Over the last month or so, David and I have really seemed to hit it off. Aside from our weekly meetings, we’ve been able to take a few field trips. I took him to the gym and started teaching him basketball (he’s picked it up rather quickly), and he had us visit the local Art Museum on the other side of town. (“Art” being used rather loosely; my mom did better than half of the artists featured there.) Afterwards, David even tried to teach me how to draw. I can’t do what he does, but at least now my stick figures look much better than before. Snowflake can’t understand why David has taken to me like this. I can’t understand it either, I’m just glad it’s working out.
Thanksgiving was interesting this year. Since it was only the two of us, Dashie and I would just have a bigger dinner than usual, then play all the board games in our game chest until it was time for pie. But this year, I joined in with the orphanage feast. Surprisingly, I wasn’t the only Big brother there. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who had a lot of time on their hands and no one to spend it with. In fact, I was there so early, I and several others were shanghaied into helping make dinner. There, amongst the heat and the wonderful smells, Snowflake introduced us to his wife. Her name was Lizzie, and unlike her husband she was petite and had a much softer voice. But her laugh was just like Snowflake’s: loud, long and lively. After working for three hours we had dinner on the table. Our feast consisted of a large turkey, mounds of mashed potatoes, several pots of stuffing, bowls full of various steamed vegetables, a gallon of gravy, and several stacks of Jello cups of varying flavors along with a few pies for dessert. It was far better than anything Dashie and I had ever made.
We all headed into the playroom, where we all gathered around a makeshift grand table. The kids sat on one half and the adults sat on the other. David happened to be sitting on the dividing line, and he didn’t make any objections as I took my place beside him. After a few words of thanks from Snowflake, we all sat down and started shoveling food onto our plates and into our mouths; it brought me back to Thanksgiving with my distant relatives all those years ago. My parents and I would hit the road and stay for the holidays with our cousins. We did this every year until I was a teenager; that was when my grandfather died. After that, the whole family had a falling out, and we spent Thanksgiving at home. It was nice to have more than two other people at the table this time around.
As is the norm during a holiday, small talk broke out at the table in between gulps and cries of “pass it down.” Snowflake started talking about the football game, which of course grabbed all the guys’ attention. The few women that were there shared in a different conversation led by Lizzie. As I turned to my left I could hear all the kids chattering about how good the food was, or how amazing the parade on TV was. Everyone that is, except David. He just sat there and quietly, just starting to dig into the small mountain of mashed potatoes on his plate. I was determined to keep him from going for seconds.
“So how have you been, David?”
“The usual.” He was diligently shoveling the potatoes into his mouth.
“Right…so, utterly amazing and you’re on top of the world? Something like that?”
“Sure.” I don’t think he was even stopping to breathe.
“Don’t care for small talk, huh?”
“Don’t have time.” He took a brief pause from eating, “Lizzie only makes her mashed potatoes a few times a year. Family recipe; one of the best things you can eat here. Need to eat it before it’s all gone.” He then resumed his shoveling.
“Is that what you all call her? Not something more formal?”
“Yeah, she doesn’t care. Snowflake doesn’t either.”
“She come here often?” His replies weren’t getting any longer.
“Sometimes on the weekends; always on the holidays.” Another forkful, “She handles the food.”
“I got that; I helped her mash her potatoes.”
“She does more than just feed us; she also handles all our education needs.” He was finally slowing down. “She makes sure we’re on the bus route, gets the stuff for our bag lunches, and she buys all our books. She even got me an art tutor.”
“No kidding? Sounds like a swell lady.” What a kind and caring woman. No wonder Snowflake married her.
“Yep.” His plate was now clear and he went for a second helping.
“So you have a tutor?” His eyes were fixated on the serving spoon.
“Uh-huh. Comes twice a week for my painting lessons.”
“Wait, you paint?” I knew he could draw, but he could paint too?
“Well, yeah. I could paint before I could draw. You know, ‘good,’ that is.”
