Rowhouse with Artist

Thomasin LaMay

Somewhere near Fulton I’m looking for a student—I’ll call her C. She’s stopped coming to school and is missing. The house at her given address is now partially boarded, but I knew that arrangement was a stopgap. Two boys ride by on bikes, ask if I’m moving in but don’t think so. They tell me nice ladies lived there before, with a girl who liked drawing and dancing. The door is propped open with a brick. Go on in, they say, it’s messy but beautiful. So I do.

Here is what’s left for keeping.

Front room. Fresh remnants of breath and fried cooking, yellow paint on chipped plaster. A 10 foot wind chime hangs from the ceiling and tones when I open the door. Japanese fans are nailed to the walls, dotted with flowers, purples and reds. Chairs piled with clothes, crutches, an old box TV. The closet door is cracked in half. Its contents look like they wanted to leave but couldn’t.

Dining room/kitchen. Nineteenth-century deep blue, probably marked by lead. Oak table, sturdy buffet, tall hutch with dozens of delicate white dishes. Light strains a cautious path through a paneless window. Cake holders on the counter, dried roses, mostly pink. Maybe someone was a baker. Dish soap on the windowsill, curtains speckled with hand-stitched violets. The sun suddenly shifts to this side of the house. It’s like I’ve been noticed.

Second floor. A different person. Windows taped with black bags, ceilings coated with tar. Dirty mattresses stacked on the floor, a royal blue duvet. It’s the only piece with color. A drawerless dresser packed with clothes, pill jars, two open knapsacks, one has a gun. Down the hall there’s a sign that says Keep Out.

I wonder if they had plans to get their stuff, if they had someplace to take it.

The sun moves again. Wind chimes echo from below and up a very steep, narrow staircase to the top of the house. I sense warmth before I can feel it. Lights like little fireflies, air with soft breathing. The walls are green with scrapes and raw ceiling bruises. A long floor mirror catches the sun as if it were put there just for that reason. Rainbows, held in a small but plenteous space.  Tiny dancers.

There are closed doors on either side of the landing. I pick the one with a large, jubilant sun and generous smile. Sunlight tendrils reach toward whimsical figures flying in a carefree universe. When I look closely, each creature carries a word: light; laugh; live; love; lean; learn.

When I touch the door, my fingers tingle.

There is no knob on the second door, but I do not need one. The room opens like a rose blooming its petals.

Here I am—take a deep breath—for this, all of it, is holy.

There are pieces of garden throughout the house, but never could I have imagined this space. Hand-drawn flowers on swaths of peeling pink paint, everywhere, delighted. Near the window, looking for light, a purple flower. Strong, symmetrical, leaves pointing skyward, its root carefully drawn around a bullet hole. She offers her world benevolence. For all that is hard in this house, here is a giving, full-flaunt. So much left for keeping.

I would like to say that C’s art was an act of joy. Yet, I know she suffered from multiple traumas; she hurt. She was in my group because she’d left school before and was trying to reconnect. I would also like to say that I know where she is, but I don’t. Probably won’t. The house has recently been flipped for renovation, and you will never be able to see this story in person. But it’s absolutely still there, in the walls. Everywhere, undeterred. A girl’s spirit. Permanence.

Next to the front door, on my way out, there’s a thumbprint, signed “C.” And a blazing sun, no bigger than a fingertip, in gold glitter paint.