A Battle Raging (4 page)

"Mr. Yarborough, do you have a moment?" she
asked as he began maneuvering his chair to turn toward the door. He stopped, turned the wheels to face her.

"Yeah," he
answered disinterestedly. Again, he turned gray eyes on her and she felt skewered to the spot. They were the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen on a man. His noncommittal expression made her feel self-conscious.

"
This class isn't for you. You're way ahead of everybody and what I have to teach won't stimulate you."

He started to interrupt but she pressed on.

"I know what you told me at our last session, that this is supposed to serve as some sort of therapy for you. That's why I want to offer you an alternative to this class, something that will challenge you, make you delve deeper than you would drawing inanimate objects."

"
And what would that alternative be?"

She heard the suspicion in his voice, s
aw a resistance take hold in those eyes. Well, this might not be as easy as she'd first thought.

"Nothing more inconvenient than an alternative syllabus. I don't want to waste your time with an overly simple class plan. I want you to c
onnect with what you're drawing and I don't see you doing that by drawing fruit and wine glasses."

"So, what are you suggesting I draw?"

There it was, a glimmer of something more than just boredom in his eyes. She was reaching him.

"I want you to sketch out
whatever has you so pissed off."

The resistance was back. In just that second, he had shut her out.

"Too personal?" she asked.

"Yeah, nobody's damn business," he said with a strained voice.

"Well, you don't have to show anybody, not even me, if that's what you want. But you do need to confront it, whatever it is. And you can begin to do that with paper and charcoal."

"So now you have a degree in psychology, huh?"

"No, just a B.S. degree in art…"

"BS sounds just about right…"

"Look, insulting me isn't going to help you. And just to let you know, even though I don't have a degree in psychology or art therapy, I have on a few occasions worked with psychiatrists to help patients get through emotional and mental traumas. I'm hoping I can use that experience to help you."

"There's nothing you can do for me," he said
softly before he turned his chair and began wheeling to the door.

"At least think about it," she pleaded, then wondered as she did so why this was so important to her. Why
did she care about someone who was so rude and unfeeling?

Maybe because even through hi
s stone exterior, she'd detected a tinge of pain, a small wisp of something he could not hide.

Well, she had put herself out there and it was up to him
to accept her offer. She'd have to wait until the next class to find out.

Zach
wheeled so fiercely, he barely paid attention to the light that had just turned red at the intersection of Olive Way and Summit. He wheeled out in front of an oncoming red Prius, which had to screech to a halt to keep from hitting him.

Zach half turned his chair
, leaned forward and banged on the car's hood.

"Hey, I'm rolling her
e!" he yelled in his best Ratso Rizzo imitation. The red-haired woman behind the wheel widened her eyes in shock. For some reason, that gave him some satisfaction.

He reached t
he curb and continued the half block to the local Starbucks Café where he often came to escape the solitude of his small apartment. He wheeled through the access door and headed for the bar where he ordered a Corona and waited near the counter. Within a few seconds, the barista handed him a sweating bottle.

He
took his beer to his usual spot near the fireplace in the back of the shop. An elderly man was settled on one of the leather sofas reading the evening paper.

A small fire
blazed making the area warm and comfortable. He had shed his earlier rain gear as the weather had lightened up hours ago since the class ended. Off in a nook, the evening's performer strummed a soft blues melody that he didn't recognize. It was almost six, and he was finding it a little more difficult to wind down. He took a sip of the cold Corona, savored the flavor as it went down his throat.

As he took another pull from the bottle
, he thought about canceling Monday's group session with Dr. Madison. With a subsequent sip, he put the thought out of his mind. It would be a mistake. He couldn't afford to miss even one session.

The dreams were so vivid now. The coldness of death as his blood left his body. The metallic smell of the blood. The slow motion of voices and gunshot. The smell of sulfur, carbon. Blood raining down on him; not his own blood. Not his own.

The amorphous images swirled in his mind, daring him to let them crystallize. To form into some sort of tableau.

He imagined the charcoal in his hand, saw the mental image of the shapes, the strokes…

Could he actually do it?

He finished off the beer, turned his chair to head to the bar again
for a second Corona. And accidentally bumped into a tall blond man headed to a table.

"Hey,
man watch where you're going!" the guy said loudly. His voice was more than a little slurred. Several heads at tables turned to look at the commotion.

"
Look, sorry you got in my way. I can't watch out for every idiot who doesn't see my chair."

The man smiled;
Zach was all too familiar with that smile. Courage fueled by alcohol and the belief that he had an upper hand over an opponent.

"You should have to get a license to drive one of those things," the man said with a half laugh. Zach heard a couple of groans rear up from the other customers. But he didn't need their help nor their pity.

"You know where I got the license to drive this? A bullet from the Taliban while I was over in Afghanistan fighting for your goddamn freedom!"

"Whoever you were fighting for, it sure as hell wasn't for me. No one told you to sign up for any damn army…"

"Marine! I'm a fucking Marine!"

"Well, hi ho sailor, unless you hadn't noticed, your tour of duty is over. And you need to see about that giant chip on your shoulder."

The man began to walk away, his gait unsteady and his intoxication more obvious than ever. Maybe on a better day, Zach would have considered that fact before making a move. But today wasn't that day.

