Max shook his head. “Not really.”
Tate waved a hand dismissively. “I get that a lot.” He walked into the room, past Max. In fairness, the man’s limp wasn’t so bad. “We have the place to ourselves for a little while before my next sitting. Tell me about art.”
Max frowned. “Huh?”
Tate smiled as he settled onto a rolling stool, propping his cane against his thigh. “What’s your experience? Are you a beginner? What do you favor? Paints, pencils, charcoal? Tell me.”
Max glanced out the large French windows, which looked out onto the snow-covered land of the center. “I like paints. I painted when I was a kid. Spray-painted cars, detailing. I got busted for graffiti a few times.”
Tate smiled and nodded. “Ah, so you have a steady hand and you like color.”
“I guess.”
Tate gestured for Max to take a seat, which he did. “So I have to ask, what do you want to gain from this, Max?”
Max laughed without humor. “For Doc to leave me the fuck alone.”
Tate snorted. “I hear ya. But you need to want to do this for it to be of any benefit. I know Dr. Watts arranged this and the reasons why, but I want to know that you’re going to give it a chance.”
Max scanned around the expansive room, seeing the wooden easels, paintbrushes, color-splattered oilcloths and sheets, and sensed a small lift of exhilaration in his chest. He exhaled. “I want to be able to . . . express myself better. I need to express myself better because I need to get better.”
Looking back at Tate, he met a beaming grin. “I like it,” Tate said gently.
Max smiled. “When do we start?”
They started the following day.
Max found that getting out of bed was a little bit easier that morning, despite waking twice with night terrors, and was almost five minutes early to his allotted time. He wouldn’t say he was excited per se, but he was certainly looking forward to picking up a paintbrush again. Tate greeted him with a smile, a handshake, and another T-shirt that, beneath a picture of Leonard Nimoy, stated “Spock On.” Max considered briefly that maybe Tate needed an appointment with Elliot more than he did.
“I took the liberty of setting an easel up for you,” Tate said, leading Max over to a large tripod. “My question for you is, do you want a canvas, or are you starting smaller?”
Max considered his question. He’d never really painted on anything other than brick, concrete, or metal. “Canvas,” he replied. “Go big or go home, right?”
Tate slapped his hand against Max’s shoulder. “Outstanding.”
Set up with his canvas and choice of acrylics, Max perched on a roller stool and thought about what he wanted to say, what he wanted to show. Elliot had told him to express himself, but where the fuck was he supposed to start? The past couple of years had all but drained what inspiration he had dry. The other two guys in the room were busy painting and sketching like lunatics. Max sat for twenty minutes, doing nothing, before Tate approached.
“Okay?” he asked, leaning on his cane. Max shrugged and sipped from his bottle of water. “Tell me, Max, when you used to paint, where were you, who were you with?”
Max’s hands found his hair. “In the city or in the body shop with my best friend or my dad.”
“Did you have a routine?”
Max’s eyebrows met above his nose. “A what?”
Tate lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know, like, did you have a particular shirt you wore when you painted, boots, gloves, a particular brush, or product, any music?”
A lightbulb illuminated Max’s memories. “My dad always played rock music in the shop, or I had my iPod.”
Tate smiled. “Wait there.” He limped off quickly, leaving Max perplexed, and returned with an iPod in his hand, out of which hung a pair of white earbuds. “My taste in music probably isn’t what you would call rock,” Tate admitted. “That’s more my brother’s style, but if you give me some bands I could put a playlist together for you.” He held out the iPod. “Take it. Have a listen, maybe it’ll jog something.”
Max took the iPod, staring at Tate, as pieces of a jigsaw fell slowly into place in the back of his mind. “Moore,” he whispered, once again observing Tate’s height, bulk, and familiar smile. He stood quickly. “I’ll be goddamned. You’re Riley’s brother, the doctor, the war hero!”
Tate’s cheeks pinked. “I think hero is a bit of a stretch. I prefer black sheep, but, yeah, Riley’s my brother. Unless he owes you money and then I’ll contest all knowledge and connections.”
Max laughed. “Fuck, man.” He held out his palm, shaking Tate’s hand again. “We never met, you were always away, but I heard a lot about you from Riley. You were in medical school, then Iraq, right?” He glanced at the cane.
“And Afghanistan.”
“Wow. Thanks for that, man. I’ve known Riley nearly ten years. He’s babysitting my shop while I’m here. I really don’t know what I’d have done without his help, and—”
Tate’s smile was all-knowing.
Max pulled his hand back. “But you knew that already.”