BOBBY RAY, AGE 15
Slouched in the front seat of Sam Carter’s white Chevy Impala, Bobby Ray watched unfamiliar territory fly by. He’d never been outside San Francisco. Now, here he was in the wilds, more trees than houses, no freeways, just a winding road. They’d stopped once to eat at McDonald’s and use the john. The social services caseworker kept close tabs on him. “I know you want to run, Bobby Ray. It’s my job to get you to the group home. What you do after that is up to you.”
The peaks of the Sierra Nevada grew nearer. The longer Sam Carter drove, the edgier Bobby Ray got. He was used to bustling streets, alleyways, noise. Golden Gate Park had been the closest to what he was seeing out here in nowhere land. Sam glanced at him. “You’ll be okay.” Bobby Ray clenched his teeth as Sam talked about the Masterson Mountain Ranch. Bobby Ray tried to drown out the man’s voice by going over the route in his head. He’d have to remember in order to find his way back. He hadn’t seen any buses running on the country road.
“Chet Masterson will understand you, Bobby Ray.”
“Yeah. Right. Like you do. How long do I have to stay?”
“Until you turn eighteen.”
Two and a half years! Bobby Ray glared out the window. He didn’t see himself staying in a group home longer than a couple of days. Not out here in the sticks. A week, tops. He’d find a way out.
And go where? Reaper and Lardo were dead.
He spotted a sign. Copperopolis. It took less than a minute to pass through town. Bobby Ray cursed. “Where are we, anyway?”
“The closest to heaven you’ll ever get.” Carter smiled. “Getting nervous, Bobby Ray?” He laughed. “Some people have all the luck and are too dumb to know it.”
“Do I look like a country boy to you?” Tension coiled in Bobby Ray’s belly. How many miles was he from everything familiar? He knew how to survive in the streets. How to get by with less than nothing. “I got a raw deal and you know it, Sam. If I have to be in a group home, why not one in Alameda County?”
“Because it’s right across the bay, and you’d run away again.”
“San Francisco is my home!”
“Just because it’s the only place you’ve ever been doesn’t mean it’s the best place for you.”
“It should be my choice, shouldn’t it?”
“You’ve been making choices all along, Bobby Ray. Your most recent choice landed you here. When we get to the Mastersons’, you’re going to have to choose whether you use this time to learn something useful, or see it as time served.” Sam gave him a weary look and turned onto another narrow country road. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you checking every sign. But I’d better warn you. If you split, you won’t get far. People know Chet up here. No one is going to give you a ride anywhere.” He gave a nod. “There it is.”
A big barn, corrals, a long, single-story ranch house, two pickup trucks parked in a dusty front yard. Bobby Ray’s worst nightmare had come true. The court might as well have sent him to Mars.
Sam turned left onto a freshly graveled road. As they pulled into the yard, two large German shepherds barked ominously. Sam chuckled. “Another reason not to run away.” He got out as a tall, broad-shouldered man with cropped dark hair came out of the house. He looked half–country hick in boots, jeans, and a plaid shirt and half–action figure. Bobby Ray had seen others with his confidence and aura, most with hard eyes and fists. This man had laugh lines around his mouth and eyes.
A quiet word silenced the two dogs. “Good to see you, Sam!” His voice was deep, rock grinding in an earthquake.
“How’s Susan?”
“On the road again.” Masterson laughed. “She’s in San Antonio, visiting her folks.” He took in Bobby Ray with a glance. Bobby Ray pretended not to notice or care. “Long way from your neck of the woods, isn’t it, Mr. Dean?” Bobby Ray stiffened, sure he was being mocked. When he met Masterson’s gaze, the man grinned. “We’re glad to have you.”
“I’m not glad to be here.”
“Didn’t expect you would be. You look like a tough kid. It remains to be seen how tough you really are.”
Sam opened the car trunk. He said something low, and Masterson chuckled. “He wouldn’t be the first. He can try.”
Sam handed over a thick file. “Everything you need to know about him is in there.” Bobby Ray knew it held family history, a list of foster homes he had been in and out of over the past eight years, along with his former foster parents’ reports, school records, test scores, court records, and whatever else the system had managed to dredge up and commit to paper in an attempt to describe who he was. Nothing worth anything. Nobody knew him.
