PIECE MAN
by Pat Devlin

For twenty-some years, since just after he left me, my life has been this little gallery—showing my work and works of other local artists, all of us hoping summer tourists might come across a piece they like.  But it was never about the money. He left me well-off, I’ll say that for him.  It was about having a place, this place, in this town. 

The walls are bare now—the artists have collected their work and I have given mine away, except for this one drawing.  I never could sell it.  It’s all I’ll take with me.

In the background is the gray ocean, a small wave breaking close to shore.  A thin line separates the dark sea from the light gray horizon, and a seagull with delicate wings glides through the sky.  The boy’s figure, arms stretched wide as if in flight, his face turned towards the ocean, stands in stark contrast to the dead colors of that dead day.

It was so cold and gray that afternoon!  I remember well it was April, when the beach was empty of people and damp cold wind penetrated my heavy cotton sweatshirt, hood strings knotted tightly so that only my nose and eyes were exposed to the salty air.  I had walked along the beach for a mile or so, alone.  I always sought solace at the shore.  Sunday, three nights before, at our house in Doylestown, my husband of twenty-three years told me it was over.  It wasn’t me, he told me, it was him. He wasn’t having any fun.  He wanted one last chance at happiness.  Marriage had sucked every ounce of joy out of him.  But I need not worry, he told me, he would take care of me.  It wasn’t an issue—he was old Philadelphia money.  There was plenty for me to live a good life and I could continue my painting and drawing.  Now that our daughter was in college, there was no need for him to continue the charade. 

Oh, I said, I didn’t know.  Where will you go? I asked him.  He was moving to an apartment for the time being, and then he would decide what to do.  I could keep the house.  He didn’t really care one way or another.  Oh, I said.  Then I drove down to the shore, and found a little cottage that rented for next to nothing in the off-season. 

I walked silently along the water’s edge that day.  The beach seemed devoid of seashells and my bare feet ached from the cold.  I came upon a jetty, its large sharp rocks jutting out into the ocean.  A small boy, I thought about nine years old, was standing at the top of the biggest rock.  He stood with his feet about six inches apart, clad in striped sneakers.  A pair of dungarees hung below his waist, exposing the edge of his briefs.  Though the air was quite frigid, the boy wore no shirt.  His arms spread straight out at the shoulders and his rib cage glistened under his winter white skin, his stomach sucked in under it.  The boy’s face appeared to me in profile, cropped blond hair framing a finely chiseled face—high cheekbones and a jutting jaw.  He seemed not to notice my approach.  I followed his gaze out to the sea, but saw only the constant movement of the shallow waves at low tide.  The rock he was standing on was covered with graffiti, spray-painted signatures of persons unknown.  In thick white letters on the side of the rock just under where the boy stood, someone had painted the words, Piece Man.

Hey, up there, I yelled to the child, aren’t you cold?  Shouldn’t you be in school?

He turned away from the sea and looked down at me, patronizingly I thought.

I’m okay, he said.  It’s a little cold.

What are you doing there? I asked him.

I’m trying to see my mother.

Your mother? Did she go into the ocean?

She died on Sunday.  I’m trying to talk to her.  She told me that if I ever needed her, I just had to go to the ocean, lift up my arms and she would be there.

Oh.  I’m sorry, I said.  It’s hard to lose someone you love.

The boy climbed down from the rock, recklessly.  He threw a piercing look my way, accusing me for disrupting his day. 

Are you okay? I asked him. 

I’m okay, he said.  Why do you care anyway?

I lost my husband on Sunday, I said.

Oh.  He looked me in the eyes for the first time.  Did he tell you to come here too?

No, I told him, I figured that out for myself.

The boy’s hardened features seemed to soften as he walked towards me. 

It’s better for them, you know, he said.  They’re not suffering anymore.  That’s what my father told me.  A deep shiver shook his body.  I repressed my instinct to wrap my arms around him and just nodded my affirmation.

I watched the boy head up towards the road.  He stooped to pick up a flannel shirt that lay on the damp sand.  An older boy, his brother I supposed, was leaning against a dented green Mustang.  They looked my way and both gave a slight wave of their hands, then got into their car and drove away.

I walked back to the cottage and took out my sketch book.  I didn’t sleep that night, or the next.  I just kept drawing and drawing.  I was consumed with getting the scene of the boy at the ocean on paper—it had to be a perfect depiction of the vision that tormented my mind.  And finally, I could do no more.  I never went back to Doylestown.  I bought the cottage, opened this shop.  I displayed my piece in the window, but never for sale.  Tonight I’ll walk along the ocean.