Nerve Damage Read Free

leather-soled city shoes. Krishna took pictures of Delia from many angles.
    â€œThis objet trouvé at the top,” he said, “I cannot for the life of me identify.”
    Roy told him what it was.
    â€œAh,” said Krishna, and gave Roy a quick sideways look. He’d known Delia; in fact, she’d brought the two of them together. “Your very best,” Krishna said again, quietly now, possibly to himself, perhaps even moved. He pulled up the collar of the mink, as though the temperature had fallen. Then he noticed that the driver was gazing up at the sculpture, too, his mouth a little open. “What is your name, please?” he said.
    â€œLuis,” said the driver, turning quickly, as though caught doing something bad.
    â€œAnd what do you think of this work of art, Luis?” Krishna said.
    â€œMe?” said Luis.
    â€œYou.”
    Luis licked his lips. “Those are radiators, right?”
    Krishna nodded. “Common automotive radiators.”
    â€œThat’s what I thought,” said Luis. “But it’s art anyway, huh?” He studied it for a moment. “Weird,” he said.
    â€œWeird how?” said Krishna.
    â€œWeird how?” said Luis. He thought. “It kind of reminds me…” He lapsed into silence.
    â€œOf?” said Krishna.
    â€œThis one rush hour on the L.I.E.”
    â€œThe L.I.E.?” said Krishna.
    â€œYou know how it gets,” said Luis. “But this was a few years ago, freezing rain. Everyone was going real slow, but it didn’t do no good ’cause there was a big crack-up anyway—happened right in front of me—like in slow motion.”
    â€œA slow-motion crackup?” said Krishna. He gave Roy a significant look, as though he’d proved something.
    A significant look misinterpreted by Luis. “I don’t mean nothin’ by it,” he said. “Nothin’ bad.” He glanced at Roy. “You the artist?”
    Roy nodded.
    â€œNo offense,” Luis said.
    â€œNone taken,” said Roy.
    A good review, in fact. And coming from the limo driver, instead of some New York critic with God-knew-what agenda, maybe one to be treasured. Roy suddenly felt great, even better at that moment than when, on his way out the door a few minutes later, Krishna shook his hand and said: “This one will be in the first paragraph of your obituary, my friend. More important, I have some buyers in mind already. The fattest kind of fat-cat buyers.” He laughed. Roy laughed, too: not from the prospect of a big sale—his needs were simple and he already had more than enough—but just because of how Krishna got so much fun out of life.
    He walked them outside. Luis opened the rear door for Krishna. Krishna got in, carefully hiking up his mink coat. The door closed on a corner of it anyway, no one noticing except Roy.
    Â 
    He headed back up the path. Sections of Delia appeared in three windows, an effect that brought him to a stop. He was still standing there when a rusted-out sedan drove up, burning oil. Skippy got out.
    â€œMr. Valois?” he said, a breath cloud rising over his head.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œUm.” More breath clouds rose, like smoke signals.
    â€œWhat’s up, Skippy?”
    Skippy cleared his throat. “The thing is, more or less, I had a look at your, you know, sculpture thing, the one over at the green.” Pause. “’Course I’ve seen it like a million times, going by. But yesterday I went and had a look, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd, um, Uncle Murph said you don’t bite.”
    â€œI don’t bite?”
    â€œâ€˜So why’nt you just go over and ask him? The worst that can happen he says no.’”
    â€œAsk me what?”
    â€œYeah,” said Skippy. “So which is why I’m here. Hope it’s not a bad, um…”
    This was getting a little unbearable, especially at