Ten minutes.
That’s how long I’ve been waiting at this bus stop, trying to see if it’ll come so I can make it back to my dorm from the library. I’ve been busy with midterms and everything that I almost lost track of time. Now, it’s pouring buckets and I am bone tired. Nights like this I wish I had a car of my own, but I guess that’s the life of a minister’s “miracle child,” who lost his older brother before I had a chance to know him.
“Need a ride?”
I jolt out of my thoughts to see a young man in his late teens to early twenties in a 1967 Chevrolet Bel Air. He has closely cropped brown hair, skin the color of light caramel, and steel-gray eyes that seemed to lived longer than he has. He kind of reminds me of a younger
James Dean or Marlon Brando, by the way he’s dressed from his gray T-shirt and faded blue jeans to his black steel-toed boots.
“I said, ‘You need a ride?’ You’re going to get soaked,” the guy speaks up at me over the pouring rain.
I shake my head no, not wanting to get any wrong ideas from this guy. “I’m waiting for the bus,” I say. “Thanks for the offer.”
“All right, but you now the last bus usually runs late, right?” Brando guy quips at me.
Dang it! He’s right on the money. The B-More route will be late and by the time I gwt to my dorm, the doors will be locked for the night. And I don’t wat my mom, who worries about me already, to be calling the school in the middle of the night. “Yeah,” I concede.
“Come on, then. It’s pouring out here and I don’t want you to spend the night out here,” the guy hollers at me. “Landon Park or Addison?”
I assumed he meant my residence hall. “Addison,” I tell him. “Got 30 minutes before we lock up for the night.”
“Exactly! So do you want to risk it out here in the rain?”
Every moment I wait here is another moment being wasted trying to wait for a bus that would be an hour late and it was too far to walk to my dorm. “All right, you win,” I say as I grab my laptop bag and sped for the car. I put my things in the backseat and buckle up my seatbelt, safely stored away from the freezing rain. “Thanks,” I mutter as I slam my door shut and the car begins to move.
“No problem. The name’s Carter. Isaiah Carter,” the guy says to me, his eyes focused on the road.
“Nathan Adams. Hope I won’t get locked out,” I say as we move through the Morgan State campus.
“I know my way around Morgan State. You’ll be there before 11pm. Say, what’s your major?”
“English and Mass Communications. Double major. Why?”
Isaiah stares at me. Figured you were an arts major. I see you walking acoss the Quad with an art portfolio in hand, hanging out with some of the Art Club kids,” he says. “Never thought you’d be interested into the letters.”
“Figured I do something steady to get me into a journalism job,” I explain as we near the dormitories. “We can’t all be artists, you know.”
“But I bet you can.”
I raise my eyebrow at him “How so?”
“Let’s just say that I have a feeling that you’re destined for more than being a writer.” We pull up to Addison Hall, with twenty minutes to spare. “We’re here.”
“Thanks,” I say as I step out of the car and grab my bag from the backseat.
“Hope to see you soon,”Isaiah says to me as he begins to pull off.
I watch him drive away. “You too,” I murmur as I hurry inside so I can avoid being locked out.
Minutes later after being settled in, I start to wonder if this Isaiah guy is who he says he is. He wasn’t that bad and he was concerned about my curfew. But I can’t help but to think if there’s something more than meets the eye about him.
I shake my head as I settle under the covers in my bed. I had two more midterms beofre going home for the weekend and I plan to get it all accomplished.
“So, what time you got back into your room last night?” Mishelle Anderson, my confidante and best friend since high school, asks me as we sat down to breakfast the next morning. “I was about to call a search party for you.”
“It was twenty minutes until then,” I tell her, taking sip of my orange juice. “Had to work on that Literature paper for Guzman’s class not to mention Connor’s Poli Sci paper. It was closing time until I got it all done.”
“Who brought you home?”
I look up from my omlet. “What?” I ask warily.
