The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,98

burning brighter than its surroundings.

On our street, which forms a border to the bottom of the mural, a family of saints. A bearded man. A woman. Two smaller men. Their features don’t resemble ours particularly—apart from St. Rick, none of the faces look familiar, whatever Deedee says about everybody having to look like somebody. They all resemble one another, however. And it’s not what they resemble that matters, but what they represent.

Rick’s eyes travel the wall, taking everything in. I can tell from his expression that he’s overwhelmed. But he seems to be processing, making some kind of connection in his head. He stares, but not blankly. That stare is full of meaning.

“The bishop,” Deedee says, “was a little taken aback. He started off enthusiastic enough, but that was before the streets were populated. Once the saints came marching in, he had some doubts.”

“What does it all mean?” Rick asks.

Deedee’s about to speak, but Roy interrupts, laying a finger against the side of his nose. “That’s the question you can never ask—not of the artist, anyway. You’ll get a different answer every time, and what they all amount to is this: what it means is already there. It’s telling you what it means.”

“He’s right,” Deedee says. “I can no more ‘explain’ it than you can. There it is. Interpret away.”

She flings this out dismissively, as if it concludes the topic. My husband, however, takes the invitation seriously. He turns back to the mural, squinting hard, and I can tell he’s working on an interpretation. I feel a bit panicky all the sudden, afraid of what he might say. So far we’ve avoided any friction. Instead of reading that as a good omen, I take it as proof that there’s a catastrophe around the corner. A big one.

“This is great, Deedee,” I say. “Really wonderful. Thanks for giving us the sneak peek. Right, Rick? Honey? We’d better get back . . .”

“I think—” he says, pointing at the mural. His arm bobs a little, so that the pointing hand reminds me of a dippy bird, one of those toys that bends down to sip water from the glass with its beak. “I think it’s saying that the world is full of souls. Not just human animals, not just living things, but . . . people. That there’s something—I’m not sure what to call it; a divine spark?—inside of us. The world is full of this holiness, this enchantment that we don’t see . . .” His voice trails off. He nods, still looking at the mural.

I glance at Roy, who raises his eyebrows. I raise mine in reply. I don’t know who just said that. It didn’t sound like my husband to me.

“It’s good,” Rick says finally. “It’s very good.”

With that, Deedee beams.

chapter 19

It Takes a Village

The day of Margaret’s return from the hospital, Rick keeps the boys home from school to help him with a project. No matter how hard I pry, he won’t give me more information than that. Instead, he urges me to get out of the house. “Call your friend Holly,” he says. “Go shopping.”

“I want to be here when Margaret gets home.”

“That won’t be for hours. I checked with Deedee and they’re not even going to release her until after lunch.”

“You talked to Deedee? The two of you are like best buds these days. Ever since you liked her painting. Should I be jealous or what?”

“What you should be,” he says, “is out of the house.”

As I’m sitting in the driveway, waiting for the VW to stop its start-up shimmy so I can put the transmission in gear, something flashes out of the garage, passing on my right. Craning my neck, I catch Eli’s back. He’s standing on his bike pedals, pumping away for maximum speed, disappearing in the direction of school. Not a surprise, really. Eli hasn’t given an inch since Rick moved back into the house.

Rick comes out of the garage, gazes at the horizon, and shakes his head. I crank the window down. “I guess that’s one helper down.”

“We’ll see. He might calm down and head back.”

“Maybe.”

This is as good a time as any, I think.

“Hey, Rick, there’s something I should tell you.”

He walks around to the driver’s window, arms crossed. There’s bound to be a better way of doing this. Sitting in the driveway with the engine running doesn’t seem ideal. But I’ve waited so long already without finding the perfect moment.

“It’s about Eli,” I say. “There’s a problem. He’s been experimenting