Masterson held the file flat on his large hand, as if weighing it. “Impressive.” His blue eyes sparkled.
Sam looked edgy, ready to get back on the road. “I promised my son I’d be at his basketball game tonight. If I leave now, I’ll just make it.”
Bobby Ray felt a twinge of jealousy. Must be nice to have a dad who showed up. Must be nice to have a father, period. Then again, you could always have one like Reaper or Wolf.
Masterson slapped Sam on the back. “I’ll call in a couple of weeks and let you know how he’s doing.”
Bobby Ray didn’t plan on sticking around that long. “Where do I go? The barn?”
“You stay where you are until I’m ready to show you in.”
Bobby Ray muttered his opinion and turned toward the house. He’d forgotten the two dogs until they stood and bared their teeth. He swore again. Masterson chuckled. “Nice fresh meat, boys. Easy now. Stand still, Mr. Dean. They’re about to get to know you.” He gave a soft command and the two German shepherds moved around Bobby Ray. The hair rose on the back of his neck when they stuck their noses in private places. “Easy now. If you run, they’ll take you down. They’re just giving you a good canine hello.”
“Don’t expect me to reciprocate.”
“That’s a big word for a street kid.”
Masterson gave another soft command and the two dogs sat, tongues lolling in doggy grins. Sam got back in the car and gave Bobby Ray a salute.
“Come,” Masterson commanded, and the two dogs walked on either side of him. Grinding his teeth, Bobby Ray followed, making sure his pace let Masterson know he wasn’t one of his pets. “A word of warning, Mr. Dean. You go AWOL, and Starsky and Hutch will hunt you down.” He grinned at him. “They know your scent now. You can run, but you can’t hide.”
Bobby Ray felt a chill run down his back. Was this guy for real? “There must be a law against using an attack dog on a kid.”
“Did I say I’d command them to attack? All I’d say is ‘Go find Bobby Ray.’ A city kid can get lost real fast in all those hills and dales. Starsky and Hutch know every tree and bush, every rock and stream. They’ll show you the way home.” He gave Bobby Ray a measuring look. “I’m hoping I won’t have to send them after you.”
Bobby Ray didn’t say anything more. Better to wait and get a feel for who this man was and what kind of place he was running. It usually didn’t take more than a couple of days for Bobby Ray to figure out how things worked.
Five boys lounged in the living room. Two were stretched out on large, brown leather couches reading. Two others were playing a board game. Another was sitting at a table, reading a book and writing in a spiral notebook. They looked up and gave Bobby Ray a once-over when Masterson introduced him as Mr. Bobby Ray Dean. Bobby Ray made eye contact with each one so they’d know he wasn’t afraid of any of them, even if several looked older and tough. He wondered which one would be his roommate or if they all slept in a bunkhouse somewhere.
The living room was big and well-furnished. There was money in the leather sofas and the polished oak coffee table. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered one wall opposite a massive stone fireplace. The ranch had an impressive entertainment center with a large-screen television and stereo system. Sliding-glass doors opened to a huge lawn with a soccer net at one end.
The house was bigger than any he’d ever been in, with spacious bedrooms and bathrooms with double sinks, showers, and tubs, a professional kitchen connected to a dining room with a long table and straight-backed chairs. Another corridor had a laundry room and pantry and an office that looked more like a library. Another door led to separate quarters where Chet and his wife, Susan, lived.
“We live a simple life here, Mr. Dean.” Masterson summed it up quickly. If you show respect and courtesy, you can expect to receive the same. Check the board daily for your rotation of chores. Everyone living at Masterson Mountain Ranch learned bachelor arts: how to cook, wash dishes, vacuum, wash floors, clean toilets and showers, do laundry and mending. Susan Masterson would start his training as soon as she returned from Texas, which would be tomorrow afternoon. Wake-up call at six, breakfast at six thirty, school from seven thirty, free time when you finished your assignments and chores. A master teacher came daily, and Bobby Ray could set his own pace. If you want to finish high school early, go for it. Any interest in college? No? Well, nothing was set in stone. He might change his mind after a few months of working with Jasper Hawley. Chet would be having one-on-one sessions with Bobby Ray three times a week starting tomorrow. Any questions?
Bobby Ray had been given rules before. He’d never lived by them and didn’t intend on starting now.
