“Thanks. I wanted to wait until you got here before I started on his art.”
She releases the fabric and inhales through her nose, blowing out a slow breath as she looks at the daunting task surrounding her, unsure where to start.
“It’s like purgatory’s garage sale. Can’t bear to look at his things but can’t let them go.”
“Nobody is rushing you to do this,” I assure her. After he passed, I helped her move some of his things into the attic so she could deal with them when she was ready, without the torment of facing them daily in the meantime. She said living within the walls was one type of grief, but looking at his artwork was another hell entirely.
She sits back down among the clutter. “Grieving is weird. Some days I feel at peace, other days it’s as if a boulder is sitting on my chest and I’m being crushed under the weight of it. And his art? This is all I have left of him. Dad’s soul is still alive in every brushstroke.How do I get rid of that?They’re more than just his sketches and paintings—they’re the most beautiful parts of him. His creativity, inspiration, and emotions. The way he saw the world. The essence of who he was as a person and how he expressed himself. I want to hoard all of his things like a dragon.”
Towers of sketchbooks and artwork he’s done in the past fill this section of the attic. It’s everywhere, even his old dusty posters stapled to the angled ceiling.
“Logically, I know I can’t keep it all, and it’s not like I’d ever throw it away, it’s gotta be worth something to someone, evensentimentally. There are more than a few tattoo museums and other shops that would be thrilled to have some of his stuff on their walls, right?”
“Absolutely. Nothing will be thrown away,” I promise. “How about we go through the framed pieces first?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “That sounds good.”
She picks up a frame and holds it at arm’s length, smirking.
“Can I see?” I ask, stepping closer. I move a box to the side so I can sit on the dusty floorboards adjacent to her. She angles the painting to show me.
My brow scrunches at the abstract piece. “This isn’t his.” I remember this from the last time I was up here helping her when she let me take photos of all his flash.
“No, it’s mine,” she says, handing it over with a chuckle. “I was probably five or six.”
“Oh, well then this isdefinitelya keeper,” I reply, setting it aside in a keep pile. “Remind me to have you sign it later so it’s worth something.”
She grins, making atsksound at the suggestion. The next one she holds up is a watercolor portrait of her mom.
“Keep,” we say in unison.
After that, it’s an assortment of various framed flash sheets. “Cap did this one,” she says, passing it to me. My eyebrows shoot up and I survey the aged paper in the frame. Wow. August “Cap” Coleman is known as the godfather of American tattooing. I set it in the keep pile.
The next dozen or so are Clyde’s. We have the majority of them at Black Rabbit, but it appears he’s squirreled away some extras at home.
“We could hang them in the shop?” she muses while shrugging.
I nod. “Camden came by the shop the other night. The Safehouse gala is coming up, and he was wondering if there was any of your dad’s work we could donate to the auction.”
“Oh.” She pauses and looks back at the framed piece.
“You don’t have to say yes,” I remind her.
She smiles. “If Dad were still alive, he’d donate it.” Sitting crisscross, she angles her body toward me, holding up both of the framed flash pieces. “Which one?”
“The tigers and roses will sell for more,” I reply.
“Actually . . . let’s put them together as a set.”
I raise my eyebrows, didn’t see that coming.
“You sure?”
She nods, smiling. “Yeah . . . It makes it easier knowing it’ll be appreciated by whoever offers the highest bid.”
“Atta girl.” I take the two framed pieces and set them in a new pile. Now he’ll get off my dick about that donation.
“Oh, this one would be cool in the shop!” She hands me a large painting of a panther Clyde did.
