The Other Mr. Bax Read Online Free PDF

than was apparent from the walkway. The images were composed primarily of tiny, abstract characters, which called to mind alphabetic symbols, reminiscent of Chinese, though unlike any she had seen before. As characters form words on a page, these formed clearly discernable images, which seemed to convey a different mood than the characters they arose from. She scanned the vicinity, searching for an artist, a middle-aged man with a stereo-typical Jon Gnagy goatee and wrap-around shades. No one stepped forward. After browsing the display for information about the artist, and finding none, she examined the signature on one of the drawings. Roland Bax … A name from the past—a boy she’d met in second grade, the only name she could now recall from her short time in Selma. She spent some time with each piece, giving particular attention to a large, Kandinsky-esque drawing. Roland Bax … She glanced over her shoulder toward an empty director’s chair before moving on to the neighboring display—then the next.
    Farther up the lane, she stopped to look over some handcrafted jewelry—the boy from elementary school distracting her, swinging back and forth in her mind. Roland … How many Rolands have I met ? One ? And Baxes ? Uno . Isn’t that just the craziest coincidence ?
    It’d been a long while since she last thought of him, Regrets at not having said goodbye played an intrinsic part in those memories. She had known, even then—soon after her family’s move to Selma, in fact—that they would be there for only a short time. She simply wanted what the other kids wanted: friends, popularity, stability. Convinced that if Roland knew of her family’s curse—keep moving or suffer normality—he would not have been so accepting of her, and likely would not have been as invested in her. So she kept it to herself.
    She slipped a ring on her finger—turquoise set in silver. One day Selma , the next , Indianapolis —the move she most despised. She studied the ring, turning her hand at various angles, then pulled it from her finger and returned it to its display. Yeah, but the world is a safer place because of the sacrifices I made . Right .
    After browsing a few more displays, Joyce came to a sectioned-off area of grass with an arrangement of painted wood slats shoved into the ground. Two boys darted in and out, as though the installation was a conceptual piece of playground equipment. She thought of the old man with the Panama hat, and his prediction, and imagined herself judging the fair. Who were the winners? The potter with the large, black and red bowls, the photos of the Burning Man festival, the pen and ink drawings …
    Stashed away in the recesses of her mind, was a picture of a boy, eight or nine years old, perched next to her on the seat of a swing. It was in there somewhere, but she would never find it; she’d lost track it years before. And there was a place in her heart, so deep and so well-hidden by reason, that she had long ago disregarded its significance. Something, however, had just stirred there—though barely discernable—and then retreated into that nebulous gray record of sketchy beginnings and ends.
    After perusing the remaining exhibits, Joyce returned to the pen and ink drawings for second look. A man wrestling with a fat sandwich was perched in the chair that had, before, been empty. Tearing off a bite, he peered over the top of his bun, and then, while struggling with a mouthful, acknowledged her with a pinky wave and a quick nod. Joyce stepped in closer to examine the details in one of his drawings. The work was loosely objective; a tavern scene with a bizarre caricature of a man, who appeared miserably inebriated, slumping over a messy bar. The details, like ideas hidden within ideas, were abstract and playfully expressive. She cocked her head to the side and studied the jigsaw characters that formed the annoyed-looking bartender. I like this . It’s clever and quirky. It reminds me