Chapter 1 

The sun shone brightly above the streets of Philadelphia, and the temperature had climbed into the upper sixties. I shook off the chill of a dreary winter, and being kind of shallow, figured a cheesesteak from Jim’s would perk me up. Two things define The City of Brotherly Love—sports teams and steak sandwiches. Forget the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. Those are for tourists.

At South Street, on a whim, I turned right instead of left, hoping to enjoy a brief walk before lunch. After a block, an art gallery window caught my attention. A poster showed sculpture. A pleasant diversion, and the door was open. I entered.

I appreciated art and collected it for untold years but had not visited this location previously. There were women in dresses and men in suits, all except me in my worn jeans and T-shirt. The place matched most modern-day art galleries. Paintings hung on the walls while others sat on easels. In the main room, I noticed a table with wine, crackers, and cheese. I stacked hors d’oeuvres into layers for a one-inch sandwich and picked up a glass of what I hoped was a decent Pinot. Not Jim’s cheesesteak, but it would do.

Manipulating my snack and wine, I continued my appraisal of the featured artist’s work. All the sculptures consisted of human forms twisted into metal. Some were large. I had not seen art like it. Alive, in a tortured way.

A sales lady caught sight of me. My scruffy attire must have set off alarms. Slim, attractive, and well-dressed, she pounced on me like a sleek mongoose on an unwelcome snake. With a disingenuous smile, she whispered, “The refreshments are for invited guests.”

I leaned toward her and spoke low, “The door was open. Isn’t that an invitation?”

Seeing I was not going to leave quietly, she switched to the sales pitch with an ingratiating smile. Pointing to a work, she said, “That’s quite remarkable, isn’t it?”

I turned to look at the sculpture, and my heart skipped a few beats. Andromeda!

My voice choked as I stared, struggling to say yes through my constricted throat. The piece was exceptionally large and showed a girl trapped in chrome steel, trying to break free from the jagged metal. Massive, it stood at least seven feet tall and must have weighed more than a thousand pounds.

I saw a vision of Andromeda as if she inhabited the sculpture. The artist had caught the moment she reached out with hand extended, begging for release, her ankles chained to the rocks. I had seen paintings and other statues of her, but none better captured the beginning of our immortal love story. Hair on my arms and back of my neck stood. I had goosebumps. My mind raced to another time and place.

***

I had killed Medusa with help from my sister, Athena. Now, I rode Pegasus on my way to save my mother from the odious king who held her captive. After several hours, our flight took us over a mountainous shoreline. We followed the coast until a rocky outcropping came into sight, with a naked young woman chained to the rocks.

She appeared exhausted, breathing heavily through clenched teeth, but she kicked and hit at the crab-like creatures attacking her. Pegasus flew silently, but the girl saw our shadow and looked up. Blisters from sun and salt exposure covered her face and body. We overflew her slightly, and she stretched for my hand, but I couldn’t grasp her. That image of her reaching for me seared into my mind, and I still see it today.

We landed among the crab creatures, who scattered at Pegasus’s stomping hooves. I kicked them aside as I drew near the girl. Almost as tall as I, she had black hair and eyes which showed a combination of desperation and appreciation. She practically leaped into my arms. I held her tightly for a moment to reassure her, and then bent to the task of releasing her. Retrieving my sword from the rucksack given to me by Athena, I pried the lock off her chains. They fell away, and she jumped back in my arms.

“By what name are you known?” I asked.

She struggled to speak. She needed water, but I heard a whisper. “Andromeda.”

I said, “You may thank Athena for sending me.”

She nodded but spoke nothing further. Guileless and trusting, she joined me on Pegasus as we returned to free my mother. Andromeda slipped in and out of consciousness. My arms pressed tight against her small breasts and ribs, holding her slim body as her head fell back onto my shoulder. I questioned whether she would survive.

***

The saleswoman brought her hands to her lips in a steepled gesture. Assuming my momentary paralysis meant rejection, she said, “It’s strong, isn’t it? This sculpture is very pricey. There are some smaller works.” She smiled but looked at my T-shirt with its faded Grateful Dead skull emblazoned on the front and a hole in one armpit.

My heart pounded. I couldn’t take my eyes off Andromeda. Emotions, memories flooded me. “No, this is the one I want.”

Realizing she might have an incognito rich guy somehow hooked on this sculpture, she smiled. “Would you like to meet the artist?” She gestured toward a group of people, mostly men, surrounding a woman with a tumble of curly black hair, wearing jeans and what looked to be a man’s white shirt with sleeves partially rolled up. I couldn’t see her face but heard the word, “Junkyards…”

I tuned her out. “No. The piece speaks for itself.” I took a deep breath and tried to relax. I didn’t want to talk to the sculptor, although I could have. Many artists were approachable, but I held that they communicated through the art they created. Once viewed, the meaning belonged to me.

As often happens when we allow our attitudes to constrain behavior, I missed a chance to meet the woman who would change my life.

The sales lady said, “It’s seventy thousand dollars.” She kept glancing from my eyes to my T-shirt and jeans. Appraising me, she added, “The artist might come off that price. Slightly.”

“I think it’s worth any amount.” In truth, I would have paid anything for the sculpture. It connected with the love and pain of separation from my long-dead wife. I told her my lawyer, Howard Goldman, would contact her tomorrow to take possession of the statue. She took my credit card to process a $70,000 payment. “Thank you for your business, Mr. Danos. Please, come again,” she said as she returned my plastic, smiling.

As I left, I saw her excitedly hustle to the group standing around the artist. I guessed she didn’t have a seventy-thousand-dollar sale every day.

Leaving the gallery, I stepped back into the sun, my mind a daze. Never had any piece of art, writing, or music affected me like that statue. It pulled on me, connecting me with my better self. I would dream again of Andromeda and love, something missing from my life for uncounted years.