CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XLVI: Yesteryears

They talked about running away. Not to the circus, but to the races, of course. To Dayton, to Nashville, to France for the Grand Prix, all the places that made sense in middle school because those places couldn’t be that far away, could they?

The talks were cathartic to Brendon for those days when life felt unfair because he’d been forced to do extra dishes or bathroom scrubbing or burgeoning yard work as the season did its slow change. He hadn’t quite been aware of Casey’s seriousness, even after that afternoon spent hidden away with Taylor L. Casey certainly didn’t talk much of it, though he got surly and muttered worse things about his father than he ever had about Tori Kel.

“Maybe we could talk to Robbie, the three of us do something like we used to. Paintball, maybe? Robbie’s got the extra guns.”

Casey’s expression about split Brendon’s head in two it was so vitriolic and cruel as he returned Brendon’s words in a mocking tone. “Robbie’s got extra guns. Of course Robbie’s got extra guns. Got extra everything. I thought you were my friend.”

“I am.”

He’d been nostalgic, thinking of the days the three of them had rode their bikes down The Big Hill, racing against age and time and color and all things grown-up. Back when he hadn’t noticed that Robbie’s bike had been newer, cleaner, more expensive. That Casey’s clung to sun-warped stickers that had originally been pink, now faded a dirty white. Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XLV: Yesteryears

There’d been an argument that winter between Casey and his father. The sort that started like a low buzz, obnoxious frustration simmering, straining. Turning from cold breath to hot steam, Casey just turned fourteen, but filled with so much fury and confusion he never quite knew who to turn to for what, with a father too bitter to see anything past the pile of beer tabs and broken down cardboard boxes that he’d been so sure had at least one more can left in the bottom.

Taylor L. picked Casey up at the end of the street and took him who-knew-where for an unprecedented amount of time. Long enough even Casey’s dad got worried despite being drunk off his ass and raging about that supposedly left-open window. The conversation on Brendon’s porch had gone something like this.

“Where’s that boy at?”

“Casey? Casey’s not here. I’m still doing homework.”

“Fuck. Don’t lie to me.”

Brendon took a step back. “He’s not here. Did something happen?” Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XLIV: Present

Though Brendon tried to bow out, Orion insisted on treating dinner in that confident way of his. Yet with each passing moment, Orion’s presence felt more like an imposition rather than a treat. The entire day more a press of weight, a guilt riding on Brendon’s shoulders and a sick sense of dread that kept him from reaching for his sketchbook.

“We’ll have to go through your sales book,” Orion said as they waited for a table. “Find the most likely to cause problems and double-check that everyone is safe.”

And if they’re not? Brendon wanted to ask. What then? Did he take the blame for the suffering, the death? Would the legal system even consider his guilt? Would they—

“This way, sirs.”

A heavily tanned girl—no more than sixteen or seventeen, with plastic nails and purple eye makeup that cast interesting shadows around her eyes—guided them into a booth and rattled off a series of daily specials that sounded decidedly unspecial.

Then she whisked away to fetch Orion a couple fingers of bourbon and Brendon a water. Just a water, he’d said. He couldn’t handle anything else. Or maybe he should drink. Drown away this inexplicable dread, tear away the filters stopping him from cursing Orion for all the doubt he’d brought.

“This whole situation is troubling. Just got off the phone with Wendy and she agrees that we need to get to the bottom of this. Not just the paintings you’ve already done, but why and what and how. Can it be replicated? Can it be militarized?” Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XLIII: Yesteryears

Taylor L. became a mainstay at a lot of parties that year. At the time he seemed a superhero in and of himself. A god, a devil tearing up the roads. He could do no wrong in Casey’s eyes. Could do no right in Robbie’s. Brendon tagged along but rarely, to places close enough he could run home at two in the morning and sneak into bed with his clothes smelling of smoke and his sketchbook filled of beer pong and flip cup.

Through January and February, Becks took a break from driving them around. Medical procedure that left her wrung out and sore and with her staying at their mom’s house most of the time. Left Casey alone with their dad more often than not and gave Brendon an excuse to not go to parties he didn’t rightfully enjoy except for Casey’s presence.

He wondered later if, had he gone, had put in the effort to be out there, would things have ended up different in Casey’s life? But that thought got set right years later when he ran into Becks—grocery store of all places, him heading out with a couple of bags, her about to head in.

“Nothing you did could have changed things, Bren. He was already gone, head over heels with an idea that never should have been okay. If anyone’s to blame…” And here she paused, pursed her lips and blinked, looking away for a moment. “I should never have brought him to the races as young as I did. Thing is, though, you do what makes sense at the time.” Continue reading →

CANVAS BLUES
Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes

XLI: Present

Diana Tagalori—six years old and a perfect cross of princess and tomboy with her summer dress frilly and lavender yet with dirt riding the hem and a frog in a mesh bag about her wrist—sat at a tea table with chipped porcelin cups and hot chocolate leaving brown smears across every available surface. Red hair hung straight across her shoulders, the fronts brushed and carefully stroked now and then, while the back could have hid a nest or three and a couple of eggs.

“Mr. Brendon, will you play with me? I have cookies.” And she held out an empty hand, the mesh bag swinging wildly and the frog fumbling about within, webbed feet strugging to find purchase among all the holes.

Orion swept his fingers across Diana’s, adeptly picking up an imaginary cookie and gobbling it before Brendon could step forward. “Delicious! Ms. Tagalori, you are an amazing cook.”

Diana glared at him. “That was for Mr. Brendon. He’s the one who paints.”

Orion actually moued, stammering apologies in a way Brendon would have never imagined the suave lawyer could do. Calling Diana, Miss and Ma’am and Lady without the added moniker of “young” that often hid a twist of condescension.

With a twirl of a red lock between dirty fingers and an indulgent nod, Diana said, “I forgive you. Dad says I have to forgive anyone who apologizes and means it.”

At the doorway, Paul Tagalori chuffed a laugh and shrugged self-consciously.

“Wise words from your father.”

“Mr. Brendon, here’s a cookie for you.” And she narrowed her gaze at Orion in warning. Continue reading →