My best friend smirks, her pretty cocoa brown featues marred by her snarky attitude. “Don’t play coy, Nate,” she drawls. “For one thing, the last bus usually runs late and Addison is too far for you to walk unless you left earlier. And your parents made me promise to keep your butt safe at all costs. So, I ask you agin:who brought you home?”
Dang her and her Sherlock Holmes deductions! Might as well get it over with, I think. “Some guy named Isaiah Carter,” I say nonchalantly. “Saved me from a long walk.”
“Do tell. So, what’s he like?”
“Mishelle!” I exclaim, surprised at the thought of going there with her. “He wasn’t even like that. He kind of reminds me of James Dean or someone else. He’s a student, says that he saw me a couple of times across the Quad with my portfolio.”
“A sophmore?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe. Could be a junior or a senior.” I say.
We ate in silence for several minutes, randomly talking about our midterms and plans to go home for the weekend before getting back to the Isaiah situation. “So, you think you’ll see this Isaiah guy again?” Mishelle asks, polishing off her sausage sandwich.
“Dunno. If anything, it’s the first and last time we crossed paths. He has his own thing and I have mine,” I admit as I pick up my tray to bus it after standing up.
Mishelle stood up to join me. “Good.”
I face her. “Good? Whay do you say that?” I wanted to know.
“Nathan, if anything, you know that it’s my duty to make sure that nothing ever happens to you,” she explains to me as we take our tray to the conveyor belt to dispose of our scraps. “This Isaiah guy could be crazy or something.”
“M, I can look fter myself,” I protest, though I had to admit that she was on point.
“I know that and so do you. But in your parents eyes, you are their only son since Trey died and if it was up to them…”
“I’d be under their watch 24/7,” I mumble, knowing that Mom would want me under her care as if I was one of her prized preserves kept until the winter. “Don’t remind me. I just want-“
I never finish my sentence because standing at our table was Isaiah Carter, reminding me of a younger Paul Newman in a black polo shirt, matching low ise jeans, and dress shoes. He looked very much at ease when he saw me but the moment his gazed focused on a sputtering Mishelle, his eyes turned cloudy.
“Hey, Isaiah. Thanks again for driving me to my dorm,” I say.
“Morning to you too,” Isaiah replies. “Who’s this?”
“Oh, this is Mishelle Anderson. She’s a close friend of mine.”
“Nice to meet you, Mishelle,” he says uneasily as he shook her hand.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” she says with the same feeling as if Isaiah was Satan himself. “You’re the guy who took Nate to his room?”
“Yep. figured he didn’t want to spend the night outoors in the rain. it was no trouble.”
“I bet.” Mishelle eyes him for a few minutes. Turning towards me, she says, “Listen, Nate. I got to go, but don’t forget about the lunch with our folks later before the Bio II Lab later.”
“I won’t,” I say. “See you.”
“All right,” she hollers. “Isaiah.”
We both watch her grab her stuff and head out of the cafeteria. “Well, she was, uh, nice,” Isaish says to me.
“She’s just looking after my interests,” I reply.
“Really, how so?”
I wasn’t really ready to divulge my problems to a guy I met only last night.
“Hey, one rule of advice: If you have anything to say or prove, never hold back,” Isaiah says to me.
I nod before going in for the kill. “It was because she knew I came from a well-respected family- my dad being a well respected minister and tax commisioner and my mom a high school teacher. She also knew that my older brother Trey died when was only three years older. Killed by a drunk driver while intoxicated behind the wheel himself. Since then, I wasn’t left to myself while I watched my older twin sisters Cassadee and Kierra get more freedom because they were more mature and responsible.
“All during middle and high school I was teased because I was watched and fussed over like a hawk, dresed conservatively and rarely went to any parties. I never fought it, though, because I kind of knew that they wanted what was best for me. By the time I met Mishelle, I had a little bit of freedom, but I rarely exercised any of it.”
“What about coming here?” Isaiah asks me. “Was MSU your first choice?”
I smile sheepishly. “It was actually Iowa because of the art program there, I admit. “But Dad insisted on Morgan Sate for two years before transferring to Maryland. In-state tuition would be cheaper and they would make sure if I was okay. I put my foot down on staying on campus. Otherwise, I’d be a commuter student.”
