Paint it Black: A Northwoods Story by Marc W Shako

Author:Marc W Shako [Shako, Marc W]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: KDP
Published: 2024-02-16T00:00:00+00:00

JUNE

1st

CLARK SAT, CLAD IN BLACK, amidst the subdued chatter in the living room of Andrea’s parents in a sort of numb shock. In the few moments he had been snapped from his disbelief, he’d made excuses and switched seats, twice, but it made no difference – wherever he moved, the eyes of the black-and-white photograph of Andrea’s mother stalked him around the room. Truth be told, even in his numbness, he felt like the eyes of the whole room were on him, like they knew what he’d done.

Over a year had passed since Clark’s last visit, but that warm, homely atmosphere that nourished his beautiful wife seemed far far away, like it had died with the woman of the house; that in spite of all the colorful flowers doing their best to breathe life into the room. The air was heavy with bereavement, guests doing their best to disguise it with chatter, but Clark was under no illusions, death was with them.

‘It was a nice service,’ an old man with hair sprouting from his ears beside him had said.

Clark nodded politely, wondering exactly who the man was. At least he doesn’t think you did it. He had nothing to say, and the kind old man had nothing to add, nothing to save Clark from drifting back into his own thoughts.

He’d answered the ringing phone on Monday, knowing exactly what the call was: that harsh, urgent, threatening tone, harbinger of bad news.

Between then and now, Clark hadn’t missed a single dose of his sleeping tablets. He also hadn’t had the heart (or, for that matter, the courage) to ask his wife what exactly had happened, even though, deep down, he had a good idea. He’d focused his energy on keeping Andrea’s shredded nerves intact. Whenever she could talk outside of those fits of sobbing, he tried to keep the topics on the mundane, the routine, treading like a thief in the night, worried that the next wrong word would trigger another bout of tears.

He looked up at the photo of Mrs Leigh. She was staring again. Yes, those brown eyes were smiling, but Clark couldn’t escape the judgment in them. When he looked away from the accusatory Mrs Leigh his eyes settled on her grieving husband.

Vincent Leigh was a giant with a shaved head and hands the size of dinner plates, yet Clark had never laid eyes on a man so vulnerable. A female friend with long red hair was comforting him, maybe playing the same game he was with Andrea – trying to avoid tears. If that was the case, it was a game she was losing. Just as the recently bereaved got himself together, she’d speak to him and set him off again, huge shoulders shuddering with his sobs. Clark would attempt an intervention, but maybe this was just the thing Mr Leigh needed.

And maybe Clark deserved to see the damage he’d done up close. This latest disaster was just another in a growing line of misfortune ever since he’d painted the portrait of Gordon Conway.

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