As the unofficial archivists of Winston Kemper’s art, not to mention his muses, we find ourselves in the privileged position of being the foremost scholars of his body of work.
We are, in fact, the bodies of his work.
If not us, then who?
He murdered me first, so I should be the one to start his story . . .
That’s not true. I was first.
Not true, not true!
Well, I was his favorite . . .
That’s a lie and you know it!
And we’re to believe you? Since when did you become the trusted source on—
Sssh! Do you feel that?
Feel what?
Here comes another . . .
Already?
How long has it been? I’ve lost count . . .
A year, I believe?
Try ten.
Quiet! It’s starting again . . .
Winston finds the sixth sister much like the rest of us, delivered unto him at church. We always arrive at Shiloh Baptist when it is our time—never early, never a moment too late—even if he feels the strain on his faith almost as much as in his own weary body.
Just as he’s about to lose hope, just when he wonders if he’ll never find another muse again . . .
There she is! There we always are.
Do our names matter?
Not to him.
Her name is Kendra Weathers. Middle name Anne, after her grandmother, not that she ever uses it. On her fourth birthday, her grandma bought her a stuffed bunny with peach-colored buttons for eyes. Professor Howdy. Kendra never went anywhere without him . . . until she accidentally left him behind at a roadside restaurant during a family trip. It took three hours for Kendra to realize her best friend wasn’t sitting next to her, but by then, no amount of crying was turning their car around. Not as far as her father was concerned.
Kendra’s first heartbreak. The first of many.
Join the club.
Hush.