Cherry Bomb
Susan Cushman
Dogwood Press
August, 2017
By the tender age of sixteen, Mary Catherine Henry has lived through
enough horror to last a lifetime. Sexual abuse at the hands of her
cult-leading father, abandonment by her drug-addicted mother (who
nicknamed her Mare), and several spirit-crushing years with a
dysfunctional foster family convince her that life on the streets will
be easier, somehow, than what she has always known.
What keeps Mare
going is the budding artist inside her, and the sleepy Southern town of
Macon, Georgia, does not know what hit them when colorful graffiti bombs
begin appearing on abandoned buildings Mare even dares to decorate a
Catholic church with a highly provocative message. The young runaway
signs her work CHERRY BOMB, attracts the attention of the local media,
and is soon caught but not by police. A photographer for Rolling Stone
learns of Mare while on assignment, finds her, and befriends her. So
does a reporter for The Macon News and, eventually, the priest of the
parish whose walls Mare defaced so angrily.
Their efforts help earn her a
scholarship at prestigious Savannah College of Art and Design, where
she studies under legendary Abstract Expressionist painter Elaine de
Kooning. It is a wonderful mentoring relationship ... until Mare and
Elaine discover they have much more in common than a love of art. And
that bond, which forces both women to deal with pain and anger from
their repressed pasts, threatens to tear them apart.
With a mix of
remarkably visual characters and an intricate, compelling plot rich with
intriguing religious imagery, Mississippi author Susan Cushman has
penned a powerful debut novel that will stay with you long after you
have turned the final page. You will never forget Mare and Elaine ...
and you will never look at religious icons and street graffiti the same
way.
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Excerpt
Prologue
-1981
Mare’s backpack clinked as she ducked in
and out of the pre-dawn shadows. An unusually cool summer breeze rustled the
low-hanging crape myrtle branches along the sidewalk. Pausing to rearrange the
aerosol cans and wrap them with t-shirts to silence them, she pulled up her
hood and looked down the street. No one there. Storefronts were still dark in this
Southern city of a quarter million people. Macon, Georgia, felt big compared to
the smaller towns of Mare’s childhood. But not so big that she couldn’t find
her way through the mostly abandoned city streets on her clandestine missions.
Rounding
a corner, she heard scuffling and discovered a homeless man huddled behind a
dumpster, the contents of his life stuffed into a shopping cart. His cough
disturbed a sleeping cat that sprung from underneath his frayed blanket. An
empty bottle rolled onto the sidewalk. Mare hurried by as a light came on in a
nearby window.
Taking
a nervous breath of the crisp morning air, Mare breathed in the aroma of
cinnamon rolls from the bakery across the street. When had she eaten last? She
put the thought out of her mind and found her target a few blocks away: Family
and Children Services. The parking lot was empty. She moved quickly, choosing a
spot near the entrance. She broke the lights on either side of the doorway with
one of her cans. She worked swiftly but with deliberation, needing the
protection of the quickly fading darkness. She opened a can of black spray
paint and stared at the brick wall in front of her.
What a rush.
She shook the can vigorously and felt the
familiar jolt of electricity as she heard the metal ball bouncing around inside.
The feeling was akin, she felt, to her lungs finally opening after being
clamped shut for years. Removing the cap, she approached the wall, took aim,
and pressed the valve, releasing a fine spray mist with all the skill of a
trained artist.
For
the last few weeks, most of her pieces had been simple designs or just tags.
Today’s message would be more complex. She had spent months working it out; now
she would share it with the world. Well, at least with Macon. The reporter for
the Macon News would take care of the
rest. After Mare had come to town and started throwing up her graffiti,
Margaret Adams had launched her own personal quest—not only to expose Mare’s
work, but also to expose Mare. Mare had evaded her grasp so far, moving from
one part of town to another, sleeping here and there, always carrying her
backpack with her and leaving nothing at the scene except the art itself. Adams
had featured several of Mare’s pieces in the News, complete with photographs. Graffiti was not common in the
Southeast; the reporter couldn’t leave it alone. Who is this tagger, and where does he live? Adams opined in print.
It amused Mare that the reporter thought the artist was a guy.
She
always tossed her empty cans into random dumpsters after each hit, careful not
to leave a trail. She must not be arrested—it absolutely couldn’t happen—and
she had to throw up these next two
pieces. Blue lights and sirens approached just as she was getting started,
though. Diving behind some shrubs that bordered the parking lot, she held her
breath. Two squad cars flew through the blinking orange lights at a nearby
intersection, oblivious to her crime. Wiping the sweat from her brow with her
sleeve, she crawled out from behind the shrubs and quickened her pace as the
sun began to light the wall and wake the town.
Her
signature character—a little girl with big, empty eyes and no mouth—would be
featured in this piece. She outlined the image with black, painted the hair
yellow, and overlaid the face with orange. Bloody drops fell from the red heart
painted on the character’s chest. The child’s eyes gazed upward to a large
shadow-like creature. The character soon took shape; it was a man, hovering
over the girl. The image of the girl faded below her heart, as if her lower
body was disappearing.
She’s
been disappearing for years, hasn’t she?
Mare felt tears as she viewed the image,
biting her lower lip. “Screw you,” she hissed, flipping off the shadow-man.
She
heard a car engine and looked at her watch. Almost 6:30. Just enough time for
her tag—a red cherry with yellow rays emanating from a black stem and the word BOMB
in red bubble letters, outlined with black. She could imagine tomorrow’s
headline in the News:
CHERRY DROPS ANOTHER BOMB!