The Masterpiece

by Francine Rivers

  Everyone cleared their own dishes. “Kitchen’s open if you get hungry later,” Masterson told Bobby Ray. “Clean up after yourself when you’re finished.” He nodded toward the living room. “We’re having our family meeting in fifteen minutes.”

  Bobby Ray figured he could make it to the road and run a couple miles by that time, but when he stepped out the door, Starsky and Hutch came awake and stood. He went down the stairs cautiously and started across the yard. The two dogs followed. One nudged his hand, and Bobby Ray stopped. Maybe if he made friends, they’d let him go. He stroked the head of one of the dogs, scratched the other behind the ears. He tried maneuvering around them, but a car pulled into the drive.

  Straightening, Bobby Ray watched an old, polished red convertible Dodge Dart park next to the brown extended cab F-250 pickup. A middle-aged man got out. He had a short-cropped beard and shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. He snatched a rumpled sports coat from the backseat and shrugged it on over his short-sleeved, open-collared plaid shirt while the dogs bounded around him in greeting. He looked at Bobby Ray. “Jasper Hawley. And you are Mr. . . . ?”

  “Bobby Ray Dean.” So this was the teacher. He looked a mess, though his grip was firm and his eyes clear.

  Jasper Hawley nodded toward the house. “After you.”

  Bobby Ray found space on the couch. Masterson asked the boys to share a little personal history so Mr. Dean could get to know them. One after another, each talked of gang ties, broken homes, court appearances, and time in and out of juvie. Bobby Ray could have told stories about how many times he’d been moved or places he’d lived, or how he always found a way back to the Tenderloin. In the beginning, he’d run back because he thought his mother was still there somewhere in the streets or in a club or flat. After he learned the truth, he still returned because it was familiar.

  “Anything you want to say, Mr. Dean?” Masterson looked at him.

  “Just because you tell me your sad stories doesn’t mean I’m telling mine. I don’t know you.” He looked around the room and met the gaze of every boy. “I don’t want to know you.”

  “I know one thing about him.” José smirked. “He’s afraid of dogs and horses.”

  Bobby Ray went hot, but before he could retaliate, the others laughed and started telling Starsky and Hutch stories. One boy had refused to step out the front door for the first week. Another had tried to outrun them once. Starsky had snagged his pant leg, and Hutch had planted two paws on his back and taken him down. He thought he was dead meat until they started licking him.

  “So they’re all bark and no bite?” Bobby Ray looked at José.

  “I wouldn’t push it.” José grinned at Masterson. “I took a swing at the boss once. Bad idea.”

  Masterson changed the subject. Jasper Hawley dropped a few questions, and the boys talked about everything from sports to politics. They each had strong, sometimes opposing, opinions, but didn’t resort to insults or arguments.

  After lights out, Bobby Ray lay on his bed, blanket over him. Exhausted and depressed, he wanted to sleep, but the noise outside seemed to intensify in the darkness. “What is that sound?”

  “Crickets.” José gave a low laugh. “Drove me crazy the first week. Wait until you hear the frogs after some rain.” He rolled over. “You’ll get used to them.”

  Bobby Ray accepted defeat, at least until he could find a way to do battle and win. It was get with the program or die of boredom. Hawley gave him a series of exams to find out where he stood academically. He issued textbooks in advanced algebra, biology, and English composition. When Hawley gave him a choice between Spanish and French, Bobby Ray said why not Latin. Hawley laughed and came back the next day with a used, college-level Latin text. “Just happens to be an interest of mine.”

  “I was kidding.”

  “Scared you’re not smart enough? It used to be standard in public schools. It’s the foundation of our language, traditions, systems of thought, politics, science. Studying Latin can teach you how to think analytically.”

  Bobby Ray was used to teachers just putting in time, not loaded with enthusiasm. Hawley had stories for every subject and taught as though he knew the material inside out, upside down, and backward. He was so excited about what he was teaching, Bobby Ray caught his enthusiasm.

  Masterson called Bobby Ray into the office three times a week, and three times a week, Bobby Ray got around the probing questions. Exasperated, Bobby Ray lost his temper. “You’ve got everything in the file.”

