My Beautiful Failure Read Online Free PDF Page B

said, standing at the kitchen counter with a huge mug of black coffee. He hadn’t showered or shaved, and he was still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
    From the kitchen, I looked out over the low brick divider and through the living room’s picture window. A school bus picked up some first graders across the street. “How late were you up last night?” Mom asked. “I never heard you come into the bedroom.”
    “Oh, two or three,” Dad said. He hummed “Barcarolle” and laughed to himself, as if his painting were a friend he had spent the night talking to.
    “I hope you don’t make this a habit,” Mom said. “You’re going to be useless at work today.” She pulled aside the kitchen curtains and checked the traffic going by on the highway on the other side of our fence. “But it’s good to see you so excited about something.”
    “Did you finish your painting?” Linda asked, squeezingan orange on Grandma Pearl’s old juicer. “When are you going to show it to us?”
    “Not for a while,” Dad said. “Billy got a preview, but I had so much fun, I think I’ll squirrel away the paintings for now and show you all of them at once.”
    I thought again about the gray sunset. It was disturbing. What was Dad trying to get at? And why would he spend so much money on different paint colors if he wasn’t going to use them?
    I got up from the table and shook the box of oatmeal squares in his direction. “Bowl of cereal, Dad? How about eating something?”
    “I’m fine with just the coffee.” He hardly saw the Quaker guy on the box. It was overshadowed by the picture in his head.
    “At least a Pop-Tart.” I went to the cabinet for a smaller box. I didn’t like this at all. Last winter began because Dad didn’t eat or sleep. We couldn’t get him into a normal routine again.
    Dad chuckled. “Adele, how did we raise such a bossy child?” He shook his head, shrugged, and laughed again.
    “Maybe he won’t be a psychologist after all,” Mom said. “Maybe he’ll be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company.” She started pulling together what she needed for the day: purse, laptop, cell phone, and a briefcase of magazines and papers.
    “No, that’s Linda,” Dad said. Linda found ways to monetize everything. Most of her artwork evolved into a moneymaking scheme. She and Jodie had tried to sell clay cats, hand-pounded wrapping paper, and origami Mother’s Day cards.
    “You are going to work today, aren’t you, Bill?” Mom looked a little worried.
    “Afraid so,” he said, “but I wish I could spend all day painting. I hate to break off what I love doing and spend eight hours on meaningless labor. Why aren’t we rich? Why didn’t I think of that, Adele? Why did you let me forget to become rich?”
    “You’d better get in the shower,” Mom said, putting her bag over her shoulder. “Linda, are you going to need a ride, or will you catch the bus?”
    “Ride.” Linda drank her juice with ice cubes and went to finish getting ready. Mom made a few calls in the living room while she waited.
    “Dad. Pop-Tart.” I unwrapped a strawberry pastry and put it on a paper plate in front of Dad. He nibbled at the corners. My gaze dropped to his abdomen under the paint-spattered T-shirt. Already that little potbelly was flattening out.
    “I’m onto something big,” Dad said.
    “With your sunset?” I shook the plate so he would remember to eat.
    “With my painting in general.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “And I shouldn’t keep it all to myself.”
    “You’re going to show Mom and Linda after all?” I rinsed my bowl for the dishwasher.
    “That’s not what I mean.” Dad ran his hand over his rough, stubbly face. I wondered if he had been cold in just a T-shirt last night. It was early November, and I had heard the wind rattling. Was he even aware of his physical sensations when he painted?
    “I mean, work like what I’m producing right now has to be seen. I’m going to start contacting museums and