Logan said he didn’t want her to impose her definition of art on him and he’d only play if he could do whatever he wanted to do.
Fine, Thebes said. What do you want to do?
Logan asked her if he could use the mannequin head she’d brought along and she reluctantly agreed. She had been saving it for something big, but fine, okay, he could have it. Logan crawled into the back with Thebes, for better access to her art supplies, and they hunkered down and got to work. It was difficult for Logan to work with the cast on, but Thebes helped him out with the finer details. They were at it for hours, it was a long class. At one point Logan asked me to pull over onto the shoulder so he could do something to the head. I wasn’t allowed to look. The final project was going to be a surprise.
By the time he finished, his teacher had fallen fast asleep. Okay, he said, here it is. I pulled over again so I could have a decent look at it.
He handed me a bloody mannequin head.
It’s called This Boy Is Obviously Dying, he said.
On the neck part of the mannequin he’d drawn little pictures of a sun, a girl, the road, a CD player and a basketball jersey.
There’s a written explanation that goes with the piece, he said. He handed me a scrap of paper.
I’m driving, I said. Read it to me.
He began: The goal of this piece was to depict a fictional young victim of typical street violence, attaching a certain level of humanity to a conventional urban casualty. To give it as realistic a feel as possible, I took the head onto the shoulder of a highway somewhere in Utah in the afternoon and beat it with a heavy metal rod for ten minutes. I then painted the head to look as though it was bleeding from all the places where it was damaged or scraped up. The images on the lower neck represent two contrasting influences on the dying kid, one material, violent and destructive, and the other loving, peaceful and uplifting. I see the presence of these two divergent influences as a fundamental conflict within everyone. A conflict this kid lost.
God, um…yeah, he did, didn’t he? I said.
Logan had also included the materials and resources he used for the project: mannequin head, acrylic paint, ballpoint pen, pencil, metal rod, highway shoulder, glue gun.
Where’d you get a metal rod? I asked him.
Thebes, he said.
I put the boy’s head on the dash, facing out towards the road. There was so much blood on it and it looked so real. His hair was covered in it and it was dripping down his face. I didn’t want to look at it or touch it or attempt to understand it. Logan didn’t ask me what I thought. He seemed pretty pleased with it.
It’s great, I said. Kind of dark, but great. I like the explanation.
He told me I didn’t have to keep it on the dash if I didn’t want to. In fact, he said, we could throw it out or burn it. He was just trying to make Thebes happy.
No, no, I said. I like it up here. It makes an interesting contrast with the hearts and rainbows on the back windows. Think it’ll bring us luck?
Logan put in a CD and closed his eyes.
Are you going to sleep? I said.
No answer.
Logan?
Yeah?
Are you—?
No, I’m just thinking, he said.
About what?
He kept his eyes closed while he talked. I don’t know how to say it, really, he said.
Say what? I asked.
You know, he said, I kind of know that this whole thing wasn’t Min’s idea. He opened his eyes and looked at me and then turned around and checked to make sure that Thebes was sleeping. Then he closed them again.
Oh…yeah? Well, do you—?
And it’s cool, it’s fine, he said. I mean really.
Yeah? No, really? But do you—?
I’ll go to Twentynine Palms with you, he said, but ultimately? I’m going to do what I want to do. I can take care of myself.
Well, maybe, yeah…, I said. But you shouldn’t have to, right, that’s why—
Okay, yeah, he said. But the thing is, and don’t, like, don’t think I’m, you know, mad at you or anything, or hurt, or whatever, but the thing is, you don’t…like, you don’t want us, right? He looked at me and smiled. A genuine, beautiful smile that I think was meant to absolve me of any guilt but instead made me want to kill myself.
No way! I said. That’s not true at all! That’s completely not true. I just think that Cherkis should probably…you know…he’s your dad. He could take care of…It’s not like—
Yeah, said Logan, maybe. But does he want to? Do you know that? Is he a total dick? Is he a moron? Is he alive? You know? There are a lot of variables…
Yeah, that’s true, I said, but there are also a—
And, so, but, said Logan, what I was saying before…you know, like the bottom line or whatever…you don’t want me and Thebes. Why would you? You want to go back to Paris and do your…whatever you do, there.
No, that’s not the bottom line, Logan, it’s—
And can I just ask you something? he said.
Yeah!
Do you actually think Mom would let us go? Because, honestly? I don’t think so. She’d never—
He shook his head and his voice cracked.
Do you want to go back? I asked. Because we—
Home? he said.
Yeah, I said.
No.
The van was making mysterious noises again and Logan’s CD was skipping.
Houston, we have a problem, he said.
So, what I was doing in Paris, I said, was…trying to get away from…like, far away from…basically…my family. Not you guys, not you and Thebes, but—
Mom, said Logan.
Kind of, I said. Yeah. All of that. And everything else. But I missed you guys so—
Yeah, he said. He fiddled around with the CD player and then ran his fingers back and forth over the skeletal arm that Thebes had drawn on his cast and then rested his hand briefly on the dying boy’s head. Then he picked up the map and held it close to his face and whispered the names of his favourite sequence of towns. Monticello, Blanding, Bluff, Mexican Hat, Kayenta, Tuba City, Flagstaff.
Twentynine Palms, I said.
Twentynine Palms, yeah, he said.
How’s the wrist? I asked.
Meh, he said. I can’t feel it.
When I left for Paris, Logan was twelve and Thebes was eight. Cherkis had been AWOL for years and Min was drifting. I was at university but had missed so many classes babysitting Logan and Thebes, while Min was in meetings with the voices in her head, that I decided to drop out entirely and go to the airport and fly away.
I saw Marc for the first time at the Pompidou Centre and I stood next to him while he stared at a black painting and asked him if he had a cigarette. He had a friend who worked there and that friend took us up to the roof of the building and we sat there, smoking, and I looked out at Paris and I looked at Marc and I thought, with surprising accuracy as it turns out, okay, this will be fine for a while. He asked me my name and I told him it was Aurore, and he said ha ha, no it’s not, but if that’s what you want me to call you, I will. It was the thing I liked best about him for a long time.
Where’re we at, yo? said Thebes.
I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror and flashed her a peace sign. Her face was covered in chalk and ink and she must have slept on one of her poems because there were small letters inscribed backwards on one of her cheeks. We’re almost in Mexican Hat, I said.
Cool, cool, she said. Hey, Logan, where’s your art? Did you finish?
He pointed at the head on the dash. Thebes went quiet, staring. He passed it to her and she had a closer look.
Dude, she said. She stroked the boy’s matted hair and looked deeply into his swollen eyes. She examined the tiny sun, girl, road, CD player and basketball jersey that Logan had drawn on the boy’s neck. She read the written explanation. She handed the head back to Logan, who returned it to its place on the dash.