  “I’m not looking for facts, Mr. Dean. I want to know how you think. I want to know what’s going on inside that impressive brain of yours.”

  “No, you don’t.” Bobby Ray had no intention of unlocking that door.

  “I’ve been watching you. You do a lot of listening. Talking to someone who cares can help you understand where you’ve come from and how to get where you want to go.”

  “I deal with my stuff my own way.”

  “And how’s that working for you?” Masterson shook his head. “The truth is, you don’t deal with anything. You’re pushing it all down where you think it’ll stay buried. It’ll eat you alive.”

  Susan Masterson was harder to deal with than Chet. A blonde, blue-eyed Texan, she wore her long hair in a ponytail and dressed in jeans, Western shirts, and cowboy boots. The boys all had crushes on her. “Stick with me, and you’ll know your way around a kitchen. Give me guff, and you’ll be mucking out the stables.” Bobby Ray balked and found out she was a woman of her word.

  Blistered after using a shovel all day, he tried reason. He’d fended for himself for as long as he could remember. He could make sandwiches and ramen noodles, mac and cheese. He could boil hot dogs and scramble eggs. What more did a guy need?

  Susan faced Bobby Ray, hands on her hips, and told him that by the time he left the ranch, he’d know how to cook a four-course meal, iron his own shirt despite living in a perma-press world, do his own laundry, and make a bed so tight he could bounce a coin on it. He’d even learn to clean the toilet and remember to put the seat down. “A future wife will appreciate that!” She raised her voice so Chet could hear in his back office.

  “Did you say something, darlin’?” Chet called back, laughing.

  “Whoa!” She put her hand over Bobby Ray’s. “Peel a potato that way, and you’ll skin your thumb. I don’t want any blood in the mashed potatoes.” She demonstrated and handed the peeler back. “Only fifteen more to go.”

  He balked again when she took him to a cabinet and told him he could pick out something better to wear than what he had. “You’re free to take whatever you need. Most of our boys arrive with little more than one set of clothes.” She reached in and pulled out a couple of ironed, neatly folded shirts. He said no thanks, he liked T-shirts and hoodies, preferably in black.

  “This isn’t the end of the road, Bobby Ray. You’re going to college or you’re going to work. Either way, you have to learn to be comfortable in clothes that will get you a job. You need to look the part for whatever career you choose.”

  “There’s no dress code for dealing dope.”

  “Don’t be a dope. El que no arriesga, no gana.”

  “Say what?”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” She shook her head and hollered. “Hey, Chet. What happened to our boys learning Spanish?”

  “Jasper’s teaching Mr. Dean Latin.”

  “Latin!” Susan laughed. “Oh, my. Jasper finally got his wish!” She gave Bobby Ray a malicious grin. “Lucky you.”

  Like everyone else, Bobby Ray did his time mucking out stables and pitching hay. José spent every minute of his free time with the horses. He rode every day. Bobby Ray tried not to like his roommate, but a relationship grew despite his resolve. He could see a world of hurt coming. Right now, it had to do with José and his love of horses. Bobby Ray wanted to warn him. “They don’t belong to you, bro. Blaze Star or Nash might be in a horse trailer tomorrow and out of here. Ever think about that?”

&nbs
p; “Sure I think about it. I’m not stupid.”

  “So why get attached?”

  “You see me ever getting a chance like this again? I’ll probably end up like my old man, serving time. I’m going to enjoy this until I’m eighteen.”

  At eighteen, they’d be out of the program, off the ranch, and on their own. That’s the way the system worked.

  Bobby Ray kept to himself, kept to his studies. He had to remind himself over and over he shouldn’t make friends or count on anybody. It always led to heartache. Sometimes when the guys were all talking and laughing together, Bobby Ray would have to go outside to get his head straight. Often, against his better judgment, he’d talk with José after lights-out. One night, José told him a joke and Bobby Ray laughed so hard, he felt tears coming and had to shut himself down before he made a fool of himself.

  When José announced during a family meeting that he was planning to join the Marine Corps, Bobby Ray knew it was time to leave the Masterson Mountain Ranch. As soon as lights went out, he stuffed his clothes into his duffel bag and made for the door. José followed, pulling on jeans as he tried to catch up. “Where are you going?”

