penance. a love story (The Böhme Series) (19 page)

“He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?” I asked.

“Yeah, he does. He helped make this place. This part of town was barren, until he and the Bohemians made this.”

“The Bohemians?” I laughed.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, it's what they named themselves. When they first started, they were a group of disenchanted young men. They hated the stuffy art taught to them in school and wanted freedom. They saw how others spoke of love and peace in the sixties but they spoke of truth through art. People thought they were hippies, but they refused to be called hippies, as they were nonconformist across the board. That movement lacked freedom as it couldn't function without the widespread use of drugs, or so these guys said.” He looked at the mural with appreciation and a smile. 

He let out a deep sigh before he continued. "Sid paraphrases Dali's quote on not needing drugs, when he refers to the Bohemians lack of drug use. Sid and they believe drugs aren't necessary to unlock the imagination. He calls them the alternate solution and the lazy man's path to creativity."

I smiled as he spoke of them. Nervousness followed after that smile as I was at a loss as what to say when I met them. That depth of creativity was intimidating.

“Follow me, there's more I want you to see
,” he said as he looked at my hand, drawing my attention away from the mural. He was trying to decide on taking it or not. The slow, reluctant decision came as he kept his eyes on my hand before he touched my back guiding me toward the entrance.

We stepped into a large, front entryway
holding an open staircase. The entryway led either to the antique shop or upstairs to the gallery. We took the stairs to the second level and paused at a door with one word written in a language unknown to me but I assumed it was our stop.
Böhme
it read. Seeing my quizzical expression Wynn laughed.

“That,” h
e said as he pointed at the sign, “is Petra’s addition to the little collective. It's the German word for Bohemian. Although it is just for the male bohemian, Petra said the adjective böhmisch didn’t sound as well to Americans.” His usual demure smile formed on his face.

“Ah, that makes sense. So Petra was part of it too?”

“Yes, she brought her love of books to the Böhme.” He gave a nostalgic sigh.

“What an interesting group of people to influence you as a child. I'm jealous
,” I said with a smile as we walked into the gallery. I followed behind him and my eyes lingered as I recognized every part of him that was imprinting as the image of Wynn in my mind. He wore the same jeans and boots as he did yesterday. His shirt was a long sleeved tee and formfitting with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, exposing his tattoos and the leather bands around his wrists. He wore one silver ring today on his right pointer finger and he rolled his fingers across the air as if he were running measures on a piano. His hair hung in its normal disheveled way with small curling around his ears and the back of his neck. He lifted one brow at me as he turned with a grin, before he meandered to a large table inside the room. He was the very definition of the gallery’s namesake.

A man with long graying hair and even longer beard sat behind the table and looked up at Wynn when he approached.
“Wynnie,” he said with a deep voice, “What brings you here?” As I approached, the man smiled, “Oh I see what brought you here.” He winked at me as he stood to pull Wynn in for a pat to his back and a hug.

“Hey Pike. I was bringing my friend, Hannah, to see the place. I was telling her about you guys.”

“Oh, I hope it wasn’t any of our crazy stories, Wynn.” He tilted his head and smiled a large smile. “Or maybe I do hope it was.”

I smiled at the man and the comfortable aura that resonated from him. If Wynn’s Sid mirrored Pike in any form, I was going to be drawn to him as well. Guilt began to fester in my stomach at the thought. I couldn’t be so involved with him that I met everyone in his life. But I didn’t have to be
involved
with him. As I have a new friend in Gabe, I could be friends with Wynn. It was the only way.

“So Hannah,
How do you know our Wynnie?” Pike asked, showing me a wide grin hidden behind his beard. He had one gold tooth that sparkled in the light and I smiled at him in return. 

“Wynnie?” I looked at Wynn who rolled his eyes while leaning on a shelf behind the table. He began to mess with action figures that were on the shelves and Pike darte
d his hand toward him to take the toy. Wynn laughed and gave me the most beautiful smile as his arms curled in to avoid Pike’s backhand.

“Yes, Pike likes to call me that because he enjoys pissing me off any chance he gets. Blake picked up on it though, so to add to the annoyance, they both do it now
.” Wynn stepped closer to me as Pike readjusted the action figure with love on the shelf. “But I know how to piss Pike off too.” He leaned in as if to tell me a secret. “Pike doesn’t approve of others playing with his toys.”

“These aren’t toys, Wynn. I told you, these are collectibles. If you keep it up, I'm writing you out of my will
,” Pike said as he picked up a red and yellow super hero and showed it to us. “This one is yours, Wynnie. But tread lightly or I will take him back.”

Wynn shook his head before returning his hand to my back. “Okay. We will leave you to your business
.” Wynn laughed as he glanced over his shoulder at Pike and directed me away from him.

"But she never answered my question
,” Pike responded with a hoarse laugh.

I looked back toward Pike and smiled, "There's no how to it, I just
know
him, Pike.” I gave Pike a wink and his laughter continued as he straightened his collection. Wynn let his thumb rub across my back at my declaration. There was an unspoken understanding between us and I wanted more of it.

I followed Wynn into the
first room and there were wall-to-wall paintings. Sculptures placed in the center finished the room. The paintings varied in style and composition and each held me captive for the time I spent looking at them. The sculptures contained random junk, but in their randomness, they were beautiful. Wynn took the time to explain each piece and painting to me in detail. I was in awe of how he not only knew each title without reference, but he knew several stories of the artist who created it.

In the last room of our journey, there were photographic portraits of each of the artists in black and white. Most were older, but there were a few younger artists as well. Their eyes focused right at the camera as if they were daring it to expose them and in doing so it succeeded. The occasional artist smiled, but most were themselves, without smile or pose. I examined the line of artists and spent more time doing so than I did anywhere else in the gallery.

