The elevator bounced lightly to a stop, and the doors opened again, allowing people to shuffle and shift. I stepped to my left as the space cleared, moving as far from Moses as I could get, putting a heavy-set man in a ball-cap between us. Moses maneuvered himself into the corner opposite mine, though I refused to turn and see if he was ignoring me as intently as I was ignoring him.
Floor after floor, the shuffling and rearranging continued as people came and went, and I wondered who Moses was there to see while I prayed we wouldn’t get off on the same floor. When we reached the top floor and Moses still stood in the corner, with only two other occupants riding with us, I followed them out, my back so stiff I didn’t know if I could walk, certain that Moses would be right behind me. But he wasn’t.
When the elevator doors closed behind me, I sneaked a peek over my right shoulder, wondering if I had possibly missed his exit. But there was no one there but me as the down arrow chimed and the elevator whirred and began to descend. I wondered if he’d ridden to the top just to make me uncomfortable.
It had been almost seven years. A lifetime. Or two. Or three. His life, my life, our life. All three had been altered beyond recognition. But he hadn’t changed that much. He was still Moses. A little taller, maybe. More muscular, possibly. Older, definitely. But twenty-five was too young to be described that way. He still wore his hair shaved in a barely-there crop, clean and tight, revealing the shape of his well-formed head. Very little had changed about his appearance—his eyes, the wide mouth, the angles of his face and jaw. All of it was exactly as I remembered. Exactly as I remembered, though I’d rarely allowed him time in my memories. Eventually I’d had to cut him loose. I’d had to make him as faceless as the people in the picture he’d sent me, the picture of the woman and the child that had become so precious to me, yet mocked me every time I looked at it.
He’d dropped off the face of the earth. Just disappeared. They whisked him away that terrible Thanksgiving morning, and beyond that picture, I never saw or heard from him again. He was just gone. And because of that, because it had been so long, maybe it should have taken me a minute to recognize him, to react. But it hadn’t. I’d taken one look and my heart had sounded a deafening gong that was still reverberating loudly in my head and down my limbs, making me vibrate and shake and look around for a chair. But there was nothing but long hallways and rows of doors, and I slid down the wall until my butt hit the floor, pulling my long legs into my heaving chest so I had somewhere to rest my head. Moses Wright. I felt like I’d seen a ghost. And I didn’t believe in ghosts.
Moses
MY VISITOR WORE BATMAN pajamas and his feet were bare. He was small, but I didn’t spend enough time with kids to know exactly how small—he could be anywhere from three to five, though I would guess younger rather than older. His hair was a mass of dark curls and his brown eyes were solemn and a little too big for his small face. He just stood there, at the foot of my bed, and as I eyed him wearily, he tilted his head and looked at me as if I were the reason he was there. I was always the reason they were there. The heat on my neck blazed and I reflexively moved my fingers, wishing I had a pencil, some chalk, something to get this over with as soon as possible. It had been a while. I had almost started believing my walls were impenetrable, unless I purposely lifted them.
I’d fallen asleep early, comforted by the rain that drummed softly against the tin roof and the wind that made the warehouse walls slightly shiver. I’d found the space almost two years ago, and it suited me. It was in downtown Salt Lake City, situated close to the old Grand Central Train station in a refurbished district that was still caught somewhere between restoration and dilapidation. There was a homeless shelter around the block to my right and a high-end day spa around the block to my left. Two blocks north there was a row of mansions built in the early 1900s, two blocks south there was a strip mall. The area was a conglomeration of everything, completely confused, and therefore, immediately comfortable. The warehouse had been partially converted to office space, but because of the residential area that butted up to the back, the owner was able to put an apartment on each floor.
I took the top floor apartment and all the open space that went with it, filling the exposed walls and beams with paintings that I had learned were easy to sell, especially when they were personalized. People came to see me from all over the world. I communed with their dead, painted what I saw, and those people went home with an original Moses Wright. And I made a killing doing it. No pun intended.
I’d built a reputation for myself. And I had a waiting list a mile long and a secretary to go with it. Tag had been my secretary in the early days. It had been his idea, after all. We’d been back-packing through Europe when disaster struck and we’d had our stuff stolen while we slept on a train. By the time we got off the train in Florence, I’d made a thousand Euros and Tag had enjoyed a romp with a rich Italian girl who had lost her mother the year before. The girl spoke fluent English, and she literally threw money at me as I rattled off a list of things there was no way I could possibly know unless her mother was showing me. Which she was, in colorful pictures and pastels, very similar to the landscape outside the train windows. The Italian girl cried all the way through our “session” and kissed my cheeks when I was done, but of course it was Tag who got laid, even though I’d sketched a quick drawing of the girl dancing in the surf, the way her mother remembered her best.
I’d been so afraid at first, reluctant to open the creative floodgates, especially when I felt like I had finally found a little space and a little control. I’d told Tag as much.