someone who really understands. I can do this. I can go in.
I will let him show me whatever he wants to show me.
He lets go of my hand and pulls the doors open. The entrance into Tarver’s is like a black hole, even though it’s day, even though light is pouring in through the windows. Death has been here and where death has been no light shall ever be.
Or something.
Culler takes my hand again and walks me inside.
I don’t know anything about the history of Tarver’s Warehouse. What people did here. How they worked. Who they worked for. Why. I never thought to ask my father and my father never thought to tell me. The place is empty and strange and echoey and dusty. Really dusty. I sneeze and instantly feel like I’ve broken the sacredness of this moment.
Culler leads me away from the center of the room and down the side of the wall. The ground is concrete and dirty and full of debris. I step over pieces of wood. I have no idea where they came from. Eventually, we get halfway through the building.
“How do you get onto the roof?” I ask, fighting the nausea the question inspires.
“You just keep going up,” Culler replies. He points to a door on the opposite wall. “There are stairs behind there. What I want to show you is over there. I just want to take you to the door, though. Not through it.”
I nod, but I don’t feel nearly as steady about this as I look.
It’s different in the day. I’ve been inside at night, when everything looks like nothing, no color. In the light, I see the door is faded red and I know every time I see red from now on, I’ll think of my father’s death. Culler takes my hand and then he presses it against the space just above the doorknob. There’s a difference in texture. I notice it immediately.
We stand there.
He takes my photograph and before I can tell him to stop, he says, “Lower your hand,” and I do, and then he says, “Do you see it?”
Etched into the rotting wood—maybe by a key, something— S.R.
I feel like someone has turned my head off, my heart.
I face Culler, my mouth open, but I’m not sure what I should say.
“Did you put that there?” he asks.
“What? No—”
“I didn’t either.”
I turn back to the scratch marks. The name. I can’t believe this. I press my hand over the letters again, rub my palm over them and try to feel them—more.
I suck in a breath and pull my hand away.
“What?” Culler asks.
I shake my head and stare at my palm. My hand is shaking and a little splinter has planted itself directly into that soft space of skin just under the base of my thumb. It stings. Culler steps forward and sees it. He uses his fingernails to try to dig it out.
Too many things are going on in my head.
“He put it there,” I say.
“Yeah,” Culler says. “I think so.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“The night he died?” I ask him this like he would know the answer.
“Maybe.” He finally gets the splinter out. He looks at me and his eyes are intent. “Maybe not.”
“S.R.—that’s like—”
“Secrets on City Walls,” Culler says. “He’d put those photographs up everywhere and they’d have his initials on them. First thing I thought of too.”
I stare at the scratches. “But … why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to show you.”
I feel lightheaded.
“Are you okay?” Culler asks. I must look like I’m spacing.
“Uhm … I have to go to his studio. I have to clear it all out,” I say. “Everything.”
“309 Hutt Street. Delaney,” he says.
“How did you know?”
He smiles faintly. “Where do you think I learned?” And then I flush and he frowns. “They want you to clear it out already?”
“They’re renting the space … they don’t want anything to get lost in the shuffle…”
“Maggie Gibbard, right?” he asks. “She’s full of it. She just wants it gone. Twit.”
“Maybe.” But I don’t really have a problem with Maggie. “… And my mom can
I will let him show me whatever he wants to show me.
He lets go of my hand and pulls the doors open. The entrance into Tarver’s is like a black hole, even though it’s day, even though light is pouring in through the windows. Death has been here and where death has been no light shall ever be.
Or something.
Culler takes my hand again and walks me inside.
I don’t know anything about the history of Tarver’s Warehouse. What people did here. How they worked. Who they worked for. Why. I never thought to ask my father and my father never thought to tell me. The place is empty and strange and echoey and dusty. Really dusty. I sneeze and instantly feel like I’ve broken the sacredness of this moment.
Culler leads me away from the center of the room and down the side of the wall. The ground is concrete and dirty and full of debris. I step over pieces of wood. I have no idea where they came from. Eventually, we get halfway through the building.
“How do you get onto the roof?” I ask, fighting the nausea the question inspires.
“You just keep going up,” Culler replies. He points to a door on the opposite wall. “There are stairs behind there. What I want to show you is over there. I just want to take you to the door, though. Not through it.”
I nod, but I don’t feel nearly as steady about this as I look.
It’s different in the day. I’ve been inside at night, when everything looks like nothing, no color. In the light, I see the door is faded red and I know every time I see red from now on, I’ll think of my father’s death. Culler takes my hand and then he presses it against the space just above the doorknob. There’s a difference in texture. I notice it immediately.
We stand there.
He takes my photograph and before I can tell him to stop, he says, “Lower your hand,” and I do, and then he says, “Do you see it?”
Etched into the rotting wood—maybe by a key, something— S.R.
I feel like someone has turned my head off, my heart.
I face Culler, my mouth open, but I’m not sure what I should say.
“Did you put that there?” he asks.
“What? No—”
“I didn’t either.”
I turn back to the scratch marks. The name. I can’t believe this. I press my hand over the letters again, rub my palm over them and try to feel them—more.
I suck in a breath and pull my hand away.
“What?” Culler asks.
I shake my head and stare at my palm. My hand is shaking and a little splinter has planted itself directly into that soft space of skin just under the base of my thumb. It stings. Culler steps forward and sees it. He uses his fingernails to try to dig it out.
Too many things are going on in my head.
“He put it there,” I say.
“Yeah,” Culler says. “I think so.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“The night he died?” I ask him this like he would know the answer.
“Maybe.” He finally gets the splinter out. He looks at me and his eyes are intent. “Maybe not.”
“S.R.—that’s like—”
“Secrets on City Walls,” Culler says. “He’d put those photographs up everywhere and they’d have his initials on them. First thing I thought of too.”
I stare at the scratches. “But … why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to show you.”
I feel lightheaded.
“Are you okay?” Culler asks. I must look like I’m spacing.
“Uhm … I have to go to his studio. I have to clear it all out,” I say. “Everything.”
“309 Hutt Street. Delaney,” he says.
“How did you know?”
He smiles faintly. “Where do you think I learned?” And then I flush and he frowns. “They want you to clear it out already?”
“They’re renting the space … they don’t want anything to get lost in the shuffle…”
“Maggie Gibbard, right?” he asks. “She’s full of it. She just wants it gone. Twit.”
“Maybe.” But I don’t really have a problem with Maggie. “… And my mom can
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