  “Anywhere but here!”

  “I turn eighteen next month. We all have to leave sometime, man. I’m trying to do the smart thing.”

  “Just shut up and go back to the house.” Starsky and Hutch appeared, and Bobby Ray swore.

  “Suit yourself.” José headed toward the house, calling the dogs. They didn’t come.

  Starsky sat on one side of Bobby Ray, Hutch on the other. Shifting his duffel bag, Bobby Ray looked down the long driveway to the gate and the dark line of road along the fence. Where would he go? Back to San Francisco? He didn’t have any friends there, not anymore. Should he go to Sacramento? He’d have to live on the streets. What were his alternatives? He spit out a four-letter word, then another, louder. After a few more minutes, he returned to the house. He dropped the bag beside his bed.

  Chet called Bobby Ray for a counseling session the next morning. Since it was a day early, Bobby Ray figured Chet knew about his attempted escape. He sat, wondering how many days he’d be mucking out stalls this time.

  Chet took the seat behind his desk. “Glad you changed your mind last night.” He leaned back. “Care to talk about what made you want to run?”

  Bobby Ray stared, stone-faced, at nothing.

  “Silence is your standard modus operandi, isn’t it, Mr. Dean? Okay. This time we’ll just sit here until you start talking.”

  Minutes passed. Chet Masterson looked as relaxed as he had when they entered the office. Bobby Ray grew edgier. He’d always been the one to use silence as a weapon. Sit long enough and the other person always said something, usually enough for Bobby Ray to use against them. Chet didn’t look bothered.

  After fifteen minutes of silence, Bobby Ray shifted in his chair. He snarled a couple of words and got up.

  “Sit down.” Chet Masterson spoke quietly, but with steely calm. “We have an hour.”

  At least there was an end in sight. Thirty minutes had Bobby Ray’s nerves in knots. Maybe he didn’t have the guts to run, but he knew how to get kicked out. All he had to do was find a can of spray paint. He let his mind focus on what he’d put on a wall. After the full hour had passed, his blood had cooled to a steady simmer.

  Chet looked grim. “Impressive.” His smile held sadness, not respect. “You can go, Mr. Dean.”

  That evening, he spotted a black marker in the dry-erase board tray and felt a rush of adrenaline. Slipping it surreptitiously into his pocket while the others lounged and watched a baseball game, he headed for his bedroom. He could hear the guys cheering over a hit.

  “Hey! Why don’t you join us?” José stopped just inside the door. He uttered a four-letter word and stood staring. He went out again, closing the door behind him.

  Bobby Ray felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach; then the rush returned, dimming the pain, focusing the anger. Tense, he kept working.

  He heard the murmur of voices from the living room as the nightly meeting started without him. No one would miss him when he was gone. After a while, he heard the television again. The door stayed closed.

  The marker ran out of ink before he finished, but he figured he’d done enough. He tossed the empty marker into the wastebasket and sat on the floor at the end of his bed. He wished he had a couple more pens so he could finish what he’d started, but it didn’t matter. He had done enough to get kicked off the ranch.

  Someone rapped on the door and opened it. Bobby Ray saw Chet Masterson’s scuffed brown boots. Here it comes. Time to go. It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?

  The fear came up from deep inside him, gripping him by the throat. Where do I go now? Where am I going to end up this time?

  “You’re finally talking, Bobby Ray.” Chet Masterson stood calmly studying the wall. “Looks like you have a lot to say.”

  Jasper Hawley looked at what Bobby Ray had drawn. The next day, he came back with a box of books and dropped it on the table in front of Bobby Ray. “We’re adding art to your curriculum.”

  “You expect me to read all these?” After glancing at the first, Bobby Ray itched to see what else was in the box.

  “You’ve got time.” He took books out one by one: art history, the works of Leonardo da Vinci, Francisco Goya, Paul Cézanne, Vincent van Gogh, Hieronymus Bosch, Emil Nolde. Intrigued, Bobby Ray opened the last one. Hawley took it back. “Not now. First things first. Math, Latin, and social studies.” He spread his hands flat on the pile of art books. “These are incentive to buckle down. As soon as you finish your assignments, they’re all yours.”