“Well, I for one am glad your here,” Isaiah says to me.
“Oh, how so?”
“I get to make a new friend along the way.”
“Really?” I think this is starting to be a great friendship.
“Yeah, though let’s just say that I’ve been watching you for a while.”
Watching me? Hmm…. Maybe not.
“I better go. I got a Statistics midterm at 8:30am and it’s almost 8am right now,” I say, grabbing my bag and backpack.
“Good luck. Hope you do great,” he hollers after me as I head out of the cafeteria.
As I cross the Quad over to the math and science building, I thought about the advice he had given me. What did he mean to not hold back. I admit that Mom tells me that I look like I am holding something back from reaching my full potential, but it’s not personal or academic. And what did he mean when he said that he’d been watching me for a while? Oh, man. I can’t tell Mishelle; she’ll tell Mom and Dad and that’s another can of worms I do not need. I definitely can’t tell them either. Looks like I got to figure this out on my own.
“So, young man, how did you think you did on your midterms?” Mom asks me as I get settled into my bedroom for a relaxing weekend. After the last wave of midterms, Mishelle and I joined our parents for lunch before going home, promising each other that we’d meet up on Saturday over discussion for that night’s plans.
“I think I did all right. The American Literature midterm paper over Gatsby was well typed and thoroughly edited. As for the Poli-Sci midterm, I think I flubbed over the discussion questions, but the multiple choice was a breeze,” I say as I take out my art supplies and portfolio, placing them on my desk. “Everything else was left to fate. I was so busy with everything, I didn’t make time for any artwork.”
“That’s good. Remember your prioities and time management, young man.” Mom nods as she sat down on the newly made bed and caresses the bedsheets gently. “Listen, I know you haven’t had mch freedom since Trey’s death.”
“I know, Mom,” I say to her, sitting next to her as I gently pat her shoulder. “You just want me to be safe, not wanting to make the same mistakes as Trey did.”
“But it doesn’t mean that your father, your sisters , and I don’t want you to have a life of your own. You had to give up so many opportunities in high school and missed out on school trips while everyone made fun at you. You’re turning nineteen in a couple of months and everyday I watch you grow up it reminds me and your father that you’re becoming an adult.”
“What are you trying to say, Ma?” I ask.
Mom turns to me and sighs. “I just want you to promise me that you will make better choices when you do turn nineteen and that you can always come to us when you need some guidance,” she says. “But you got to remember to keep God first in all that you do and to never be afraid to speak your mind.”
That’s something Isaiah told me, I wanted to tell her but decided against it. “I will,” I said instead. “I’ll always be your baby, Ma.”
Mom wraps me up in a tight embrace. “My Nate. My sweet, little Nate,” she murmurs softly and for the first time, I begin to hope that she can let me go.
Dinnertime came and with it came the twins and their husands. Kierra, a hotshot district attorney, just wrapped up a two-week criminal case that made headlines. And Cassadee, folowing Mom’s footsteps, had finished preparing her first grade students for the state test. Both of them were expecting their first children in a few months and they were glowing with excitement.
Afterward, I was lying down in my bed, unable to rest after Mom’s famous five-cheese lasagna dinner. Deciding that this called for some creative thinking, I take out one of my art canvases, lay down of of the old bedspreads used for painting, and start setting up to paint. I started painting when I was in sixth grade and developed a great knack for it. I even entered into a few competitions in high school but always had to accept my prizes in the mail because of the Trey situation.
Just when I was about to think about what I had wanted to paint, a strange breeze came from nowhere and I also thought I heard some tinkling wind chimes. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath- inhaling in a sweet smell of oranges- and started to work. As I do the preliminary work, I begin to have flashes of memories about Trey. Although I never remembered much about him, there were the ones that stuck out: his booming, musical laugh; the way he carried me on his shoulders as we hung out at Towson park; his enigmatic smile; his floppy brown hair (his good hair, as Dad would say); they way he sung to me when I was teething for the first time and I was fussy, his voice so melodic and otherworldly.
