nightstand, an oval glass base filled with heavy oil and encased in brass workings. A fire crackled away in the hearth, a stack of split locust and oak piled near the stonework. It was a miracle the old place hadn't burned down in all these years. Mason leaned back on the pillows and stared at the hand-swirled patterns in the gypsum ceiling.
Okay, Mase, this is what you wanted bad enough to go to all that trouble for. You did everything but stand naked in front of the Arts Council grant committee and shake your goodies. You swayed the critics, sold your brand of snake oil, and now you've taken maybe the biggest step of your career. Maybe even your life. Because if you don't produce any salable work here, you 're looking at another foodstamp Christmas in Sawyer Creek.
And you'll have to look Mama in the eye, even if she can't look back at you, and tell her you failed, that your dreams weren't strong enough, that you didn't believe in them enough.
Diabetic retinopathy. A rapid deterioration of her vision, except she'd never said a word even as the tunnel closed in. She'd lied to the doctors long enough for the condition to pass the point of no return, and Mason had only found out when it was too late. She was too young for Medicare and not poor enough for Medicaid, but still could have gone ahead and run up the bills and then declared bankruptcy later. However, that would have depleted the meager savings she'd set aside for his education. Mason had wasted the money at Adderly, beating on hunks of wood and metal, trying to turn them into dreams.
The worst part was that Mason didn't know whether to admire her for her sacrifice or despise her for being so noble. Now she was scraping by on disability and whatever little bit Mason could afford to give her out of his factory paycheck. But that job was gone now, lost because of his pursuit of art. And still Mama was his greatest fan.
'Don't ever let go of your dreams, honey,' she said through teeth she couldn't afford to repair. 'That's all we got in this world, is dreams.'
Mason rolled to his feet and paced the room. It was the same way he paced when he was anxious about an idea, when he felt the itch in his fingers, when some new sculpture began to take shape in his mind. It was the same mixture of excitement and dread, excitement that the new idea was the best ever, and dread in knowing that the finished product could never match the dream image.
Except, this time, the anxiety wasn't the by-product of exhilaration.
This retreat was the biggest of his big dream images. He'd already decided that if no direction or recognition came from his time at Korban Manor, he would toss his tools off the old wooden bridge that separated Korban Manor from the rest of the world. Sure, the heights would give him trouble, but he could crawl blind if necessary. He'd listen to the metal clanging and clattering off the far rocks below, then he'd allow the blisters and calluses to heal while he found a real job.
He always knew that creativity came at a price. You had to pay the price even for a chance at failure. Doctors and lawyers spent ten years in college and paid tens of thousands of dollars. Criminals paid with the risk of lost freedom. Priests gave up pleasures of the flesh. Soldiers faced an even greater cost. Artists paid with other things, the cheapest of which was pain. Not that he minded suffering for his art. He just didn't think Mama should suffer for it. He looked down and saw that his fists were clenched into angry hammers, the rage nearly making him drunk.
He stopped pacing and leaned against the window, looking through the old-fashioned rippled glass to the manor grounds. Even though he was only two stories up, he had to grip the molding to keep the dizziness at bay. The woman he'd talked to earlier stood by the fence, petting a horse. The sunset gilded the horizon and the gentle light made her ethereal and beautiful, a fairy-tale princess floating above the grass. The green rolling fields, the shimmering sky, the sparkling lake at the foot of the pasture, and the seemingly weightless woman all seemed locked away in a dream.
And, according to his father, dreams were a goddamned waste of good daylight.
Mason went into the bathroom. The plumbing was primitive, though the fixtures were as ornate as the rest of the house. A cast-iron tub sat in the corner. The sink was marble, with gleaming chrome spigots and a framed mirror.
He faced the ceramic toilet and relieved himself, noting the small siphon tank set high on the wall. The pipes behind the wall jumped and quivered when he flushed. He washed his hands at the sink, glancing in the mirror. Though the water was cold, the mirror fogged.
He wiped at it with the sleeve of his shirt. Still the haze remained. He frowned at his bleary reflection. The face in the mirror seemed a little slow in responding, the sad and tired face of a condemned prisoner.
When he returned to the room, his tools were spread across his bed. They almost seemed to taunt him, daring him to take them up and fail. He didn't remember taking them out of the satchel. Was he that uptight and distracted?
The portrait of Korban glowered down at him, the imagined smile gone. Korban was just another taskmaster, a demanding and cold critic. An observer, outside the creative process, but ready to judge something that no one but the creator could understand. Just another asshole with an opinion.
Mason went to the tools, drawn as always by then-power. He bent to them, touched the fluters, chisels, hammers, and gouges, took comfort in their edges and weight. They ached to feed, they needed Mason's fingers to help them shape their world. And Mason needed them in turn, a symbiotic addiction that would create as much as it destroyed. He turned his back to Korban's portrait, then wiped the tools with a chamois cloth until they gleamed in the firelight.
'We can just push the beds together,' Adam said.
'Yeah, and when you roll over in your sleep, you'll be the one whose ass falls into the crack.'
'Wonder what kind of bed the married couples got.'
'Probably a swinging harness rigged to the bedposts, with a mirror on the ceiling.'
'Don't act so persecuted, Paul. This will be romantic, like in the old days when we used to snuggle on your sister's couch.'
'Yeah, until Sis found out. That was a scene that won't make it into a Disney family special.'
Adam sighed. If only Paul weren't so hardheaded. They would make do. They always had. And God wasn't out to punish people like them, despite the vehement rants of the rabid right wing.
'Listen,' Adam said. 'We'll push both beds sideways against the wall, and you can have the back. If anybody rolls off in the night and knocks his head on the floor, it'll be me.'
Paul rubbed his hair in exasperation. A few strands of it stood up, dirty-blond and wavy, young Robert Redford hair. That, combined with his half-lidded eyes and thick eyelashes, made him look sleepy. Adam liked that sleepy look. It was one of the things that had first attracted him to Paul.
'Okay,' Paul said. 'I'll quit griping now. This is supposed to be a second honeymoon.'
Adam smiled. Paul's tirades never lasted long. 'Does this mean I get my virginity back?'
Paul pulled one of the feather pillows from under the blankets and threw it.
Adam knocked it away easily. 'Say, did you get a load of Miss Mamie?'
'She could pass for a drag queen if she had a little neck stubble.'
They laughed together. Adam said, 'You don't mince words. And you don't mince anything else, either.'
'I'll mince your meat if you're not careful. And that's why you love me.'
'Well, that's one of the reasons.'
'Let's get unpacked. I want to go out and meet some people.'
'That's exactly like you,' Adam said. 'We go eight hundred miles to get away from it all, then you have to swing right into the middle of the social scene.'
'Live to party, Princess.'
'Hey, it's my inheritance we're throwing away here. And don't think I'm going to let you forget it.'
Paul gave his fake pout in reply.
Adam carried their luggage to the closet. Paul had three matching suitcases and a heavy-duty case for his video camera. Adam had only a gym bag and a backpack.
'Besides,' Adam said, 'when the money runs out, we can always rent that tremendously gorgeous body out for Calvin Klein commercials.'
'As long as I don't have to pose nude with Kate Moss. She gives me the willies.'
'If she gets a look at you, she'll want to carry your baby.'
'Like that will ever happen.'