Chet gave him a slow, knowing smile. “It’s a lot to take in. You’ll catch on soon enough.” He nodded toward the kid at the table. “That’s José. Get your gear, Mr. Dean. You’ll be sharing a room with him. Second door on the right down that hallway.”
José glanced up when they came into the living room. Clearly, he’d already been informed. The look he gave Bobby Ray held a warning. “The bed under the window is mine. You have the left side of the dresser.” It sounded like a dismissal. Bobby Ray picked up his duffel bag and went down the hall.
Everything simple and functional: two twin beds; two desks with shelves, one already filled with textbooks; two reading lamps; two bulletin boards, one displaying the Mexican flag and half a dozen family photos; one corkboard with some pushpins. Bobby Ray yanked open the top left dresser drawer and dumped in his few possessions.
He looked around at the clean white walls and itched to have a black marker in his hand. Images came: a party scene at Red Hot’s apartment, Reaper high on meth, Lardo dead, screaming faces all around him, a jail mess half-filled with caricatures of homey inmates, the kind that wanted to cut out your heart with a shiv. Bobby Ray sat on the end of the bed and rubbed his face, wishing he could rub away the pictures flashing through his head and the gut-aching sense of loss. He should have remembered it was better not to make friends with anyone. Here today, gone tomorrow.
“What do you say I show you around the place?” José leaned against the doorjamb. He tossed an apple up and caught it.
How long had he been watching? Bobby Ray stood. He was several inches taller than the older boy, but he knew size didn’t always win a fight.
Everything about the Masterson Mountain Ranch felt foreign, especially the heavily pine-scented air. The only sounds were the rustle of pines, whinny of horses, birdsong.
They walked around the place for an hour, and Bobby Ray didn’t see a single car go by.
“You expecting someone?” José smirked. “You keep looking toward the road.”
“How far are we from town?”
“Too far to run, dude.” He nodded toward the barn. “Do you like horses?”
Bobby Ray sneered. “I’ve never met one.”
José jerked his head. “Come on, then. I’ll introduce you to a few. The Mastersons board horses. One of our jobs is to exercise them. Some of the owners come out to ride every day, but most live in Sacramento and only come on weekends or holidays.”
The barn smelled of hay and fresh manure. José opened a stall. “Come on.”
Bobby Ray looked at the size of the gelding and stood by the gate. “Is riding part of the bachelor arts program?”
“It’s one of the best parts about this place.” José ran his hand over the horse’s back. The animal nudged him, and he stroked the white patch on its head. José took the apple out of his shirt and fed it to the horse. “Where you from?”
“San Francisco.”
“I’m from Stockton. My folks come up once a month. Well, my mom comes. My dad got arrested for grand theft auto. How about you?”
“What about me?”
“Have you got family?”
“What makes you think it’s any of your business?”
José’s eyes narrowed and darkened. “We have to live together. I’d like to know who’s sleeping in the bed three feet from mine.”
“Well, rest easy. I’m not gay, and I haven’t killed anyone yet.” He’d had enough of the barn, horses, and José. “Are we done?”
“With the tour, yes. But we’re far from done. We’re just getting started.”
Bobby Ray headed back to the house. What now? He didn’t know any of these guys. He didn’t want to know them. Frustration bubbled up inside him. José walked by him and went back to the table where he’d been reading and taking notes. Bobby Ray wandered the room, pausing to peruse the bookshelves: classic novels, biographies, books on carpentry, husbandry, auto mechanics, history, technology, science.
The open archway into the kitchen allowed him to watch Chet Masterson working with one of the boys. Something smelled good enough to make Bobby Ray’s stomach ache with hunger. Another boy stacked bowls, napkins, and silverware on the kitchen counter.
“Okay, gentlemen! Come and get it!” Masterson stood in the kitchen archway. “Chili and corn bread tonight.”
Bobby Ray hung back until everyone headed for the kitchen. He followed their lead, picking up a bowl, napkin, silverware and serving himself. Tumblers of water sat on the table, full pitchers at each end. Tense, Bobby Ray took his seat. José ignored Bobby Ray while the others gave him quick, assessing glances before digging spoons into their chili. The corn bread was warm enough to melt the butter and honey Bobby Ray spread on it. After the first tentative bite, Bobby Ray dug into the meal. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything that tasted so good. When others got up for seconds, Bobby Ray did too.
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?”
“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.