Art
Art
Art couldn’t sleep. He’d woken up at three a.m. in the middle of a terrible nightmare involving Anna from the social club. She was riding her souped-up mobility scooter dressed as a cowboy and carrying a bright-orange machine gun, hunting him down as he ran through the aisles of Sainsbury’s with stolen goods flying out of his pockets.
Now, as always, the issues that he’d managed to keep shut firmly away during the daylight hours exploded into the silent dark.
Art thought about the children at Mandel Community Center Nursery. All their lives were blank sheets of paper waiting to become stories. Except for Lucky, whose story already had a disturbing prologue. One that only Lucky himself could read.
What had Art wanted his story to be, when he was that age? Not this one, certainly. He’d imagined being a hugely famous actor, surrounded by loving family and friends, mobbed by hysterical fans proffering various body parts to be autographed wherever he went. Not an old man whose family refused to speak to him, whose career was ending before it had ever really taken off, and who couldn’t even get noticed when he flagrantly flouted the law.
Something had to change. He wasn’t sure what, or how, but he knew that the first step was confronting the issue. He had to open the wardrobe, the physical manifestation of all his shame and loathing.
Art turned on his bedside lamp and sat up slowly, then swung his legs around so that his feet hit the floor. The days when he’d leaped out of bed were long gone. He stood up, stretched out his arms, rolled his shoulders, and shook each of his legs in turn, limbering up for the marathon this task was, then made his way slowly across the landing.
Art opened the door to his spare room, turned on the light, and shuffled in sideways, his eyes trained on his feet. It turned out that dealing with the problem head-on was beyond him. He hated this room. It was a constant reminder of everything he’d lost, and everything he despised about his life and himself.
Kerry’s single bed still waited, a threadbare teddy bear by her pillow, in case she ever wanted to come home. He picked up the pillow and buried his face in it. For several years, he’d been able to imagine the faint memory of her scent—Impulse deodorant, minty toothpaste, and Timotei shampoo—but he’d not been able to smell anything other than dust and damp for decades.
The walls were covered with posters—Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet, and Culture Club, all glistening skin, taut muscles, and smoldering eyes. Where were they now, those beautiful boys? Probably languishing on the NHS waiting list for hip replacements. Several corners had peeled down, the Blu Tack holding them in place having long since lost its blue and its tack, revealing a brighter, younger version of the wallpaper behind them.
Art grasped the brass knob on the wardrobe door and took three long, deep breaths, still staring at the floor. You can do this, Art. You have to. He flung open the door, so violently that it ricocheted back again before settling in a half-open position. A tsunami of miscellaneous stuff fell onto the floor in front of him. A decade’s worth of pilfered items, most still with their price labels attached, none of them wanted, none of them used.
Art never used anything he stole. Once the thrill of the acquisition had worn off, the items he’d nicked were simply unwelcome reminders of his shame, and were quickly shoved into the dark recesses of the wardrobe.
Art sat down on the bed, its lumpiness betraying the additional hoard of stolen goods stashed underneath it, and stared at it all.
There were clothes—mostly not even his size—books, boxes of chocolates, toiletries, hardware, software, stationery, games, magazines. He’d picked up anything that caught his eye whenever he’d been unable to resist the urge, like a magpie on amphetamines.
What was he going to do with all this contraband? Where could he even begin?
Some garishly colored plastic caught his eye. A toy truck. Ever since he’d found evidence of his grandchildren on Facebook, Art had been drawn to children’s toys and clothes. He had no idea what his grandchildren liked, or how big they were. They must be teenagers by now. Far too old for plastic trucks, in any case.
Kerry’s Facebook and Instagram were sensibly, but frustratingly, private. He’d resorted to cyberstalking all her old school friends, in the hope of gleaning some details about Kerry’s life. He’d spend hours scouring the internet, and then, when he did manage to find some small detail—a school reunion she’d attended, or a charity event she’d taken part in—it would pierce his heart, lodge itself there and fester. And every answer he found just led to more questions.
Art reached out for the jaunty yellow truck, pulling it free from the pile. For the first time, he knew where he could start.
···
“OMG, Art, this is awesome !” said Janine, pulling soft toys, children’s clothes, puzzles, and games out of the bin liner Art had thrust at her. “Where did it all come from?”
“Uh, donations from local shops,” Art replied. “It’s all new, but out-of-date stock. Stuff they can’t sell anymore.” That, at least, was true. “I thought they’d be helpful for the kids. And their families.”
“You have no idea how much!” said Janine, who was actually looking a little tearful. “Places here are council- and charity-funded, so they’re ferociously means-tested. Our kids often come from homes where they have nothing. They’re totally reliant on benefits and food banks. This must have taken you so long to collect!” Art nodded, feeling himself blush in a way that he hoped appeared bashful rather than guilty. It had taken longer than Janine could possibly imagine. Ten years, in fact.
“Why don’t we let them choose one thing each to take home, then we can share out the clothes among the parents at pickup, and put the rest of the toys in the toy chest, for them to play with while they’re here?” said Janine, calling the kids over.
Art watched as each of them sorted through his pile of loot, wide-eyed with wonder, checking again and again that they really could take something home, just for them.
For the first time in years, Art felt something other than shame. A tiny flicker of pride. Perhaps he wasn’t just a common thief—he was Robin Hood. Stealing from the rich and giving to the needy. He was a fairer, redistributive taxation system in human form.
“Let’s put all the rest of the toys in the toy box, kids,” said Janine, “and then we can start working on our nativity play.”
“A play?” said Art. Even after five decades of professional disappointment, the word “play” still had the power to make his spine tingle.
“Yes,” said Janine, rolling her eyes. “Council edict. I have no idea how we can possibly pull a performance together in the next three weeks with no budget, no costumes or scenery, and no talent. It’s going to be a shambles. I even wonder whether that’s their intention—so they have another reason to close us down.”
“Perhaps I can help?” said Art, whose generosity now knew no bounds. “You see, I am an experienced thespian! Maybe I can get all the social club to muck in. I’ll talk to Lydia.”
This ideal opportunity had just fallen into Art’s lap! He could keep himself busy and out of trouble, and create a part for Maggie. It would give her just the experience she needed in front of a live audience.
Fired up with the excitement and novelty of finding himself on the right side of the moral compass, Art crossed the hallway to the room they used for the social club, putting some spare coppers and leftover Fruit Gums from his pocket into the collecting box on his way.