paying job: Bloom Dentistry, paintings for the waiting area and three examination rooms, something to sooth the patients.
Michael hunted for the bottle and rewarded himself with a extra hit of tequila.
The picture window was next.
The architect had selected a box window which meant every row of panes was on a different angle, each one giving the glass a distinct set of qualities.
Michael took up his brush.
The first row was completely reflective.
The second row was mostly reflective, somewhat transparent.
The third row was more transparent, the yellow curtains clearly visible for the first time.
The fourth row was transparent enough to see the sixth row in the background. No, the curtain would be blocking that.
Michael stood to clear his head, chugged from the bottle to make sure his head wouldn't get too clear.
Becoming a law officer had been ironic but the work honest and engaging. The paintings he had stooped to doing, however, was closer to prostitution, shlock for shlock's sake. The dentist might as well have ordered some paint-by-number kits.
Michael fortified himself with another shot.
If it wasn't so late he'd make some coffee. Caffeine shakes could cause some interesting brush strokes. When was he meeting the architect tomorrow, ten o'clock?
What time was it now?
He glanced at the clock to see it was already tomorrow.
What if the architect hated the painting?
Michael sat and completed the picture window before he lost his nerve.
He squeezed out the colors for the siding and roof.
After selecting a clean brush, Michael quickly fleshed out the rest of the house.
Lisa would have loved this place. She liked lots of windows, craved light and lightness. In the end she couldn't handle being a cop's wife, especially a cop who couldn't even....
Michael swore and gritted his teeth. He only let his mind drift for a second and she was back, haunting him.
He took a quick sip and gauged the level in the bottle. Which would he finish first, the painting or the tequila?
The yellow curtain moved as a pale hand straightened a snag.
Michael rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. He only needed to concentrate. The windows were done. The rest of the house would be done shortly.
He finished the house and gathered more colors.
The little girl on the sidewalk was six years old, clutched a doll in her right hand. She had blue eyes but you couldn't tell from this distance. The dress was white. Her shoes were barely scuffed.
She was returning home after playing at a friend's. She wanted to be a doctor when she grew up. She had the brains for it and was good with strangers. She would make an exceptional caregiver.
Painting the street was simple. The development was new enough that scars hadn't had time to accumulate.
This was a perfect world.
The car was going to be a problem. Vehicles had always been difficult for Michael. There were no surfaces on a set plane, reflective metal flowing through all dimensions. And then of course there were the windows with their curved glass.
Michael let his gaze wander over towards the house. The architect couldn't complain about the job. Maybe there'd be others or at least referrals.
A face appeared at the picture window.
Michael took a healthy slug of tequila.
It was late and he was tired. His imagination was working overtime.
Channel that energy. Complete the car.
Michael could smell the newness of the vehicle as he brought it to life, saw a ding appear on the side. The owner must have been pissed.
Five years on the force, Michael had seen his share of fender-benders. Two cars totaled and all the occupants hospitalized, the hardest part was sweeping up the glass. But if someone was only tapped, out jumped the drivers shouting curses at each other, waving guns if they had them.
Michael glanced back at the house, saw the face reappear. There she was in all her pale beauty, Lisa, one hand pressed against the glass, fingertips tentative and endearing.
She couldn't forgive him for the death of Jessica, for not apprehending the hit-and-run driver and making him pay even though Michael hadn't been assigned to the case, had been ordered to stay away in fact. Shortly after the funeral, Lisa disappeared and not even her folks knew where she went.
Michael upended the bottle but when he finished choking she was still there, staring out the window at the little girl. For all the tequila he'd poured into himself, Michael had never been so sober in his entire life.
Jessica swung the doll as she skipped home.
With a roar the car whipped around the corner, the tires squealing as the driver tried to regain control.
"No!" Michael grabbed the sides of the canvas.
Jessica screamed as the car bore down on her, jumped the curb, flung her up into the air before pulling back out onto the road.
The doll landed on lawn unpainted.
Lisa came rushing out of the house. She scooped up her dead baby, turned to Michael and started screaming.
How could this be happening?
It wasn't fair.
Michael quickly looked away, unable to face any more guilt, and he then saw the license number of the vehicle as it continued down the street.
Michael still had friends on the force. Even if they weren't willing to follow up on the information, they'd tell him who the owner was. Once a cop, always a cop.
He called the station, asked who was working. Danny, Danny would help.
"I need you to run a plate for me."
"What's up?"
How did he explain? "I received an anonymous call tonight, a witness to the hit-and-run."
"I'm on it."
Michael recited the registration, keeping his eyes averted from the painting. Please let this not be a dead end.
"Mikey?"
"Yes?"
"At the time of the incident, the car was registered to a Paul Reston of Sherwood Drive. He sold it two days later."
Michael dropped into the nearest chair and covered his eyes with his free hand. "Reston could afford to change cars at the drop of a hat. He's a successful architect."
"You know him?"
I knew the color of his money. "I'm meeting with him tomorrow morning."
"That's fate for you."
"Yes, fate." Michael took a deep breath. "Thanks a million."
"No problem. You want me to send some backup?"
"I'll be fine." Michael disconnected and returned to the painting. He wanted to memorize all the details for his ten o'clock.
It was time to paint a killer into the corner.