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By Root 516 0

father, on several occasions throughout their childhood, had referred to painting and photography and drawing as dead forms of art, incapable of accurately reflecting the unwieldy nature of real life. “Art happens when things fucking move around,” he told them, “not when you freeze them in a goddamn block of ice.” He would then take whatever item was closest to him, a glass or a tape recorder, and smash it against the wall. “That was art,” he said, and then he would pick up the pieces of the shattered object and hold them out for his children to inspect. “This,” he said, offering the remains of the broken thing, “is not.”

“The thing is,” their mother continued, all the paintings safely hidden away, “your father and I are getting older, entering the twilight of our artistic careers, I’m afraid. Still, I’m a good ten years younger than him and, god forbid, if he dies before I do, what am I going to do? It’s Caleb and Camille Fang, the two of us, and that’s why it works. I’ll have to do something else. So, for the past few years, I’ve been painting these little, I don’t know what to call them, scenes. If your father found out, good Lord, it would be such a betrayal to him.”

“Where do you come up with those images?” Buster asked.

His mother lightly tapped her forehead and shrugged, embarrassed. “Somewhere in here,” she said, smiling.

Mr. Fang then walked into the room, holding the phone, suspicious of any gathering in which he was not included. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“We were just talking, honey,” Mrs. Fang said.

Mr. Fang’s eyes narrowed. “Talking about what?” he said.

“Our feelings,” Annie said, and Mr. Fang quickly lost interest. He tossed the phone toward Buster and said, “It’s that Kizza fellow. He wants to talk to you,” and then he walked out of the room.

Buster held the phone like it was a live grenade, Annie and Mrs. Fang now slowly backing away from him. “Hello?” came the faint voice of Lucas Kizza, and Buster, dazed by the images painted by his mother’s hand, lifted the receiver to his lips and answered, “Yes?”

Lucas Kizza turned out to be a powerful, insistent force, expertly wielding the necessary amount of flattery to maintain Buster’s reluctant attention. “I think The Underground is one of the most unheralded works of genius that I’ve ever read,” Kizza said, and Buster was too shocked to disagree. “Sometimes, Mr. Fang, I drive around this town and wonder how this environment might have helped to produce such an important voice.”

“This place had very little to do with it,” Buster admitted.

“I can understand that,” Kizza continued, Buster’s interjections like weak volleys to be returned so emphatically that all Buster could hope for was to delay the inevitable. “With such an artistic family, I imagine your development was only hindered by the outside world. Nevertheless, Mr. Fang, I work with a group of promising students, the school’s creative writing club, and I cannot help but wonder what your presence could do to encourage these students to continue their creative endeavors.”

“I’m in kind of a weird place at the moment,” Buster said.

“I imagine, if I might be frank with you, Buster, that you spend most of your time in kind of a weird place,” Kizza offered, not unkindly.

“What would I have to do?” Buster asked, giving up.

“Come to the college, talk to my students.”

“When would I have to do this?” Buster asked, feeling the improbable harden into fact.

“Tuesday, perhaps? We’re having our monthly meeting at one P.M. in the school library.”

“I guess so,” Buster said. “I guess I’ll do that.”

“Wonderful,” Lucas Kizza exclaimed.

“Wonderful,” Buster repeated, just to hear what it sounded like coming out of his own mouth.

He placed the phone on the ground and then felt nausea pass like a train through his body.

“You’re going?” Annie asked him.

Buster nodded.

“Are you going to wear the eye patch?” Annie asked.

“I haven’t had time to think about it,” Buster answered.

“I would vote no,” Annie told him.

“I would vote yes,” his mother said.

Mrs. Fang then stood and walked into the closet. She