I wished that I would have something of his to remember him by, but I knew that it wasn’t to be because Mom and Dad took his clothes to Goodwill and put his trinkets in the basement, long forgotten. His friends, long moved on with their lives, used to tell me stories of his glory days during high school. All of that had brought a small smile on my face as I do my magic with my art pens and charcoal pencils.
After what seemed like forever, I stop to take a break to see what I accomplished. And I was amazed at what I did.
A young man was dresed in jeans iand a T-shirt, surrounded by what looked like glass snowflakes falling all aornd him. But what surprised me the most was the young man himself. He looked a bit like Isaiah, yet his features were different. His nose was a l ittle wider and a bit turned up. His eyes were livelier, by the way he saw the snowflakes falling around him. But what impressed and captivated me the most was his smile. It was a bit of a smirk, as if he was either mocking the viewer or holding back a secret that only he knew. There was a small cleft in his chin.
“Wow,” I murmur.
Who was this guy that I cultivated? Whatever that was in that mysterious wind has given me some sort of a creative boost. I think about stopping right there and head for bed, but that wind came back and with it that faint smell of oranges. I immediately inhale it and grab my paints to finish what I started.
Saturday afternoon was spent in leisure for the Adams family. Mom was in the backyard, clearing the weeds and planting in the snapdragon and dahlia bulbs for next spring. Dad was in his study preparing for the sermon that he would give the next day. I, on the other hand, was in the reakfast nook and already looking over my notes from my classes and geting a head start for the week ahead. I couldn’t afford to lag off since I had a feeling that I would end up at Maryland someday.
At that moment, theere was a knock at the door. “I got it,” I holler as I meander towards the main foyer, expecting to see Mishelle for a quick study break.When I opened the door, I was surprised to see Isaiah instead, dressed in the 1950s style: blue jeans, plain white T-shirt, and black steel-toed boots.
“Hey! What’s new with you?” I greet him.
“Just in the neighbrhood,” he says casually, his voice smooth and mellow as an ice cream float.”How’s your weekend so far?”
“Okay, so far. Wanna come in?” I open the door further so he could.
He shakes his head no. “Have to met up with someone in a bit. How about later?”
I think for a moment as I see Mishelle come up the walk. “Hey, M,” I greet her.
She’s smiling at me but quickly frowns as she sees Isaiah. “He’s leaving?”
“Just about. We were discussing plans to meet up later,” I said. To Isaiah, I asked, “What time and place?”
He closes his eyes for a moment to think. “Brooklyn Cafe off Riverside. 3pm. Does that sound good to you?”
“You bet. See you then.”
He nods and turns to leave. “See you then, Nate,” he says. “Mishelle.” he nods at her as he walks past her.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Mishelle grabs my arm and guides me towards the breakfast nook. “What the hell was he doing here?” she hisses softly, careful not to let Dad hear.
“He was just pasing through, M. He just wanted to check up on me,” I eplained. “He didn’t stay long since he had to head somewhere.” I gesture to her to have a seat.
“Mmph. As long as he was doing just that,” she says.
“He was!” I insisted. Deciding that this called for a change of subject, I say to her, “Anyway, the reason I called you over is to show you what I painted last night.”
“Ooh, another Nathan Adams original? I thought you’d be tired after midterms,” she says, clapping her hands. “Where is it?”
“Upstairs in my room. Be right back,” I tell her as I head upstairs to my bedroom to get out the portrait of the guy. I still couldn’t figure out who he was, even after I finished painting and letting the painting dry overnight.
I grabbed the painting and met Mishelle back in the breakfast nook, where she was talking to Mom who was back from her gardening. “Is this another original of yours?” Mom asks me, smiling.
I nod. “Couldn’t relax last night, so I figured I do a bit of artwork,” I say as I set up the easel and put my latest piece up for display for the girls to look over. “It just came to me and I was amazed at what I did. I never did anything like this before.”