“Huh. You continue to surprise me, buddy.” If his paintings were anything like his “doodles” they must be really good.
“Sure,” he stuffed a large forkful of potatoes into his mouth, “sure.”
It wasn’t long before we were all stuffed, and all were ready to pass out or watch the game. Snowflake handled the entertainment. He had the game on in the break room, and he had all sorts of board games for the kids. I was thinking about joining the guys when David caught me.
“Hey, Old man?”
“Yeah Buddy?”
“You said you could tell what good art was, right?”
“David, anyone can be a critic. However, I do know more about art than your average Joe. Why?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to look at a few of my paintings.”
Was he serious? He wanted me to check out his paintings? I couldn’t pass this up.
“Lead on, Mr. Rembrandt.” He rolled his eyes as I gave a smirk. Soon we were heading towards the opposite end of the play room where this door just stood there, out of the way and out of your attention. I figured it was for cleaning supplies or something like that. I was surprised to find that it actually led to this spacious room, filled with multiple easels.
“Welcome to the Art room,” he gestured. “Here’s where the more artistic kids can get creative.”
Along the walls I saw many different paintings. Some looked like they were done by a five year-old (and they probably had been) but quite a few of them actually looked very nice. And as I read the tags placed underneath the dozen or so frames, I saw David’s name pop up again and again. At least two-thirds of the paintings on display were David’s, and, damn, did they look good! It was amazing just how gifted he was, especially at his age. The level of detail and the colors he used made it look like I was staring through a window. I’m sure others would disagree, but from my point of view, these were on par with my mom’s work.
“You did all of these, David?”
“Not all of them, but most of them, yeah. Like ‘em?”
“Very much. You’re really good.” I couldn’t seem to stop staring at the wall.
“I don’t know about that. Say, Old man?”
“Yeah, buddy?” I said still scanning over all the paintings.
“Would you like to watch me paint? You know, since you’re so interested. Unless you want to go watch the game?”
Was he serious? Football was on all the time compared to the few times David might actually ask me to sit in on a painting session. I didn’t have to think twice. “I’d love to watch you paint.”
“Then grab a stool and sit over by that easel next to the door, I’ll be back shortly.”
It was a good ten minutes before David returned with a box full of paints.
“Sorry it took so long. Busy day today.” He put the box on the floor and started picking out his paints.
“Why don’t you keep the paint in here?”
“You had a kid, Old Man. I’m sure you know how much the younger ones like to get into stuff and make a mess. Ever since some of the kids decided to go Pollock on the playroom walls, Snowflake has kept them locked up in a supply closet by his desk. It’s annoying, but it keeps the paintings-and the walls- safe.”
“You don’t say? That would explain why the paint job on one half of the room is a shade brighter than the other. You know, my daughter did something like that once. Except it wasn’t just the wall, she had to go and redo the whole hallway as well.”
With that I got a chuckle. “Now I’m going to need quiet. So don’t talk unless I ask you to, got it?”
I responded by pantomiming my lips being zipped, locked, and flinging the key away. David came over to the easel and put the paints on a little table. Then he squirted little blobs of color onto a palette, sometimes mixing one here, or adding more there. He had made at least three different shades of green and many varying shades of brown. What really stuck out the most was how much white he had; the blob was at least three times larger than any of the others. As soon as he was happy with his arrangement of paints, he pulled a picture out of his pocket. After carefully unfolding it, I could understand why he had all that white.
His reference picture was of a small log cabin in the clearing of a pine tree forest on a winter day.
“Got this from one of the magazines in the lobby. Don’t tell Snowflake; he hates it when I do that.”
“As long as you don’t tell him I’m the guy who took that piece of pie before it was on the table.”
A shocked expression came to his face. “It was you?”
“I couldn’t help it. Lizzie makes a good pie.” In all honesty, I wasn’t the only guilty one. I only took half of that slice, Snowflake took the other; and he only divvied it up because I had caught him in the act.
Glancing at the picture and back to his paints, David began to transform the canvas.
