The Last Mural

Part II

The sayings just started pouring out of his cans as he began. It was poor stuff as far as art was concerned, but everything he’d ever wanted to say but was afraid to say came spilling out onto his concrete canvas. While other times, he had been painting for fun, for art or for her, there was an urgency tonight.

He surveyed his work at last. It was in that minute of dead silence that he heard the footsteps.

Instantly, he tensed, stiffened, and began to pack his spray cans with a vengeance. He wheeled away, abandoning the painting not yet dried and dove back into the alleyway. But he could not bring himself to leave. Rooted to the spot in the pitch black, the man forced himself to think.

The footsteps were far away and very light. Frantically, he tried to reason: who would be out after curfew except them? But why then, would they be out alone and, by the sound of it, weaponless?

As he stood, his heart pounding, the answer came to him suddenly, and he relaxed and grinned. Of course! She had come for him, that was all, his three hours were up. He thought briefly of her worry, and then dwelled on her relief. Feeling reckless with the absence of fear, he jumped back out into the street, whipped out a spray can, found it to be purple, to his delight, and added to his masterpiece:

To the love of my life, Rowena

You are my joy.

A smile graced him as he thought of her pleasure. He imagined Rowena’s smile, and perhaps her kiss. Then they would walk home together, arms around each other, and his arms would never leave her for the remainder of the night. As he stood there, stupid with happiness, a single scream rent the night.

He whirled in alarm, and stopped dead. The sight almost chilled him, but not quite, because it was Rowena’s scream he’d heard, but it was not Rowena who stood in that middle of the street. Weapons raised; eyes narrow; uniform crisp: it was one of them. And he looked as puzzled as the man did.

He did not have the urge to run, as before. He didn’t move. He simply stood, a little smile on his face. She had come, after all. Rowena was safe. Her shriek: a warning. Not one of pain. She must be watching, though he could not see her.

He forced himself to be calm. Panic would help neither of them.

“Did you do this?”

Carefully, the man lowered his spray can. Is this procedure, or is he really stupid? The thought amused him.

He did not deny it. “Yes.”

“Come with me, then.”

Pause. “I’m not finished.” His voice sounded smooth and neutral. He was pleased when it did not tremble.

“I have orders!”

They were the slaves. They were under orders, not he.

“I said, I‘m not finished.” He stooped and picked up the can again.

“And I said come with me!”

The man risked a glance behind him. The officer advanced across the street. The man could see that he was nervous and sweating. His gun was trembling slightly. No doubt they had made him out to be a dangerous criminal, the man thought wryly. Not that it helped him any. Ignoring him, the man uncapped the bottle and in a quick motion, wrote with a flourish:

A coward dies many times.

The valiant only dies once.

“That’s it, mister!” He felt something cold dig between his shoulder blades. “Move it!”

Then he saw Rowena, and all his composure fled. She was halfway in the alley and halfway in the street. She was ready, he realized, to spring to his aid.

“No.” He said to her. He whipped around before the startled officer could react, and knocked the gun from his hand. It hit the sidewalk with a bang.

The terrified officer screamed something and too late, the man saw the reinforcements pour into the street. He cursed violently. The tallest was making his way straight for him, with no sign of fear or slowing down. He dared not look at Rowena for fear of giving her away.

This is what you chose when you chose this.

The thought calmed him enough to keep his head. He let the officer seize him, rip the cans from his coat and force his head back. He even smiled, for the thought ran through his head:

Courage is not the absence of fear, rather the ability to act wisely through it.

Somewhere he heard Rowena scream again, and hoped no one heard it.

“Right now, here,” the tall one was saying, and he heard, through the roar in his ears, the click of a safety catch falling off. He looked into the ice eyes of one of the officers and smiled as they forced his to his knees and tied his arms up behind his head.

I’m sorry Rowena, oh God Rowena I’m so so so sorry… didn’t finish it! Hope…airplanes…the Word…your smile…so much still to be said…to endure…I’m so sorry…so sorry...will you ever forgive me?

That was his regret. He closed his eyes and heard Rowena’s voice through the babble. The evening in his apartment seemed so far away. He tried to hear what she said; she was crying something over and over but it didn’t make sense.

I am afraid. I can’t hear her?! Please help me.

He opened his eyes again, looked down the barrel of a gun, and locked his eyes with hers. She cried out something, and this time he understood. It was his name. He remembered, instantly, the first time she had said his name, and then how it sounded in a half-constricted throat in the hot dark, and then how it sounded in her sleep. All that ran through his head.

At least he could understand that. So he smiled.

He smiled right through the thunder of the guns.