Free Beautiful Musician by Sheri Whitefeather Page B

artwork. I used to graffiti when we were
on the streets.”
    The parallels continued, right along
with my crazy fear. “Are you an artist now? Is that how you make
your living?”
    He shook his head, surprising me with
his answer.
    I double-checked his response. “You’re
not an artist?”
    “ Yes, I am. But that isn’t
how I make my living. I’m a freelance locksmith. I know, and with
the name Lock.” He shrugged, laughed a little. “I get ribbed about
that a lot.”
    A locksmith named Lock. If this was a
hallucination, why had I created that identity for him?
    “ I actually have my first
art show coming up,” he said.
    I blinked, grappling to break free of
the locks. “You do?”
    “ It’s in a few weeks, if
you’d like to go. It’s at a gallery a friend of mine
owns.”
    A showing. At a gallery. By an
owner-friend. How could he be a product of my imagination if he had
a life outside my mind? “I’d very much like to go.” To see his
work. To talk to his peers. “Can I bring my aunt with me?” If Carol
met him, then I would know, without a doubt, that my sanity was
intact.
    “ Sure. That would be
great.”
    It was beyond great. He
had to be real. He absolutely had to be. “Then we’ll both come.”
    “ Do you have a pen and
paper? I’ll write down the information for you.”
    I dug through my purse and found a
pen, but no paper. He got up and grabbed a napkin to write
on.
    He gave it to me afterward, and I
noticed how striking his penmanship was. Most guys scribbled, but
not this one. His script looked like a natural form of
calligraphy.
    “ What’s your artwork
like?” I asked. “Can I see any of it online?”
    “ Not yet. Not until after
the show. But it has a street vibe, like the graffiti art I did
when I was a kid. I’m a fantasy artist, too. Mostly I just paint
whatever feels right. I did a self-portrait that depicts my unknown
identity. It’s a nude. To me, that’s the purest form of
self-expression.”
    I merely nodded, wondering,
shamefully, what he looked like without his clothes. Then I caved
in to curiosity and asked, “Is it going to be at the
show?”
    “ I haven’t decided yet. Do
you think I should include it?”
    Feeling like the virgin I was, I
fussed with my coffee, peeling bits of plastic off the rim of the
lid. “That’s up to you.”
    Silence drifted between us,
intensifying the moment. I waited it out, hoping he changed the
subject.
    He said, “I did a portrait of Jack
that I’m definitely going to include. I painted him from memory,
the way I remember him most, with his chipped smile and a frayed
beanie pulled down low on his head.”
    “ How did he become
homeless?”
    “ He didn’t have any family
left and he was too mixed up to hold down a job or make it in
mainstream society. The only place that made any sense to him was
being on the streets.”
    “ How long ago did he
die?”
    “ It’s been three
years.”
    I did the math. “When you were
seventeen.”
    He nodded, his voice brimming with
emotion. “I was still in foster care and missing the life I had
with him. I used to get on a bus and go downtown and see him
whenever I could. Then on one of those visits, I couldn’t find him
anywhere. Finally, I went into the shelter where he sometimes
stayed and learned that he’d had a heart attack and was gone. It
happened the night before I got there. I was one day
late.”
    “ I’m sorry.”
    “ It helps to talk about
it. That’s why I joined the support group. I wanted to connect with
people who understand what it’s like to love someone like
Jack.”
    Someone like Jack. Someone like Abby.
“I understand.”
    His gaze sought mine. “I can tell that
you do, and I appreciate you listening to my story.”
    What would he say if I told him about
the warrior? Would he think it was a twisted coincidence? Or would
he think it was some sort of beautiful fate? I was still trying to
get a handle on it myself.
    “ Thanks for being here,
Vanessa.”
    “