He read, robotic. The United States Fish and Wildlife Service lists more than two thousand North American species as being either threatened or endangered.
“That’s okay, buddy. Small steps. One drawing at a time.”
He toppled the tower of books and sank his head in his hands.
“Robbie. Hey.” I almost said, Grow up. But that was the last thing I would have wished on him. “What would your mom do?”
That made him sit up again.
“Let’s check these out and get some supplies.”
The clerk at the Art Co-op fell in love with him. She was an art student herself, recently graduated. She took Robin around the shop. He was in heaven. They looked at pastels and colored pencils and little tubes of bright acrylic.
“What do you want to make?” Robin told her his plan. “That’s so beautiful. You are so awesome.” She didn’t believe the project would outlast the day.
Robbie loved the watercolor brush pens. The clerk was impressed with what he could do with one, even on his first go.
“This one would make a nice starter set. Forty-eight colors. That’s probably everything you’d need.”
Why is that other one so much more expensive?
“That one’s for pros.”
He grabbed the starter set, hiding his eyes from me. I overruled and upgraded him. As investments went, it felt like a steal. We also got micro-pen fine liners, a pad of cheap drawing paper for practice, and some sheets of the good stuff for the finished works. The clerk wished him luck, and he hugged her on the way out. Robin did not hug strangers.
He painted all afternoon. My hot-tempered, ungovernable son knelt for hours on the slats of a wooden folding chair, copying examples from the art books with his face up close to the paper. Sometimes he snorted in frustration, like the cartoon bull from one of his favorite childhood picture books. He crumpled up botched efforts, but with more artistic flair than violence. Once he tossed a watercolor pencil against the wall, then shouted at himself for doing so.
I tempted him to take a break. Ping-pong or a walk around the block. He refused to be derailed.
Which creature should I start with, Dad?
Creature was his mother’s favorite word. She used it for everything, even my extremophiles. I told Robin that no one ever lost an audience with charismatic megafauna.
No. I should do the most endangered one. The one that needs the most help.
“Pace yourself, Robbie. The first farmers’ market is months away.”
The amphibians are in trouble. I’m going to start with an amphibian.
After much agonizing, he settled on Lithobates sevosus, the dusky gopher frog. It was a strange, secretive animal that spread its webbed fingers in front of its face to shield its eyes from threats. It puffed up when frightened and oozed a bitter milk from the glands on its back. Wetlands development had reduced it to three small ponds in Mississippi.
He studied his drawing, doubtful. Do you think people will like it?
His creature was byzantine in both shape and pigment. Where my own eyes had seen only gray-black lumps in the frog’s photo, Robin saw wild swirls that required half of his glorious rainbow tool chest. The difference between the drab original and his surreal copy didn’t trouble Robin. Nor did it bother, in the least, the ghost of my wife.
When he was done, Robbie brought his painting to the picture window in the living room and held it up to the light for my inspection. The perspective was skewed, the surface texture clumsy, the outlining na?ve, and the colors out of this world. But the thing was a masterpiece, warts and all—the portrait of a creature whose passing few humans would mourn.
Do you think anyone will buy it? It’s for a good cause.
“It’s great, Robbie.”
Maybe there’s a planet out there where amphibians are as good as it gets.
Then, after so much fierce looking, he was done with it. He stashed it in a portfolio where he kept his other drawings and went back to the art books. He hadn’t been so happy since the night we camped out under the stars.
MONDAY MORNING, HE ROLLED OUT OF BED, got dressed, ate a bowl of hot cereal, and brushed his teeth, all as usual. But five minutes before his bus was due, he declared, No school today, Dad.
“What are you talking about? Of course there’s school. Scoot!”
No school for me, I mean. He waved toward the dining room table. I’d let him leave out all his art studio materials from the day before. Too much to do.
“Don’t be silly. You can work on it this afternoon and evening. You’re going to miss the bus.”
No bus today, Dad. Too much work.