First, he worked on the background of pines. He mixed some dark green along with the usual brown for the trunks. Then using alternating shades of brown with the white, he made all the branches jutting out from the trees. The best part was that I could tell which branch belonged to which tree, instead of it all just being a blur of brown scratches. Next he took one of the skinniest brushes I’ve ever seen and he started painting on the needles. I could almost see each individual needle as David went back and detailed them all with a darker shade of green. What was interesting was that he left some patches towards the bottom of the trees, making them seem more realistic than the few you could pick out in the photo.
Next he worked on the cabin. He used a dark brown on the logs, making them noticeably different from the nearby pines. He made them thicker and even added some rot here and there to give the building a weathered look. Then he started on the roof. He laid down a layer of black, and alternating his shades of brown, painted on the shingles. He didn’t even need to go back and detail them in order for me to see each individual shingle. Then he painted a door and some windows onto the cabin, red trim around them all. Then he did something odd; he used black for the windows. But then he mixed together a little blue with some white and lightly dabbed each pane. He had actually made it look like there was frost on the glass.
He finished it all up with the snow. Now he didn’t use pure white. He had shades of white with gray and another with a bit of yellow. He laid them in layers: the gray first, the yellow second, and the regular white on top. He made little hills of this snow around the tree line; in my mind I could see it being blown there by the wind. The end result was snow that had the appearance of cream. I could almost feel the cold and smell the pine as he began the final phase of detailing.
“So what do you think so far?”
“This is amazing, buddy. You could make a living off of this.”
“Yeah, right…you serious?” Was he serious?
“These should be in shows, buddy. How can you not see that?” I know my mom could paint, but I never saw her do something like this. He had a gift.
“Well, I haven’t really had any feedback.”
“You have to have had some idea of your skill?”
“Well I know I can definitely paint better than a five-year old, but nobody’s really commented on my art.” He had to be joking.
“Not even Snowflake?”
“Old man, Snowflake is always blowing sunshine up our butts; of course he’s gonna say it’s good.” He did have a point there.
“What about your tutor?”
“Not the most constructive. Tells me what I need to work on more than what I got right.”
“And the other orphans?”
“I’m the moody kid who sits in the corner and stares out the window all day, who’d want to talk to me?”
That wasn’t good. “You mean you don’t have any friends in here?”
“I wouldn’t say that; I talk to them sometimes, they talk to me. I just don’t really get involved with their games. It’s hard to be playful in an orphanage when you’re like me.”
Now I was getting somewhere. “And that is?”
“Two years in foster care, a year here, and I’m almost a teenager. Not exactly the description of a kid you’d want to adopt. So all us older kids, we know we’re stuck in here until we turn eighteen and get the boot. Doesn’t exactly makes us want to be happy about our situation.”
“Well that’s depressing.”
“Really? I never thought of it like that.” His sarcastic comment caused a chuckle to escape me. But I stopped myself short; this was serious.
“So you don’t think you’ll ever get adopted?”
“When I was younger, maybe, but not now. Too old and too damaged.”
That had to be the worst thing I had ever heard. Especially since it came straight from David’s mouth “’Cause of the whole foster thing?”
“Basically.”
Well that wasn’t good. No kid should feel they wouldn’t make the cut, especially a kid as talented as David. He wasn’t really that hopeless, was he?
“So you’re fine with not being adopted?”
“I can cope with reality.” You’re only twelve, David.
I sighed. “C’mon buddy, give me a straight answer.”
He broke his attention from adding small patches of snow to the roof and faced me. “What do you expect? Do I want to live in a home with a couple who just might genuinely love me? Who wouldn’t? It’s just…I know it won’t happen so I just may as well adjust to my situation. Satisfied, Old Man?”
Well that was good. He still had the desire, if not the hope it would happen. “Not really, but it’s not like I can make it any better.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
“Oh yeah? How so?”
He turned towards me and gave me a grin. “Now I know I can paint.”