Sure most would consider it a sneak attack. But he was at a disadvantage against a ambulatory foe. A f
ighter used whatever weapon there was available. The strength of his arms gave momentum to his "weapon" as he smashed into the legs of the asshole, knocking him to floor.

"Hey!!!" the man warbled from the floor, not injured but with the wind knocked out of him.
No one rushed to help him up. The guitarist sat on his stool, a smirk on his face.

Zach sat there, not feeling the vindication he'd hoped for. Even when the barista came from around the counter and handed him a cold unopened bottle of Corona.

"On the house," she half whispered. "Just get out of here right now before he has us call the police."

The suggestion was a good one. The man had had a few, but his pride would be wounded now. He might seek retaliation by cop.

When Zach wheeled his chair to the access door, one of the patrons stood and pushed the button for him.

"Good on ya," the man said with an Australian accent.

He left, realizing that no one was quick to censure him or hold him responsible for his actions. No one was going to call him on his shit. It wasn't only that he was in a wheelchair, but that they knew he had been hurt in the war. Yes, there were privileges…but at too high a price.

As he began wheeling home, a light sprinkle started up. He thought of the rain earlier. Of the classroom. Of
the instructor, Maya.

She would be one to call him on his
bullshit. He could imagine the fire in her eyes if she'd been here to witness his tantrum. He imagined those dark eyes. The loose corkscrew curls of her afro framing her face. And that amazingly warm brown skin. That first day, he'd been thrown off by how lovely she was.

The
real reason he'd chosen to draw her instead of the piece of fruit.

Halfway home, he knew he
had to draw her again. He wanted her to pose for him. Away from prying eyes.

And the only way that was going to happen was for him to do as she'd requested. He had to put his soul on canvas. Or at least on paper. He had to bare himself before she would do the same for him.

Quid pro quo.

###

"Why do you need to roast your own coffee beans?" Jada asked as she peered at the jar of green coffee beans Maya kept in the kitchen pantry. "For God's sakes, girl, you live in Coffeeville USA. You can get fresh roasted coffee on every block in the city."

Jada
was nothing if not opinionated on any number of issues. Including it would seem Maya's coffee beans.

"Because I damn well want to, that's why. Is that alright with you?"

Jada held up her hands in capitulation. "You're the queen of your kitchen and I'm just a serf today. So what are we making this morning?"

Sunday mornin
gs were a ritual for Maya and her younger sister, Jada. It was their time together outside their busy schedules. Of the two of them, Jada was the one who had to set aside time given the hectic pace of being an assistant district attorney. But this was their way of remembering their mama, getting together to cook some of her favorite recipes.

"The recipe du jour is
country biscuits with sausage and gravy."

"Oh yeah, that's always good," Jada said, licking her lips. "Everything from scratch right?"

"Mama wouldn't have it any other way," Maya answered, a wave of nostalgia hitting her.

She remembered weekends
as a girl when her mother would call them downstairs in the very craftsman house where she still lived. On those mornings, the three of them would gather the ingredients for whatever mama had chosen to make, all in an attempt to teach them their way around a kitchen. Maya knew that if she hadn't pursued art, she very well would have gone to culinary school, opened her own restaurant.

"OK,
got the flour, sausage, onion, milk, thyme, sage, garlic and oh yeah, butter," Jada ticked off the ingredients as she pulled them from the pantry or refrigerator. At least she had dressed for cooking duty this time: a light blue blouse with jeans. No dress slacks. Maybe one day she would actually wear a tee.

They gathered the stuff on the counter and began their designated tasks: Maya doing the biscuits and
Jada prepping the sausage and seasoning for the gravy.

Within a half h
our they had their plates ready on the kitchen table. Tall glasses of pineapple juice rounded out the menu.

"So, what's going on with your classes?" Jada asked as she soused her biscuits with
the sausage gravy, then took a bite.

She and Jada were
blatantly honest with each other, to the point that feelings were often bruised. But for some reason, she hadn't told Jada anything specific about the sessions since they'd started. And she didn't know why she didn't.

"Well, they could go better. Much better," she said matter-of-factly.

"And why aren't they?"

The sausage was hot and spicy, the way she liked it. Yet her enjoyment was tinged with worries she couldn't seem to let go.

"You're quiet today, what's going on?"

"There's a student who is proving to be more than a bit of a headache. The thing is, I think I can help him…if he'd let me."

Jada took a sip of juice, shaking her head at the same time. Then she put down the glass before saying:

"Question is, is he worth your time and trouble?  If he's more than "a bit of a headache" doesn't sound like it."

"But he's talented, I think even more than he's shown so far," she said with a passion that surprised her. "I think I can get him to open up, express himself artistically. Right now, he's just a ball of anger from what little I've seen. I can only imagine how he is 24/7. If he doesn't defuse all of that anger, it's going to be misdirected and maybe get him in trouble."

"Here's some advice from someone who deals with angry misfits all the time. Most of them are
not worth it
. You can give them all of your attention, go out of your way to give them chances in the world and all they're going to do is fuck up their lives even further and shit all over yours. Maya sweetie, you don't need that. Not after the hell named Bryan Lawrence."

Bryan
. After nearly five months since the end of that disastrous two-year relationship, she was only now getting to the point where thinking about him didn't bring up painful memories. There were more types of abuse than just physical; what he had done to her mentally… If she hadn't had her art, a means of getting out the pain, she might have gone down a more pharmaceutical road.