  Bobby Ray finished his class work in a couple of hours. He had to be reminded to do chores, but did them quickly. He spent hours looking at John Singer Sargent’s watercolors of Venice and paintings by John William Waterhouse, transported to other places and times. He loved the sharp, bright colors of Van Gogh, the mask faces of Nolde, the starkness of Picasso.

  When Hawley gave him pens and sketchbooks, Bobby Ray filled them. Hawley brought a book on twentieth-century muralists. Bobby Ray did more drawings.

  Susan peered over his shoulder one afternoon. “Can I take a look?” She grabbed his sketchbook before he had time to answer. She turned the pages. “Ohhh, I like this one.” She put the sketchbook in front of him. “Do you want to paint a wall?”

  Was she kidding? She looked serious, even excited.

  “I’ll give you the one in the kitchen if you’ll do something like this. I’ve always wanted to see Italy. Paint something Roman. Or places Vasco da Gama might have seen on his voyage around the Cape of Good Hope.”

  “Rome and Velasco.” Bobby Ray grimaced.

  “Vasco.” She gave a laugh. “But wait. Roman Velasco. That would be a great name for an artist!” She put her hands up as though framing the wall. “Roman Velasco lived here.”

  “Pseudonyms are for writers.” Chet laughed.

  “Tell that to Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent. If pseudonyms are good enough for superheroes, why can’t an artist have one?”

  Susan was kidding, but she planted a seed nonetheless. Bobby Ray Dean was the boy with the thick social services file, the castoff, the nobody who belonged nowhere. Roman Velasco had class. With a name like that, life could be a whole lot different.

  GRACE LOVED THE FEEL of Samuel snuggled against her body, warm and relaxed in sleep. She should put him in the crib, but every minute with him was precious. She didn’t want to miss even one. Selah and Ruben sat with her in the living room, quiet, pensive. They’d opened their home when Grace was most vulnerable and made her part of their family. Circumstances were changing rapidly, and Grace knew Selah wanted to keep things as they were. No. That wasn’t true. Selah wanted more. She wanted to adopt Samuel, might even feel entitled to him after giving so much.

  Ashamed of her unplanned, crisis pregnancy, Grace had kept it secret until she started to show. Her boss of four years, Harvey Bernstein, had rece
ntly retired and sold the business, putting her out of work. Her unemployment would run out before the baby was due, and she wouldn’t be able to get another job until after the birth. Patrick had emptied her savings account on the way out of their marriage. She didn’t know where to turn.

  Finally, swallowing her pride, she told her friends after church during their weekly lunch. Shanice looked physically ill. “Oh, Grace, I’m so sorry.”

  Ashley took Grace’s hand. “What are you going to do?”

  “She could have an abortion,” Nicole said in a matter-of-fact tone, as though that were the most logical way to get out of trouble.

  Shanice glared at Nicole. “Sometimes I don’t know you, Nicole. What are you thinking?”

  Nicole’s face reddened. “Fine. Since you have all the answers all the time, what’s she going to do?”

  “She can go to a pregnancy counseling center and get help. She can have the baby and give it up for adoption.” She looked at Grace, tears filling her eyes. “I’ll go with you. You’re not alone in this, girl.”

  Grace had known that Shanice would relate to what she was facing more than their other friends would. She said more than once that she wished she could take Grace in and offer a home to both her and the child. But the condo she shared with another woman was just too small for a third roommate.

  A nurse at the crisis pregnancy center listened to Grace’s circumstances with compassion, not judgment. It took a few weeks, but the lady connected Grace with Selah and Ruben Garcia, candidates for an open adoption. Grace found herself living with a family who loved her and gave her hope for a future. She knew her child would have a loving home with Selah and Ruben and their two teens, a much better life than she could offer. They had all the papers drawn up to be signed as soon as the baby was born.

  She had been confident that adoption was the best plan until the day Samuel was born and she held him in her arms. She bonded with him immediately. She didn’t know how she was going to make a life for the two of them, but she knew she couldn’t give her son to someone else to raise.