The Attic

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Clinton lived in a refurbished attic. I hadn't expected that, but it fit.

Two of the side walls stopped four feet up and angled to create his home's slanted roof. A dormer window on one side of the room let in shady forest light. The floor was dark wood and covered only in one spot by a threadbare Pakistani knotted rug that, in its hay day, must have been bright orange, red, and blue. The room was alternately wood paneled and light blue. The slanting walls of the roof closed in an otherwise large space, making everything feel tucked in and safe.

Across the room, Clinton's bed was just a mattress sitting on floor ground under a permanently foggy window. On top of new warm blankets was a thin, faded quilt that had been so heavily used that not only had some of the seems between patches begun to rip, but some squares had been rubbed through to the cotton matting underneath.

Clinton had a fish tank with a pet turtle. I had heard more than enough stories about Oscar and made a bee line for the little guy. A metal grate on top of the tank was held down with several heavy books that Clinton explained were necessary to keep the cat out. I couldn't imagine what a cat would want with a tiny turtle, but Clinton assured me the cat was insane and would eat Oscar if given the chance. Shell and all.

Oscar was cute, and motionless, and not all the interesting, but I stared at him, because I knew if Finn was there he would have a thousand things to say about Oscar. And Nat would have two thousand things to say about a boy who named his pet turtle Oscar.

I moved on from his pet pretty quickly. Clinton didn't have movie posters or family pictures like I was expecting. He had artwork. There were a few dream catchers and dozens of paintings, sketches, and prints of new-age hippies in prayer circles layered overtop of watercolor landscapes. Everything here looked homemade. I walked over to a sketch on stiff yellowed paper tacked up near the dormer window. It was a simple pencil outline of a toddler grinning over a grownup's shoulder.

Clinton followed me.

"That's me," he said pointing to the baby. I looked at the picture then back at him. I could definitely see the resemblance in his chubby cheeks, and whoever had drawn this made a perfect replica of his nose and goofy hair.

There was a stark difference though. It took me a moment to discern what it was, but when I did it hit me like a ton of bricks. The baby's eyes were hollow. The Clinton I knew smiled with his whole face. His green eyes lit up. The baby in the picture looked like it was staring away from the artist toward a storm, even while his lips creased up. It was haunting. I hoped that it was just a result of an artist's mistake. Perhaps they couldn't get his expressions just right. I had heard eyes were the hardest thing to capture.

I smoothed the drawing back against the wall and turned away.

"People drew all of these for you?" I eyed the rest of the art in the room. I recognized Keegan's photography, but the majority of the art showed a boy, always younger than ten smiling, running, joking. There was no set style, some were pencils, some were sketches, some were acrylic. Few, if any, looked professional.

"Most of them. Some were for my mom, but I stole them."

He gave me an uncharacteristic mischievous grin, then nodded toward the wall with the most artwork. Layers of it were pinned up in the good lighting from his clear dormer window.

As I focussed in on the collection, I saw Clinton's mother's face among the subjects. Often she was kissing the head of a chubby little boy or snuggling him against her shoulder. It was a beautiful tribute to their relationship, and after looking around, I found her in my favorite painting. In it, a three or four-year-old Clinton was holding his mother's hand as they walked away down a forest path.

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