A Road as Wide as the World

(continued)

By Susan Snowden

For his next task, Dillon decides he will need the London Symphony. Orff's Carmina Burana, top volume. He has no surround sound, no Bose; his boom box from Goodwill will have to do. The fake paneled walls of the studio do not reverberate with full-throttle bass, the way Dillon likes his music; nevertheless, he works on. Carefully, lovingly, he removes each canvas, carries it to the perfect spot in the room, props it against the wall. By mid-afternoon the studio is ringed with artwork. As if programmed, the tape player clicks off after "0, Fortuna," just as he steps back to assess his handiwork.

Every painting is displayed to its best advantage, and in the center of them all, in the middle of the room, is Dillon' s piece de resistance, a hinged triptych he calls "Shrine to the Black Madonna." Even in fading light its deep, rich colors — especially the blood red — pulsate with life. And the gold-leaf halo ringing the Virgin's head seems to expand until there is an aura around the entire shrine. Dillon rubs his eyes, but... yes, the panels are glowing!

What if BBB hates the work? What if she's silent? Or laughs? What if she gushes? Gives me a show in New York? What if no one buys? What if collectors come in droves? What if I have to give interviews? What if I become blocked? What if... what if?

The light is coming up. Not like yesterday; today will be overcast. The tiger is in repose. Dillon sits on the porch in his straight-backed chair, staring at the woods. His face is blank, as blank as the new canvas that lies in the trunk of his '92 Honda. A rabbit emerges from the forest and moves toward the porch, toward Dillon, then stops, ears twitching. When he hops off again, he veers off to the driveway and then down toward the road, purposefully. Dillon has watched the rabbit countless times on mornings like this, nibbling at greenery around the edges of the yard, then turning and working his way back to the woods. He's never shown any interest in crossing the road. Dillon believes he'll turn back.

At least five minutes pass, but the rabbit has not come back. Dillon rises from his chair and as quietly as possible picks his way through the land mines of trash to a place that allows him a full view of the driveway. There's the little guy, poised at the end of the gravel drive looking at the wide asphalt road, one ear back, the other pointing forward.

Ha! You can't do it, can you, mate? Dillon smiles, pats his shirt pocket, then pulls out a crumpled cigarette pack. One left. He lights it with his old Zippo, a gift from Uncle Fred, and decides to gamble. If the rabbit crosses the road, heads off across that vast, treeless expanse of lawn toward the Campbells' house, he will let BBB come. If not, he'll call Hal and tell him "no go." The grande dame of the art world will just have to leave Appalachia empty-handed.

With the edge of his sandal, Dillon shuffs aside a brown apple core and bends down to rub out his cigarette on the concrete. The tiger is disturbed, but stretches as Dillon stands again and presses his forehead to the screen to watch the rabbit. Gone! Dillon's heart pumps. He squints across the road, scans the Campbells' property. Nothing. He spins on his heel and surveys the backyard, especially the brown patches of grass and the ragged garden. No sign of Peter Rabbit. He's vanished, and Dillon has no way of knowing whether he crossed the road or hopped back to the forest behind the studio.

It happened so fast — he'd turned away for only a moment to put out his cigarette. The cigarette. Perhaps, he thinks, he should've flicked it into the debris surrounding him, or carried it inside and offered it up to the Madonna, set a can of varnish nearby for good measure, let the whole goddamn place go up in flames.