I noticed Wynn wasn’t speaking as I looked at the images and when I stepped toward the last one, I understood why. The last image was of him. In the description under his photo the sole words were,
Wynn Hawthorne, Photographer.
His lacked the biography the other artists had along with their names. I looked at his photo, which I assumed was a self portrait and I felt lost. His eyes were looking right into me and grabbed hold causing more turmoil to war inside me. He held so much passion in his eyes and the intensity of his spirit blazed through them.

“These are stunning, Wynn.”

I breathed out as I tore my eyes from his photos to take in his profile. I could reach out an arm's length to touch the sharp edge of his nose and strong curve of his jaw. The muscles in my fingers tensed as I fought with my instincts to do so. I wanted to cling to this moment and to him. He tightened his lips as he lowered his chin, unable to respond to my compliment. The strength of his humility was destroying me.

His mouth formed into a smile as he lifted his eyes to mine. “Thank you
.” He nodded toward them. “These are the photos I live for, and the crime scenes pay the bills.”

“Can’t you stop?” I asked as I looked back at the photos.

“I suppose I can, but I haven’t decided what to do yet.” He shrugged.

“You can’t do this?” I waved my hand toward the photos.

“The demand for this style of photo is low. Nowadays people want over edited shit that makes them appear perfect without blemish. There aren’t many people wanting to show their true selves. Who wants reality when they can look like someone they think is better? Forget hiding behind walls and facades, you can now change yourself at the touch of a button and mouse click.”

“But why not for art? You could take photos and sell them
,” I said as I looked at a photo of Petra. “Hell, I would buy these. They are gorgeous and haunting at the same time.”

“Thank you
,” he said again as he watched me. His eyes followed my every movement and I wondered what truths my image taken by him might hold. A chill ran through me as I recalled sitting in that classroom yesterday. I was naked before him and his intense stare echoed through my mind as I tried to stay calm.

“I want to photograph you someday
,” Wynn said in a quiet tone. It was as if he were reading my thoughts as I looked at the photos and I was ashamed for trying to use something that he holds so dear to understand myself.

“That sounds nice
.”
Nice?
“I mean, that is very cool of you to offer. I've got to confess though I'm worried of what it may show. I'm not meaning that in the typical girl way either,” I said with a pointed expression. “I mean I don’t know if I’m ready to see myself in such a raw way.”

He nodded, “I understand.”

He looked at my hand once more and I watched him tap each of his fingers to his thumb. He began with his little finger, then his ring finger, middle, and ended with the pointer finger. He did that rotation several times as he weighed his options. He took a deep breath and closing his eyes, he reached for my hand.

I have held hands before and felt nothing. I have read several books where they describe holding someone’s hand for the first time as electric or earth shattering. There wasn't electricity when Wynn took my hand and the earth remained still. The warm bubbling excitement didn't happen and my cold emptiness was absent as well. It simply
was.
His hand holding mine was as astronomical and as quiet as the pull of the moon on the tides. It was as if everything came into proper alignment by the simple interlocking of our fingers. The earth didn't shatter, but something monumental happened
. And we could only be friends.

Friends hold hands right? Gabe holds my hand. Gabe has cuddled me several times in the last few days. I could hold hands with Wynn and be his friend. We might even cuddle too.

Eyes blazing with wonder met mine and a smile stretched across his face, showing the truthful life he held close. This side was not open to everyone. It was the private part of Wynn and I was a fool for lying to myself. Friends were not a possibility with us. I needed more of what he was creating in me.

"Can I show you something?"
he asked as he looked at our hands and rubbed the pad of his thumb back and forth around the knuckle of mine.

I nodded in agreement as I watched our hands as well. He led the way to a hidden door. He pressed on it and the sound of air swooshing met us as it popped open. He turned back to give me his crooked smile. Eyebrows wagged at me in a playful manner as he gave a light tug to my hand. We entered a darkened room and he pulled an old rope on the wall. He held my hand with care and used the weight of his body to pull the rope with his other hand. Two pulls later the room filled with sunlight as a garage door lifted to show an open patio on the roof of the first floor of the building.

Two wooden chairs sat alone in the middle of the roof that looked as though they should be at a kitchen table and not on a patio. Silver sheeting on the roof reflected the sunlight. I raised my hand to shield my eyes as the setting sun's reflection caused a bright glow to surround us. The chairs appeared as a mirage the longer we stood there. The air above the roof reflected the sun and heat as it does in the desert, creating an ethereal glow around the chairs as if they were floating in the air.

"Petra calls this
reflexion
. She said it's where one goes when they must escape the world of people and ponder on life's true purpose,” Wynn said as he walked us toward the chairs.

I
smiled at Petra’s childlike honesty. "It takes a moment to adjust to the brightness,” Wynn said as he released my hand for the first time before having me sit in one of the chairs.

"It's like I'm in the clouds
,” I said.

"That’s why they laid these
,” Wynn said as he bounced, causing the sheet of metal below him to create a resonating thrum. "I assume that clouds are less noisy though.” He laughed before continuing.

“
You are on your own for this part of our little trip. I know it's hard at first, but try to keep forward and not squint too much. Sit with your chin raised toward the skyline. It's cool, trust me,” he said placing his hand upon my shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze before he moved the other chair behind me.

I gave a slight nod of my head as I did what he said. Light surrounded me as I exhaled and looked across the roof. I couldn't see far in front of me, as the light was a bright tomb not allowing any reflection to form on the tin roof. There was nothing to hide me from the never ending brightness and it scared the shit out of me. Unattached from my body, I was no longer sitting in the chair, I was floating. No longer physical, I was energy that intermingled with the sunlight invading every part of the darkness I held close. My breathing increased as I felt myself fall farther into the cloud the light created. Color did not exist in this place and shapes lost the battle to the consuming light.