An Unmasked Hero

An Unmasked Hero Part Four

Lynn waited impatiently behind the seemingly impregnable barrier of her door. The time was nearly four fifteen in the afternoon. She sat in a rickety chair by that door waiting. Finally a knock came to end her vigil. She whipped from the table and spun the old doorknob with a motion more fluid than a karate master’s chop. When the door opened in stepped a rather consternated Peter.

“I must admit I was a little bewildered to have such quick door service, Lynn,” he said taking off his light spring coat and scanning the walls for a hanger.

Lynn smiled and tossed the coat unto a chair without a second glance.

“Okay,” Peter croaked, only a little bit befuddled. “Where are your parents?”

“Oh, uh, dad’s downst-st-stairs w-working.”

“And your mother? Shouldn’t she be making supper?” Peter queried, ruffling his eyebrows in his probing fashion.

“Sh-she’s in Los … Angeles.”

“Visiting her family?”

“No, not exact…ly,” Lynn started, pressing her face down in embarrassment. “My p-p-parents divorced when I was s-s-seven. I, uh, usually microwave my … dinner.”

“Oh,” Peter crowed, he had never thought about that before.

“Can, can I get you a c-coke?” Lynn asked.

“It’s a bit chilly, I could use a hot drink if that’s okay.”

“C-c-coffee?”

Peter recoiled, “You know what, I’ll be fine, thanks though.”

Lynn grinned and waved Peter to follow her down the corridor. Peter noticed that unlike his refrigerator that was fully covered with artwork both inspired and uninspired from various siblings of his, the May’s was entirely bare. The walls of their house were all painted variant shades of burgundy and white and they were also entirely barren except the occasion photo of Lynn and what Peter assumed were other relatives. Lynn brought Peter to her room in the middle of her hallway on the west side of her house. Lynn turned to Peter.

“P-p-please don’t t-tell anyone what you … see in here, ok-kay,” she pleaded.

“Okay,” Peter shrugged.

Lynn opened the door and instantly he felt more at awe than the Israelite that had finished the pyramids. He gradually put one foot in front of the other, like a pilgrim approaching sacred ground. Lynn’s room was covered in the most beautiful tapestries and drawings and paintings his mortal eyes had ever been laid upon. There were pictures of Chimeras, of coliseums, of warriors, of lovers, of fruit, of fire all deliciously woven and draw or painted with the Technicolor magic that would outdo Joseph’s dream coat any day of the week. Her desk was cluttered with sculptures more real than the work of Michelangelo and more striking than the tallest of sky-scrapers. One was of a woman screaming, her face moulded in such perfect agony one could almost hear her cries.

For all his literary training, all his extended vocabulary, Peter could only come with, “wow.” He took another step and slowly recollected some other words. “This is simply astounding. How did you ever do all of this?”

“I go t-to an ac-cademy for t-t-the arts.”

Peter smiled in amusement, “so do I. I really need to get out of the drama section.”

Lynn giggled and Peter smiled at the sound of it.

“No seriously, though, you need to show this to some other people. This is incredible. You could be like Botticelli’s and Donatello’s great grand kid.”