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“I can understand that.”
“You can? Really?”
“I served with a guy who drew these big designs in the sand when we were in the Middle East during some pretty heavy fighting. We were losing guys every day, and we were having to kill people every day, and not just soldiers on the other side, because lots of different sorts of people were fighting against us. After every mission, he’d come back, hang up his gear, pull out this wooden paddle he’d whittled, and mark out, well, what I guess you’d call artwork in the sand. They never lasted because a wind storm would come through and they’d be gone. But he kept at it. I could never figure out what his designs meant and he never said, but they were pretty intricate.”
“Did you ask him why he did it?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“What’d he say?” she asked, with what seemed genuine interest.
“He said it was either do that or blow his brains out.”
“I’ve never killed anyone, but I think I can understand what your friend meant.” She slowly returned to her painting and started adding brushstrokes to it.
“I was told that you turned down some great art schools.”
She glanced at him in annoyance. “The timing was not right.”
“And now?”
“And now I don’t need them, do I? I educated myself. We have a wonderful library here in Putnam filled with books about everything I would want to know about from writers all around the world.”
“And I guess you didn’t need any formal art instruction.”
“I actually had an excellent teacher and mentor right here.”
“Who was that?” said a surprised Devine.
“You have no reason to know.”
“O-okay,” he said, wondering why she would have a problem with sharing information like that. “I understand you teach art part-time at the public school.”
Her expression instantly brightened. “I do. Twice a week at the very end of the day. That’s all they could afford. They barely have books in the school library or computers for the students. When government budgets are tight they always cut education; the students can’t vote.”
“But they will one day,” pointed out Devine.
“The kids were uninterested in art at first. But their enthusiasm grew as they got better.” She looked around. “But the odds are stacked against them. Jobs are limited in this part of Maine, along with opportunity. Drugs are rampant, and grandparents are raising their grandkids because of it. Ninety percent of families are on some sort of government assistance. Many of these kids are being dropped into big black holes, never to be seen again.”
“But you might find an artist out there who you could lead to another, better future.”
“I doubt I have that ability in me.”
“Why don’t I believe that?”
She put her brush down and stared at him. “Believe what you want.”
“Okay, let’s talk about your sister.”
“I didn’t even know she was in town,” she said automatically.
Just like her brother told me. And I believe it even less this time around.
“Did she come here often and not tell you?”
“She didn’t come here all that often. Once or twice a year.”
“When was the last time?”
