Free Monday, Monday: A Novel by Elizabeth Crook Page B

it. She looked at her shoes and made herself keep walking. A scatter of grackles out of the trees startled her, and she drew to a sudden stop but then continued, concentrating on her shoes hitting the pavement and the wind pushing her along. The air gusted, and the light shifted. Time didn’t slow as it had on that day; everything moved. The flag tossed in the wind, clanging the chain against the pole. Shelly narrowed her focus. She kept aware of Wyatt beside her, and fixed her eyes on the black blur of her shoes scudding across the ground. She intended not to glance toward the place where she had fallen, but then gave in to the impulse, and looking at the spot pictured herself lying there in a lopsided circle of blood. She wanted to run, but willed herself to keep walking at the same steady pace, and then stopped and asked Wyatt to wait for her. She walked over and planted her feet on the square of pebbled cement where she had fallen, and made herself look up at the tower.
    It was huge. Its height created the illusion that it was leaning toward her. She studied the deck and the enormous clock face and thought of Whitman’s eyes from the cover of Time magazine. She pictured his finger on the trigger. He’s not up there now , she told herself. But in her mind, he would always be up there. It’s cold today, not hot. I’m walking from a different direction.
    Her reassurances were empty whispers. Her heart pounded. But she didn’t run. She glanced around and saw the students going about their business: a girl in a blue coat and black Mary Janes, a boy tossing his arm around his girlfriend, people moving with purpose across the plaza, energized by the cold.
    Wyatt was waiting for her, holding her books, but she decided not to leave this spot until she no longer wanted so badly to run from it. She kept her feet planted exactly where her face had been seared against the hot cement that day, as if she were standing on her own crippled body. And she eyed the tower, the rows of windows and the observation deck at the top.
    Finally she turned and looked at Wyatt. He was watching her. She lifted her palms, as if to say, See what I’m doing? and make light of it. She thought he might smile, but he didn’t. She walked to him and they continued across the plaza together, down the steps to the East Mall. She made herself walk slowly, but at the base of the steps her knees began to feel weak again, and her heart wouldn’t stop pounding. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
    “What is it?” Wyatt asked her, leaning his head down so he could see her eyes.
    She kept walking, but couldn’t stop crying. “I’ll stop this in a minute.”
    When they had reached the art building, she splashed her face in the water fountain and drank more than she wanted, hoping the cold water would wash away the anxiety. But the pulse in her temples didn’t slow down.
    “I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’m fine. I want to look at the paintings.”
    On the second floor he took her to a studio where one of his students, bent over a desk, was sanding a square board that was coated in what looked to Shelly like plaster. The student was a thin girl with a high forehead and sloping chin, and she smiled shyly when she saw Wyatt.
    “Just like you warned me,” she said, showing him the board. “The gesso bubbled.”
    He introduced her to Shelly as he adjusted the heat under a double boiler filled with pale brown glue, then ran his fingers over the plaster coating on the board, inspecting the surface and edges. “You’ll need at least four coats on the back, and you should use a finer-grit sandpaper for this,” he told the girl. He showed her how to make firm and efficient strokes, the sanded plaster covering his hands in white dust.
    “Can Shelly see your geraniums?” he asked, and the girl took Shelly to a table on which a painting, about eight inches square, was lying. It was an amateurish work—Shelly could see that—but Wyatt pointed out colors and the