Leona’s image flickered as the connection adjusted. “You can introduce the contributors,” she said. “I’m one of them, even though I guided the design.”
“People expect to hear from you,” Iris told Etta.
“They don’t have to,” Etta answered.
The words sounded unfamiliar in her mouth. Owen wondered whether she meant them or was saying what she thought people wanted. He had learned, over the previous two days, that he could not settle other people’s motives by staring at them. Only their choices would reveal what they were prepared to do.
They agreed on a simple ceremony. Helena would welcome visitors on behalf of the hall. Leona would speak briefly by video. Original contributors who wished to do so could identify one object in the mural. Niko would explain the restoration. Iris would acknowledge the volunteers who had worked for months. Etta would have the opportunity to describe how she had organized fundraising and publicity, provided she spoke without claiming sole authorship. Nobody had to applaud anyone else’s statement.
“What about the mailbox?” Lionel asked. He had returned unexpectedly, carrying a box of spare picture hooks from his store. “People are already talking about it. If Etta stands up tomorrow, somebody is going to ask.”
Owen set down his cup. “We don’t make the ceremony about the fire. It’s being investigated. People can ask me what happened, but I won’t turn damage to my property into entertainment.”
Etta nodded. “If someone asks me, I’ll tell them I did it. I won’t blame the letter or the committee or Owen.”
“Good,” he said, and nothing more.
When the schedule was settled, Safiya asked everyone to inspect the exhibits one last time. They walked in pairs through the hall, checking that labels matched the right objects and that low displays would not obstruct wheelchairs. Thomas corrected a photograph that had been captioned ‘delivery truck at loading dock.’ It showed his truck, yes, but the person beside it was not the driver; she was a baker named Mabel who had volunteered to load clay.
“She could lift more than I could,” Thomas said. “My back remembers.”
Iris crossed out the caption and wrote a new one. That evening, the program acquired a dozen such corrections. None was grand. Together they changed the character of the exhibition from an argument won by one side into an account more people could recognize.
After nine, only Owen and Mara remained to straighten the chairs. The mural shone beneath its soft work lights. Owen stood before the handprint he had made as a child and placed his palm a few inches from the wall, careful not to touch the fragile paint. His fingers were longer now. The old shape looked stubbornly small.
