Colorful
Flecks of paint plaster his overalls, each spot a congealed memory that sticks to him like the hairs of a brush stick to each other. Most of the spots are white, but only in color.
The dried eggshell and honeymilk and cotton display no evidence of the darkness the painter absorbs each time his thick brush makes its way across a home — not erasing, simply transposing, the past.
Caolán possesses an accursed talent that attracts the desperate, heartbroken, and terrified. His style is indistinguishable from that of housepainters whose photocopied advertisements are posted on streetlights and community center cork boards.
As his aging truck rattles down a dirt road with no name, the sky betrays the first hint of sunshine, lilac becomes a light blue as a rock ricochets off his windshield. Dust clouds obscure the painter’s haul: Ladders, white paint, aluminum tins, mirrors, a hatchet, dead roses, and the bible. Caolán hums along to a country tune he doesn’t recognize that’s an anthem in this part of the world. He blinks. Running his hand across his chest, he says a small prayer.
Please don’t let this one take too much.
The small woman standing on her porch in a threadbare apron and looks as if she’s lived a century; her body bears witness to the secrets she keeps. Tendrils of gray hair peek out from the knot at the nape of her neck, and thick, deep lines frame cloudy green eyes behind tiny spectacles. Her mouth is unsmiling, her hands twitch below the knot of her apron. She watches the truck slowly approach. Behind her stands a young woman with fading bruises in different states of mend covering every inch of her body. Long, thin mouse-brown hair falls across her face rendering any discerning features invisible. Running her hand across her chest, she says a small prayer.
Please let him take everything.
His truck pulls to a stop on the driveway hugged by daisies. Caolán steps out of the cab and waves to the old woman. She gestures to show him what she needs — all of it. Paint it all.
Occupants took great care of this house, for the paint on the outside isn’t peeling or faded. No nails stick out at odd angles, all the gutters are securely fastened to the roof. The porch wraps around the foyer and a sitting room, its steps well-worn but still sturdy. One story, he thinks to himself, a blessing.
The painter moves methodically, beginning with the porch. With each stroke, the brush makes a comforting pfft, extracting the darkness and replacing it with a clean, fresh coat. From the window, Caolán portrays the forgettable sameness of man. To look him in the eye is to reveal the pain and suffering he shoulders, for the occupants have suffered enough. He does not know who or what the family needs rid of, only that he was summoned to take care of it.
Behind the house, Caolán sees a pile of fresh dirt, a daisy from the front yard upon it, petals gently swaying in the wind. A chill arises between his shoulder blades and creeps up to the base of his skull. His paintbrush falls to the ground, marking a white splotch on the grass. The young woman stares at Caolán from the window, and as he picks up his brush, she tucks her hair behind her ear, revealing a swollen and disfigured cheek, the color purple pooling away from a deep, red cut.
Painting resumes. The woman leaves. Chill has become pain in Caolán’s heart. At midday, the young woman leaves sandwiches and lemonade on the steps, her hair once again in her face. She does not look at Caolán or the mound of dirt behind him.
In layers revealed through brushstrokes, bits of the house fall away. An acrid scent of burning hair trails the painter’s hand; faint screams echo off the wood; he can taste bourbon on his tongue and the lemonade does not wash it down. He is never quite prepared enough for the sticky film of emotion and ghosts he pulls off houses he paints. Soon, he thinks, it won’t be so hard.
This is a lie he has told himself for centuries.
Caolán steps onto the porch as dusk arrives and watches the old woman sitting in a rocking chair. Her green eyes now shine, and and her mouth relaxes into something resembling a smile. When the young woman appears in the doorway with her hair tied back in a braid, the shape of a fist no longer exists and freckles are visible on her cheeks. She nods, and disappears into the house.
With heavy arms, the painter walks back to his truck. Tears flow silently down his face and he doesn’t bother to wipe them.
‘Hello,’ a man growls, appearing in the passenger’s seat. ‘I guess I’m coming with you.’
Caolán opens the driver’s side door, unfastens his overalls and steps out of his boots. The man watches as the painter changes into sweatpants and sneakers, tossing his gear into the back of the truck’s cab.
‘Your darkness was nearly impossible to cover because you made it so hard to see,’ Caolán said, clutching his chest. With each mile, the man begins to fade, his face stuck in an eternal snarl that will follow him to a place evil is welcome, and no painter could ever hide.
When the last pink light fades into midnight blue, the apparition is gone. New spots form on Caolán’s overalls, and the ache in his heart dulls. The painter hums, scratching a scar that’s appeared on his cheek as dust follows him down another road with no name.
