Page 62 of Icarus

Sorrel was busy every day of this week, but would be available while Icarus was busy at Helios’s. Luca and Celestina decided they would meet up without Icarus, then do something together when he got back.

Now all Icarus had to do was figure out how to ask his dad about taking time off.

He had missed school pretty regularly for years, but it was always for something his dad wanted to do, never him. And even then, not for vacation, only work trips.

Even without the torque, Icarus had enough money saved up to buy a plane ticket to anywhere in the world, twice over. Not needing to ask his dad for money or help before leaving wouldn’t be suspicious.

He waited until Friday to bring it up, watching his father’s temperament closely.

Cotton

Angus was in the workshop doing something noisy, again. Perhaps making paints.

They had rows and rows of shelves of paint and dye, oil, latex, acrylic, watercolor, gauche, encaustic. But historical paints, organic paints, would occasionally have to be made from scratch the hard way.

They’d had plants drying in the sun for weeks, packages showing up from China, Egypt, Brazil; the room smelled sharply of piss from the Indian yellow sitting innocently in a lump. Somehow still making the space reek from inside a sealed box.

Angus was grinding for aquamarine when Icarus approached him from behind.

“Respirator, Icarus,” he called, somehow hearing footsteps over his own noise. Icarus put the regular hospital-style paper mask down and picked up the heavy-duty respirator mask with big plastic filters on the sides and the accompanying goggles. He also slipped on a pair of gloves. Icarus hadn’t been planning on assisting, but he knew his father’s wrists were starting to hurt. He had begun wearing his braces again.

“Vine black, if you’re helping,” Angus grunted.

Icarus crossed the room and opened the fridge. Vine black was charcoal made from grape vine twigs, and they only made it in small batches. He pulled out a large Tupperware container and removed a few tablespoons. Then he grabbed the glass muller, a large piece of sheet glass, and the linseed oil Angus had made a few months ago.

He set himself up, sifting the powdered charcoal until he was left with a fine dust. Icarus poured the charcoal onto the glass pane and introduced it to the linseed. He didn’t begin to speak until he and his father were both mixing at the same rhythm.

“I want to take a trip next week,” Icarus said. “I need you to sign me out of school.”

The charcoal was still gritty beneath the glass muller, but it would be smooth soon. He rubbed it faster.

Angus was quiet for a bit. “Do you have any work or projects that would coincide with this absence?”

“No.”

They ground together while Angus thought. Icarus looked down at his work, refused to meet his father’s eyes. The charcoal needed more linseed, but if he ground it like this, sticky and black, it would go faster. It was a cheater’s technique.

“Do you need to take anything with you? Any weapons or gear?”

“No, sir.”

Icarus’s goggles were fogging, he must be sweating beneath them. He could feel his father watching him.

“I . . . need some time away. I’ll be back by Sunday morning for church.”

Angus had stopped grinding, but continued again.

“You are nearly a man grown,” he said, echoing his earlier words. “There aren’t many places where you haven’t been. Or many places where you couldn’t go.”

Icarus stayed quiet.

“You’ve never asked for this,” Angus continued. “You’ve also never let me down.”

The pestle swirled like a metronome. Icarus added more linseed and swirled the paint counterclockwise.

“You can go. Bring me back something beautiful if you can.”

“Thank you, Dad.” A drop of sweat from his hair landed on the glass pane and he swirled it in with the rest.