“Don’t, Soph,” I said. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
So I didn’t phone Sophie. No matter how much she wanted to believe in signs and the sudden surfacing of clues to her death, I knew the mysterious appearance of Lucy’s Yoda wasn’t going to make a rat’s ass of difference. Finally I rose, crossed the darkened room, and placed Yoda on the shelf where her other treasures remained displayed. At some point in a future I could not imagine I supposed we would have to empty her room, clear out the very last of her clothes from the closet and the dresser drawers. All would disappear. We would fold her favorite larkspur-blue sweater and place it in a carton with the rest, box up toys and treasures, her books and makeup. And with each item, over and over, Sophie and I would have the torturous conversation about what to do with it all, all those objects that held no meaning for anyone but us. I couldn’t bear to think of another child having any of Lucy’s belongings but found it equally intolerable to think of throwing away any of it, even a half-used tube of pink lip gloss. Someday, perhaps. But not then. Not then. The idea was beyond painful, and I knew enough not to bring it up with Sophie. In the past months I had experienced grief, but below and running through the grief I was left with loss. Loss was forever. There in my daughter’s room the truth of that tightened my heart. My throat closed against a salty burn, and I left the room. I was not a crying man. Sophie had wept enough for both of us.
I spent a dreamless night. It was late morning by the time I headed out to the boat barn on the wharf. As I walked, I noted again how the landscape of the town had changed. Each year, new shops replaced older, long-familiar storefronts. I passed a yarn shop once the site of a small, independent five-and-dime. Next to it, in a space formerly occupied by a shoe repair place, stood a boutique decorator fabrics store. Farther on in the spot where one of the churches used to run a consignment store there was a coffee shop where a single cup cost as much as I paid for a sandwich. I approached the wharf, aware as always of the drone of the ice machines over at Cape Port Ice that hummed without ceasing. As I keyed the lock, I sensed a slight presence behind me but didn’t turn. I was in no mood to see anyone, especially the little priest.
“Mr. Light?”
But it was not Father Gervase. I managed to conceal my surprise. “Hey there,” I said, using a low tone I might have used to approach a wild and wary creature. I slid the door open and motioned for the boy to precede me. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Duane shrugged his thin shoulders, the perfected teenage gesture of apathy and indifference, one, I suddenly thought, that Lucy had never incorporated in her lexicon of body language. Would she have as she grew older? At sixteen? Seventeen? I didn’t think so. I would never know. I studied the boy. “Let me guess. It wasn’t your idea to come here today.”
“Yeah.” Duane looked around, watched while I set down my camera case, switched on the fans. “My mom was pretty insistent.”
I could well imagine. I remembered Beth LaBrea’s pushy attitude, the way she had bulldozed the boy, and again, as I had then, I felt a surge of protectiveness and an equally unexpected urge to comfort that surprised me. Sophie had always been more at ease, more intuitive, around teenagers and children than I had. I tried to remember what Sophie had told me about the boy. He had sung in the chorus. That was about it, although I had the sense that she liked him. “But what about you? Do you think you might like to give it a try?”
Again the shrug.
“Because if you don’t want to do it, I can let you off the hook.”
For the first time, the boy looked directly at me, and again I could see how much he resembled his mother. “How?”
“Well, let me see. I guess I could tell her I already have all the models I need.”
“Do you?”
“Well, no.” I laughed. “But no one has to know that.”
Duane considered this and then asked, “What would I have to do?”
I kept my tone casual. “Very little, actually. I’d take some photos of you, studies really, focusing on your face and hands and feet. I’ll tell you what—why don’t you take a look at some of the studies I’ve already done. There are several pinned to that board on the wall over there and some more on the table.” I was surprised by how very much I wanted Duane to say yes. “That will give you an idea of how I go about it.”
Duane glanced over to where I was pointing. “Okay, I guess.” He approached the table, his yellow high-tops moving silently on the wood floor.
“The completed project will consist of six panels,” I told him. “There are seven saints represented in each panel.” I reached for a folder from one pile and took out a small working sketch. “To begin I take a series of photos of each model and draw from them. For example, this is Saint Monica.”
The boy bent over the sketch. “I know her.” He took the sketch with slender fingers tipped with oval nails. “That’s Mrs. Neal. From the bookstore.”
“Right.” I opened another folder. “Brendan, patron saint of sailors,” I said.
Duane made a small sound close to a chuckle. “That’s pretty funny. Seeing Leon Newell as a saint. I mean, isn’t he kind of a—”
“Scoundrel?”
“Yeah.” Duane smiled, and his face was transformed.
“Well, you don’t have to be virtuous to be a saint. In fact, you’d be surprised. As it turns out, some were pretty rowdy. Prostitutes and thieves.”
“Really?” Duane crossed to where I had pinned a draft of the panels on the rough planks of the wall. “This is bigger than I thought it would be,” he said.
“Actually, this is a third of the size of what the completed work will be. When done, the canvases will measure sixty feet in height.”
“Wow. That big?”
“We’ll have to roll them and transport them to get them to the cathedral in a moving van. They’ll be framed there.”
Duane studied the six groupings. Beneath each figure was the name of a saint. He took his time, stopping once to say, “I never heard of some of these. I mean Crispin? Ambrose?” When he got to the last figure, he leaned in. “How come this one on the end has a question mark beneath it?”
“Because that one doesn’t have a name. As Father Gervase put it, that figure is to represent the potential for sainthood in all of us.”
“I’m not much for that stuff. I mean, my family is Catholic, but I don’t go to church much anymore.” The boy retreated, closed into himself. “I mean, when did that shit ever help anyone?”
“Belief in a faith is not a job requirement, Duane. Not for the models and fortunately not for me. Do you want to see which saint I had in mind for you?”