My Beautiful Failure by Janet Ruth Young

slides. But mostly the galleries alreadyknow which artists they want, and go after them. And I don’t have time to wait around.”
    “People are stupid, aren’t they, Mr. Morrison?” Jodie asked.
    “Not stupid, exactly,” Dad said. He chewed on his lip before speaking again. “They just can’t recognize something good if it’s not like a hundred things they haven’t seen before.”
    “That’s really frustrating, Mr. Morrison,” Jodie said.
    Mom was flipping through the mail and checking the answering machine. “Oh well, honey,” she said. “If you’re going to keep pushing the envelope, you have to expect a paper cut.”
    “Cute,” Dad said. He folded his arms over his chest. He looked furled, like an umbrella.
    I had just started researching the history of the Hohner Special 20 harmonica. I dropped my work and went into the studio, where Dad’s finished and half-finished paintings were turned toward the wall. I hoped I could say something to make him relax. To unfurl him.
    “I’m doing my homework,” I said. “I just want you to know that.”
    “I’m glad,” he said. He didn’t look glad. He pressed a fist into his mouth and chewed his lip harder.
    I stretched up and rested a hand on the molding above the doorway. “Answer a question for me,” I said. “Are you having a good time with your painting?”
    “Up till now I was. Until the world conspired to teach me that art is unnecessary.”
    “See what’s happening? One little disappointment andyou’re not enjoying it anymore. That’s what I was worried about. I wish you would be happy that you have something you enjoy doing and not worry about status and recognition. Live in the moment. No success, no failure.” I let go of the molding and sort of fell into his room, but gracefully, like a trapeze artist.
    “That’s not good enough, though,” Dad said. “I want more. I always thought . . .”
    “Yes?” I asked, using my Listeners techniques.
    Dad’s body softened. With one hand he picked through the brushes on the table, lifting and dropping them like they were so much kindling.
    “I thought I was going to have a big life. Be different from other people. You and Linda and your mom are great, but—”
    I balked at this, but I talked myself through it: It’s not up to you to judge. You’re living on the Dad Planet now.
    “You wanted to be different,” I echoed.
    Dad nodded to himself. He had made some kind of decision. “I’m going to have the big life,” he said. “I’ll make the opportunities for myself if no one will make them for me.”

26.
last winter: red all over
    D ad’s first antidepressant has given him what Dad’s psychiatrist, Dr. Gupta, calls an “atypical dermatological reaction.” That means that Dad is covered with blisters—red lumps that merge to make ridges, with yellow pus forming streams in between. Some of the blisters look like numbers or letters: D or 8. He keeps discovering more, and Linda and I pantomime gagging every time his back is turned. Mom tells him not to look at his skin and to keep his sleeves rolled down. Soon the rash disturbs him more than anything else that is wrong. We cover up all the mirrors.

27.
shift 2, november 8
    M argaret and Richie were both on calls. Margaret smiled and nodded even though the Incoming couldn’t see her. Funny how the visual signals humans developed face-to-face persisted when we were separated.
    She asked her caller something about a fiancé in Iraq. A gold cross sparkled against Margaret’s plaid uniform. She zinged the cross from side to side on its chain while she talked. Mom often did something like that too. She touched her necklace when she was nervous, as if it held magical powers. Richie’s arm partly blocked my view and my hearing, but I heard him say “amputation” and “prosthesis.” I had to give him props: He could handle more than I thought.
    I waited in pregame mode, thinking about that last conversation with Dad. What had he