The Garage

The garage smelled like wet cardboard and old paint.

Emma followed me halfway down the stairs, then stopped on the landing. My mother followed both of us, speaking in that low polished voice she used when she wanted witnesses to think she was calm.

"David, you are making this ugly."

"No," I said. "I am finding out how ugly it already got."

Emma's canvases were stacked behind the recycling bins.