I Caught Him in the President's Office, So I Painted My Own Name novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Curb

Her rigs are boxed in the snow, the club lawyer waits at the diner with divorce papers, and Stephanie signs without crying before she finds her mother's airbrush gone.

I slept in my truck in the lot behind the garage with the heater running and my coat over my knees.

At first light I got out to stretch and saw my rigs.

Someone had boxed them in the night, all six airbrush cases and the compressor, and stacked them on the curb in the snow.

My name was on a strip of masking tape across the top box, in Dutch's handwriting.

The snow had soaked through the cardboard on the bottom case.

I put my hand flat on the lid and breathed until it stopped shaking.

The garage windows were dark. Through the glass I could see my bench, and the primer-gray tank I'd left half finished on Thursday.

It already had a new sticker on the side: Telford Custom Cycles. Hand painted by Dutch Telford.

My phone buzzed against the dashboard.

It was a number I didn't know. Spur Diner, 8 a.m. Mr. Telford would like this handled calmly. Bring a pen or we'll lend you one.

It was signed with the name of the man the club paid to handle things.

I loaded the six cases into the truck bed, one at a time, and tied a tarp over them.

Then I drove to the Spur Diner, because I wanted to see how they would do it.

The place was full.

Six women from the club sat along the counter, as they did every Saturday, in their good jackets with their coffee in front of them.

I knew every one of them. I had painted their daughters' bikes for free.

The lawyer waited in the back booth, in a camel coat that had never been near an engine.

He didn't stand. He slid a folder across the table and set a pen on top of it.

"It's a generous settlement," he said, "given the circumstances."

I read it standing up.

Dutch kept the house, the shop, the deed and the business name.

Dutch kept every tank, every design file and every piece of paintwork produced under the Telford name.

I kept my truck, my personal effects and two thousand dollars.

The account that had held ten years of my work was not mentioned at all.

"The money in the joint account," I said.

"That's been resolved."

"By who?"

"By Mr. Telford, within his rights as a signer."

At the counter, the spoons had gone quiet.

I looked up and counted the backs of their heads. Six women, and not one turned around.

"I want to ask something," I said, and I said it loud enough for the cook to hear. "Anyone here can answer."

Nobody moved.

"Which of you knew since spring?"

The woman who had held my hair at my wedding stared into her cup. Another one folded a napkin into a smaller square.

The cook went back to scraping the grill.

That was my answer. Ten years of Thanksgivings, and it came out as a napkin.

"Ms. Ansel," the lawyer said, tapping the folder. "The sooner you sign, the sooner this is over."

"I'll sign."

He relaxed in the booth.

"With one more line," I said.

I took his pen and wrote at the bottom of the last page, in block letters: All work created by Stephanie Ansel after today's date belongs to Stephanie Ansel.

I signed under it and dated it.

"That's not standard," he said.

"Then it won't cost Dutch anything." I turned the page to face him. "Unless he thinks I can't do it."

The lawyer read it twice. He glanced at the counter, and I knew what he was thinking. She'll be back by summer.

"Fine," he said. "Mr. Telford won't object."

He initialed it.

I didn't cry. I had decided that in the truck: not in front of this room, not one tear.

I put the pen down, took my copy and walked past the counter to the door.

Nobody said goodbye, and nobody said they were sorry.

I stood in the cold on the diner steps and made myself do the practical thing first, which was to check the cases.

I opened them one at a time on the tailgate.

The compressor was dented but ran. The hoses were fine, and the paint cups were fine.

The last case was my mother's.

It was a small black case with her initials burned into the corner, and inside it was a space cut for one airbrush.

An Iwata, the one she had bought me with her tips the year I turned sixteen, the one I had painted every tank with for ten years.

The foam slot was empty.

My phone buzzed again.

This one was Kendra. A photo, no words.

My mother's Iwata, on a workbench, under a lamp, with a pink-polished thumbnail resting on the trigger.

Then a second text, a second later: Don't worry, I'll take good care of it. xoxo

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