The painitng was now in full color. The young man was now wearing blue jeans and his skin was the color of a mixture of light caramel and cream. And the background was in a nighttime theme, stars decorating the sky and the glass snowflakes were electric blue and had more sharpness at each end for definition.
I knew that Mom, Dad, Mishelle, the twins and their husbands were my biggest critics and everything I created had to be carefully considered. “What do you guys think?” I ask cautiously. “I could nix it, you know, and-“
Mom’s expression was pure wonder while Mishelle was totally stunned. “Nathan who is this?” Mom asked softly.
“That’s something I never figured out,” I admit. “He kind of reminds me of Trey, but his features are a bit off.”
“I bet I know,” Mishelle mutters.
“M!” Oh, no. She cannot keep a secret!
“Who is he, Mishelle?” Mom asks her sternly.
“He’s Isaiah, Mrs Adams,” Mishelle blurts out, looking at me with apologetic eyes. Can’t blame her for being honest with Mom.
“Who is he, Nathan?” Mom asks me.
Might as well be honest, I think in exasperation. “He’s a guy who took me to my dorm two days ago, Ma,” I say. “He saw me waitng in front of the library for the bus that would be late, and nowing that I’d be late for curfew if the bus came late, gave me a ride.”
“That’s not all,” Mishelle interjects. “We met him during breakfast and he was here a few minutes ago to see how Nate was doing.”
I look at mom, pondering on what she heard from both of us and from what she thought of my painting. Here it comes, I think with dread, the iniquisition.
“Why didn’t you invite him in? I’d like to met him?’ Mom asks.
“He had to met someone so he couldn’t stay.”
“That’s well and fine, but you could’ve told me about him yesterday.” She took another look at my painting. “As for your work, that’s a wild piece. Do you have anything planned for today?”
I told her about my plans with Isaiah and our meeting at the Brookyn Cafe.
“Funny you said that, because I know the owner, a young man who’s looking for great talent. I told him about you and he wants us to meet with him later on this evening,” she replies. “This Satuday is contemporary jazz night and we can have dinner afterwards.With luck, Josh might buy your paintings and make you an offer. And, we can meet with this Isaiah character.”
“Are you sure? I rarely know the guy myself.”
“Honey, anyone who brings my home safely from the rain and is concerned about your welfare must meet us.”
“I second that,” Dad says as he took a look at my painting. “Pretty amazing. You never do anything like that. The guy’s a little familiar.”
“We just thought the same thing,” Mishelle says.
So it was planned. My family, Kierra and Cassadee included, would join me at Brookyn Cafe an we’d meet with Isaiah.
After Mom and Dad left, Mishelle took a look at me. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks me. “If I were you, I’d stay away from this guy.”
“M, I’m sure that Isaiah is a great guy. You’d just need to give him a chance. You’ll like him,” I say to her.
“I’m sure I will,” she just sighs.
“It’s nice to meet you, Nathan. Your Mom told me that you were a great artist,” Josh Graye, the owner and manager of the Brooklyn Cafe, tells me as we shake hands. After much debate on whether or not to go for this and to let my family meet Isaiah, I told myself to go for it and got three of my painitngs for Josh to view.
Mishelle decided to come along. “For moral support,” she had said when I met her and the twins at the door.
“To see if this isaiah guy is legit,” Kierra, her legal persona in full blast, replied. “Don’t want you to fall in the wrong crowd.” Cassadee nodded her assent.
Now, here we are in the cosmopolitan-styled coffeehouse that definitely reminds me of New York City, with all the pictures of famous sights and landmarks that NYC has to offer and the shades of ble giving it a subtle feel. The jazz band was doing renditions of cotemporary music, yet it all sounded classical the way the lead pianist- a young man in his early twenties- was playing.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Graye,” I say.
“Call me Josh. My mission is to find the best young artists of all kinds and to tell them go beyond what they’re used to. What’s the use of letting yourselves be heard if you only do what the people like to see or hear?” Josh motions to my art case, which held my artworks, the latest piece included. “I can’t wait to see them.”
