Free The Caterpillar King by Noah Pearlstone Page B

has to be a better way to cope with stress. Just has to be.
    Meanwhile, the child’s nowhere to be found.
A quick sweep of the room turns up little. I try to prop Galla up
to see if she’s crushed him. Doesn’t look like it. Think back to
the last time I saw him. In the bathroom, obviously. On my way,
listen for hints of his position. But can’t hear anything through
the bathroom door- it’s a thick, bulky thing, barely lets out a
sound. Open it up and an absolute flood of water pours out. Slam
the door shut on pure instinct. My shoes are soaked; the flood
spreads in every direction. Best to head back in, no time to waste.
Kick off the shoes, open the door again, plunge inside.
    Inside, conditions are on par with a
rainforest. Quite wonderful, really. The steam’s refreshing,
invigorating. Immediately want to get lost in it, sink into the
moment like a warm bed. But can’t quite yet.
    “Ahgutaguhhh!” A terrifying shriek from the
shower. Spy the little bugger through the steam. He’s got the water
on full blast, smashing away at his face. Can’t tell if he’s loving
it or in pain. Leaning towards the latter. I wade through a pool
that’s nearly up to my ankles. Where the hell is the drain?
Supposed to be useful for just these instances. Look into the tub,
and see the boy’s foot is right on top of it, pushing it closed. Of
course it is. Move his leg, lift the metal piece, and the drain
gurgles to life. Finally, turn off the shower. Order’s almost
restored, but the child starts to cry loudly.
    “What?” I say. “Tell me.”
    Water sinks all around him. He splashes his
hands into it with surprising violence.
    “Oh?” I say. “You want the water back
on?”
    Flip the shower on but keep the tub
draining. Smile spreads across his face instantly. A man after my
own heart.
    Glance at the mirror; it’s completely fogged
up. My canvas calls to me. Tate looks happy and alive enough. No
reason to delay for even a moment more. Now’s the perfect time for
steam art.
    “You want to see Daddy work?” I say. Room is
full of my equipment. Generally have a few pots of boiling water,
along with a pair of electric kettles. Really adds to the effect.
Can’t turn on the kettles now or I’d get zapped. Shame, but there’s
plenty of steam. Approach my canvas, a mirror the size of the wall.
Galla thought I was quite vain to have it installed. Explained my
true intention- to use it for my art- and still she repeated
herself. I suppose art is a vanity, after all.
    Look at the mirror, blank and foggy. Wait a
measure. Never make the initial strike too soon. A poor first
sentence is the end of a book. Wait another beat. Listen to the
steady hum of the water. Steam swirls around, envelopes me.
Normally would do this naked, but with the child in the room, seems
somehow boorish.
    Pointer finger is drawn to the glass almost
magnetically. Skin touches steam, dissolves it with a medium-thick
stroke. Pull downwards at a 60 ° angle,
curl up slightly at the end. Absolutely no idea what I’m drawing,
but that’s not a cause for concern. Create on instinct and
intuition. Logic has nothing to do with it. Fingernail against
glass, thin brush. Two slight curves that hug each other. The
painting reveals itself as I push on. Thick straight line,
horizontal. Use prints to fill in underneath it, playing the mirror
like a muted symphony. Ah yes, art comes on the offbeat. Takes a
minute before I realize what I’m painting. It’s the scene from the
cave. The caterpillars in the back, the cloth protruding from the
middle, the completed bags on the side. I’m absolutely haunted by
it. Study my painting for another moment, then crushed by
disappointment. It doesn’t look right at all.
    Want to make adjustments, but then the drips
set in. Oh God, the drips. Can be minimized by a slight thinning
and upturn at the end of lines, but that always rings false to me.
Would rather just live with the result. Used to bother me more, the
way they sink from