It didn’t take too long for David to finish detailing his masterpiece. With that he grabbed the canvas off the easel and hung it in what he called “the drying room.” It was a closet with various hooks and latches on the walls where a panting could be hung out of a young child’s reach; probably made by Snowflake shortly after painting over the patch of wall where the younger children had gone “Pollock.”
Once David was satisfied with the placement and he double checked to make sure the canvas was securely attached to the wall, we made our way back to the play room. Due to the size of the crowd, they had moved the television from the break room into the opposite end of the play room; all the Big Brothers were gathered around it along with their charges. David and I decided to join them. We grabbed a couple of chairs and sat in the back; we had come in at the last five minutes of the football game’s fourth quarter. At the next commercial break, since we were in the very back, I decided to continue my conversation with David.
“So who taught you how to paint?” David easily pried his eyes away from what had to be the most disappointing football commercial I had ever seen.
“You mean like today, or who was the first?”
“The first.” The game was back on, but neither of us cared to watch.
“That was my mom. She loved to paint and I loved to watch her. When I was in first grade, every day after school, my mom would give me an art lesson. And it wasn’t the basic model stuff, she taught me how to draw aliens and monsters and cool stuff like that. Then when I said I wanted to paint like her, that’s when she started to teach me how to really paint. You know, like landscapes.”
“Your dad was a lucky man.”
“Yeah, too bad he didn’t see that. He thought her paintings were a waste of time. Fortunately, he left when I was six, so mom didn’t have to worry about the endless criticism.”
Now what was this? “So I take it your Dad wasn’t that supportive?”
“Not of her art. Everything else, he was sorta supportive. He was always pushing me to go out for sports. I have vowed to never kick a soccer ball ever again.”
I could only imagine why. “It was that bad?”
“Let’s just say there were no bench warmers allowed and I couldn’t quit.”
Now it was easier to see. “So that’s it?”
“He wasn’t really there, Old Man. He worked a long shift and when he’d get home he’d just go for a beer. But on the weekends, so long as we were playing catch or something, he felt like a dad should; you know?”
Memories of spending time with my father entered my mind: afternoons of catch in my youth, occasional games of chess during high school; maybe a talk here and there. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
With that the buzzer sounded as the away team quarterback threw a Hail Mary pass which was just barely caught by the wide receiver. There were cheers, groans, and bills of various amounts being exchanged with looks of either annoyance or satisfaction. By that time it was getting late and most of the adults were heading out. I decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to join them.
“Alright buddy, I think I’m going to take off now.”
“Alright then, see you later.” He had a small sketch book in his hand and he was working on another of his doodles. I turned to leave, but then I realized he had given me a very generous gift today.
“Hey David?”
His head popped up from his work. “Yeah?”
“Thanks for letting me sit in today. And thanks for talking to me.” He stood up and held out his hand, a smile of regular size was on his face.
“Thank you for listening. See you later Old man.” With this I returned the smile and gave his hand a vigorous shake. With that I said goodbye to Snowflake and Lizzie and headed for home.
When I stepped through the door, I had the urge to look at my mother’s painting. Hanging in the hallway was her painting of a magnificent rainbow over a ramshackle shed in an empty lot filled with thick, green grass. That was always my favorite. I turned away and went over to the living room window. I could see tiny specks of white falling from the sky and sticking to my lawn. It wouldn’t be long ‘til December started. And then it wouldn’t be long until it was Christmas. With this thought I shuddered. For the first time since that second meeting, I decided to take a look at the album.
For the first time since I started getting into my new job, I felt that ache in my heart. It was always there, but now I really noticed it. It was just as bad as before. I may have been able to get through Halloween and Thanksgiving without any trouble, but I knew I couldn’t sneak past Christmas. We actually did things then. As the thought of spending my first Christmas without Dashie came into my mind, I could feel the ache grow more and more. As I got ready for bed, I couldn’t get a certain song out of my head. And as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was mouthing the words.
“I’ll have a blue Christmas without you…”