Sketches by Eric Walters Page A

this your first time here?” she asked.
    â€œYeah, my first time.” At least that wasn’t a lie.
    â€œIt’s great to have you here.”
    That was something I hadn’t been hearing too often from people these days. Mostly they were just happy for me to be somewhere else. People in stores, people in their cars, cops, people walking on the street—they all wanted me to go away. That is, those that didn’t just pretended I wasn’t there.
    â€œSo how did you hear about our program?” Nicki asked.
    I held the card out and she took it.
    â€œHe saw me doing some painting . . . under a bridge.”
    â€œUnder a bridge . . . were you using a lot of purples and oranges?”
    â€œUh, yeah, I was,” I admitted, wondering how she’d know that.
    She furrowed her brow. “Robert told me about you, but I thought he said your name was something different.”
    I swallowed hard. “I might have told him I was Dana,” I admitted. “Sometimes people call me Dana.”
    â€œThat’s a nice name,” she said. “Would you rather we called you Carolyn or Dana?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter . . . whatever you want.”
    â€œNo, it does matter. It’s about what you want.”
    â€œI guess Dana would be okay.”
    â€œThen Dana is what it’ll be. I really like your work, Dana.”
    â€œYou saw it?”
    â€œVery vivid, bold—exciting. I’m only sorry I didn’t get to see the original.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI only saw the photographs Robert took.”
    â€œThat’s right, he said he was going to do that.”
    â€œAnd it’s a good thing he did because the original has already been destroyed,” Nicki said.
    â€œIt has?”
    â€œThe city doesn’t care if it’s a beautiful work of art or a scrawl and some swear words, they just cover it up with grey paint.”
    Damn. I’d known it wasn’t going to be there forever, but somehow I’d hoped it would last longer.
    â€œWhen did they do it?” I asked.
    â€œA few days ago. I’m sorry.”
    That seemed so typical. The good things never lasted.
    â€œJust bad timing. The city maintenance crews were working in that area,” she said. “So, would you like a tour?”
    â€œSure, I guess,” I said, although there really didn’t seem to be that much to see.
    â€œThis,” she said, spreading her arms and motioning around us, “is our main studio. This is the place where our clients have a chance to work in visual arts. This studio is dedicated to painting in a variety of media, including watercolours, oils, acrylics—”
    â€œI like acrylics,” I said.
    â€œIt sounds like you’ve had some experience.”
    â€œMy mother . . . she enrolled me in all kinds of art lessons.”
    â€œIt sounds like she appreciated your artistic side,” Nicki said.
    â€œYeah she did.” It felt strange to talk about my mother. It felt strange to even think about her. I wondered what she was doing right now, what my sister was doing. Were they thinking of me? Were they worried about me?
    â€œCome on and I’ll show you the other studios,” Nicki said.
    â€œThere are others?”
    â€œJust follow me.”
    As we walked past one of the painters, she reached out and put an arm around the girl’s shoulders.
    â€œThat is really beautiful,” Nicki said.
    â€œIt’s nothing, really,” the girl replied.
    â€œIt’s something , something to be proud of!”
    â€œIt’s really not that good. I think—”
    â€œI think you’re forgetting something really important,” Nicki said, taking the girl’s hand.
    The girl nodded her head and a slight smile came to her lips. “Thank you,” she said. “It is pretty good.”
    â€œAlmost as good as the person who made it.” Nicki gave the girl a big hug and she