Dante Johnson's Arc

Chapter 3 of 7

That night Charity came by with two cups already poured in her mind. She kicked off her shoes at Dante's door and curled into his couch like she lived there. He almost believed she might stay for good. Then she said the thing he feared. "I moved here for the light," she said. "The October light. Saw one photo and packed my car." She sipped her tea. "But I haven't painted anything yet. Nothing's clicked." Her sentences shrank. "If it doesn't click, I go. I chase it. That's how I work." Dante set his cup down. The old fear climbed up his throat. People opened a door, then found a reason to shut it. She had told him she wasn't going anywhere. Now she named the thing that would take her. He watched her hands. They were still around the cup, but her eyes moved to the window, to somewhere else. He could charm her. He could change the subject and keep her comfortable. Instead he stood and crossed the room to his record player. Vinyl stacked beside it in neat rows. He had not played them for anyone in six months. "My mother collected these," he said. He slid a record from its sleeve. His hand shook once, then steadied. "After she died, I kept them in boxes. Couldn't listen. The sound hurt." He set the needle down. A soft horn filled the room. "This was the last one she played." Charity put her cup down. She didn't speak. She just watched him, and for once he let her. "You chase inspiration," Dante said. "I get it. But I think it's not out there." He pointed at the spinning record. "It's the stuff you're scared to look at. I've been running from this for years." He met her eyes. "Maybe you don't need a new town. Maybe you need to stop running." The horn played low between them. Charity's face changed. Something cracked open. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small sketchpad. Her pencil moved fast, then stopped. She turned it around. She had drawn him. His hand on the needle. The curve of his shoulder as he leaned over the records. "That's it," she whispered. "That's the drop. The little drop in my chest." She looked up, stunned. "It's not the light, Dante. It's this. It's you." She set the sketchpad on his knee. "I'm not chasing anything anymore," she said. "I found it here." Dante looked at the drawing. She had seen him. Not the clothes, not the polish. The real thing. He had shown her one piece of his sorrow, and she had drawn it instead of leaving. For the first time, he wanted to show her the rest.