“I hope that you’ll like them. I did one last night out of impromptu,” I tell him.
“Great! The spontneous piece is known to have lot of promise. Give me a few moments to check on my customers, and then we’ll meet up in my office later.”
“Of course, Josh. We’re expecting to meet Nate’s friend later so we’ll order something while we wait,” my dad says as he makes his way to the bar.
Josh nods and heds out to do his rounds.
The rest of us took our seats at a couple of tables. “You guys really think I have potential?” I ask, sitting between Mishelle and Kierra. “I’d planned to be a literary agent, you know.”
“Nathan, you have a gift. We all though your artwork would be like a one-time hobby,” Mom admnonishes me gently. “If your father and I had known, We might have considered letting you go to some art school in the northeast, like Brown or RISD in Rhode Island.”
“Yeah, bro. Even I was taken aback when I saw your latest piece,” Kierra pipes up. “It looks so life-like, and the guy does look familiar.”
“Who is he?” Cass asks me, looking up from her smartphone.
Before I even got a chance to reply, Mishelle says, “He hasn’t even figred it out yet. It was impromptu after all.”
Thank you, Mishelle.
“Do you know what you’re going to call it?” Dad asks me as he carries cups of coffee for everyone execpt for Cass and Kerra who opt for some hot cocoa; there were also some blueberry muffins for Mom and the twins, bear claws for himself and Mishelle and a chocolate Danish for me.
I shake my head no. “I’m still stumped by that one,” I admit. “It was all so sudden. One moment I was contemplating on what to paint and I came up with this the next. It all had to do with that strange wind that came from nowhere, giving me the inspiration.”
“Do you think that God was trying to tell you something?” he asks me, tirring in a pcket of sugar. “Sometimes inspiration comes from His hand in order for you be be led for a greater purpose.”
“I never considered that. You might be right about that one, Dad.”
“Consider it. You always felt like you had something to hold back, but you shouldn’t, not when it comes to creating something you can be proud of.”
“My thoughts exactly,” a young man’s voice pipes up.
I turn around to see Isaiah standing over us in amusement. “Hey, man. Didn’t expect you to bring your family here,” he tells me good-naturedly.
“I stand up to give him a quick hug. “Mom said that I should let Josh view my paintngs and they wanted to meet you,” I explain, giving him a quick introduction to everyone. He shakes everyone’s hands, including Mishelle who lightens up a little.
“Young man, it was noble of you to bring my son bak to his dorm that night,” mom says.
“It was nothing,” Isaiah replies humbly. “Hope it’s not too much trouble to ask if I could join you all.”
“No, not at all.”
And after that we all stated to have a great time just talking about each other’s lives and making jokes. Isaiah seemed more at ease and feeling more like a part of the family. All too soon, it was time to meet Josh, who comes by to our table to tell me to meet him in his office in the back.
I grab my art case. “Wish me luck,” I tell my family.
Isaiah stands up. “I’ll join you,” he says.
“You don’t have to,” I tell him.
“I want to. I want to see your best work.” his steel gray eyes are determined.
“Okay.”
We both follow Josh to the hallway tin the back that will take us to his office. I say a silent prayer to myself hoping that my artwork would be good nough for Josh. “God is trying to tell you something,” Dad’s voice echoes in my head. If He was, I’d hoped that it would be for my artwork to be known.
Josh’s office is contemporary and yet has a laid-back feel towards it. Posters of Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, and Ella Fitzgerald Decorate his wall as Debussy plays through his Bose radio. “What’ve we got?” he pipes up.
I take a deep breath and open the case that held my artwork. The first one was a portrait of Mom back when she was in college. Her auburn hair was cut in the style of Farra Fawcett and her creamy skin complemented her flowingwhite dress, the same one she wore at her high school prom. The second one, painted black in white, depicted a small oceanside town at twilight, the stars and constellations overwhelming the crescent moon as the town sleeps on. “It’s all detailed and planned,” I explain as I sit both on them lying face up so both Isaiah and Josh can view them.
