I wish I knew how to tell him that he’ll never be alone again.
“Not anymore, though, right?” I ask instead. “You’re not lonely anymore, are you?”
He shakes his head. “Sometimes in here,” he says with a tap to his temple. “But too many people love me now.”
“Is that why you turned to sculpture? Why you started using bronze?”
His smile, which had been sad, broadens. His expression lightens. “My friends were so precious with their children around my paintings. Their little fingers wanted to reach out and touch because of how much paint I use.”
“Like Renoir’s impasto technique.”
He flushes. “Yes. I do like glopping paint on the canvas.”
“Me too,” I admit.
His eyes widen. “You still paint?”
I nod. “Not to display,” I’m quick to add. “Mostly just to get out of my head.”
“I know the feeling,” he says and goes quiet again.
“But you said that you went into sculpture for your niblings?” I ask, using his word.
It’s a good word.
“I wanted them to be able to interact with my art. My husband and I live in an old brownstone that we had renovated after his grandfather died.” He taps his fingers together. “We opened the entrance so I could set one of my sculptures right there. You pass it like a sentinel going into the house.”
“I bet the kids loved that.”
“You know how bronze statues go shiny in the places people touch the most?” he asks, his eyes bright.
“Of course.”
“The whole statue is so shiny because the kids loved climbing it.” He closes his eyes, as if picturing it. “Over the years, the brightness grew from the knees, to the hips, to the chest, to the shoulders, and now the face. Wherever their hands can reach.”
Wistful is an interesting look on such a heavily tattooed man.
“Who’s the statue of?”
Hopper leans forward and rocks back.
Forward and back.
Forward and back.
His answer, when he finally gives it, is quiet.
“I tried to imagine what my son would look like, and I created him.”
I inhale sharply, tears pricking at my eyes.What if it looks like me?
“Do you have a picture?” I ask, unable to fully steady my voice.
He nods and slides out his phone, quickly thumbing through the screens.
“Here.”
Some part of me, some pathetic part, hoped I’d be able to point to it and ask if he thought it looked familiar.