Josh walks over and takes a good look at each of them, Isaiah following them, both of them silent. “Not bad,” Isaiah whispers.
“Indeed,” Josh agrees, “but it feels like you’re holding back from me. A great artist of any kind should never be afraid to show his great masterpieces.”
I knew what he was talking about. Now or never, I tell myself as I take out my lastest creation. The one thal loks like Isaiah, surrounded by glass snowflakes behind a starry moonless night. “It’s was painted of spontaniety,” I explain, sitting the last one between the others. “It’s untitled at the moment.” Both Josh and Isaiah step towards it with great amazement as they take in all the details of my work. They don’t say anoter word until they both feel like they have seen everything.
I start to worry. What if this was a big mistake? Should I have done something more simplified? Is it too soon to bring it over here?
“I like it.”
I jolt out of my reverie. “Excuse me?” I say.
Josh faces me, a big smile on his face. “I said that I like it. This,” he says as he motions toward the painting, “shows that you have done your personal best and that the spontaneous, like I said, always has the most promise.”
Wow! “Thanks. Isaiah, what do you think?”
Isaiah just smiles. “Amazing,” he says. “Hey, can you give us a moment alone?”
Josh nods. “I need to talk to your parents. I have a proposition for you,” he tells me. He steps out of room, leaving me and Isaiah to our own thoughts.
Isaiah takes a deep breath. “It’s amazing, Nate,” he says. “I knew from the start that you have the gift.”
I was stunned by his revelation. “What do you mean?” I wanted to know.
“Come on, man. How else did you paint that picture of me?” he smirks.
I close my eyes and start to think. There ws n othing special about that day, except that strange wind comeing from nowhere and inhaling that scent of oranges….
Wait a minute.
Oranges.
I almost forgot! Trey loved oranges.
I snap my eyes open. Isaiah was gone. No lie, he was gone. POOF! Like that!
Is it possible?
A few mintues later, I meet up with my family. “You guys, Josh is offering me a summer internship at the local art gallery downtown,” I tell everyone.
“Honey, that’s fantastic!” Mom says, giving me a big hug. “Did he also make an offer on the paintings?”
I nod excitedly. “He wants to buy all three, but he wants to buy the one I did last night for an extra $400. It’ll be displayed here in this cafe!”
“Son, that’s amazing news. What else did Josh tell you?”
“He said that I have the gift and that I shouldn’t be afraid to hold it back. The painst over there,” I say, pointing towards Landon the piano player, “was like me. At first he was expected to play music that his family and friends like to hear. Now, he’s on a scholarship at NYU, writing his own music and playing here.
“Dad, you were right. God was trying to tell me something and he used Isaiah to do it.”
“Who’s Isaiah?” Mom pipes up.
“You know, the guy I told you about. We hung out before we went into Josh’s office.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Mishelle drawls. “Are you having a sugar high?”
I knew right then and there not to push it further, because I had a strong feeling that Isaiah was more than a person who picked me up from the library that night. He was my guardian angel. “Never mind,” I say.
Josh walks up to us. “Hey, Nathan, think about my offer,” he tells me as he hands me his business card. “Call me tomorrow. But now, let’s celebrate.”
I laugh as the band starts to play Ellington. “Of course.”
Three months later…
I am enjoying the music here at the Brooklyn Cafe, Josh and Landon both joining me as we wait for Mishelle. To this day, I have painted a lot of portraits and landscapes, even trying out some abstract work. Of course, I make no more mention of Isaiah since I don’t want to be labled as a crazy person. That part is still a secret that remains with me. I knew that they wouldn’t believe me.
Anyway, the painting I did now hangs proudly at the inside entrance of the cafe, inviting all to take in something beautiful while having a cup of coffee. After much consideration, I decided to sell Josh the painting on the condition that it goes home with me once a month because I now have something that I can remember my brother by.
I call it “The Baltimore Angel.” Because he was sent from heaven to look after me.
Jarrick D. Exum: Author & Artist 