Part 9 (1/2)

Zavion knew it was wishful thinking, thinking if he could just pay back the money for the chocolate bars he could make the whole hurricane mess go away. But he still felt like he had to try.

Zavion found Papa in the living room hunched over a tiny canvas.

A tiny square slate roof s.h.i.+ngle, actually.

The kind Zavion had given as an IOU at Luna Market. More s.h.i.+ngles were scattered all over the table.

Zavion had overheard Tavius and Enzo offering them to Skeet and Papa.

”We figured Skeet could use them for some art project, so we collected them as we walked,” said Tavius.

”You should have seen us. Waterlogged and weighed down with these s.h.i.+ngles in our pockets,” said Enzo.

”It gave us something to focus on,” said Tavius.

”You should use them too,” said Enzo to Papa. ”Make lemonade out of lemons.”

”Make slate-ade out of slate,” said Tavius.

Zavion had watched as Papa picked up a piece of slate and turned it slowly in his hands.

Now he was painting on one.

”Whats up, Zav?”

Zavion knew for a fact that if mothers had eyes in the back of their heads, fathers had them on top of theirs. How many times had Papa been bent over a mural sketch working but still knew that he had entered the room?

It wasnt Mamas soft-eyed stare and bear-hug combination, but it was still comforting. Most of the time. Not today, though. But that wasnt Papas fault. Zavion was on a specific, scary mission today.

Zavion sat down across from Papa. His short hair was grayer than Zavion could remember seeing before. Papas hair was often all different colors-he had a habit of rubbing his fingers into his scalp while he was painting-but this gray was not paint.

Zavion breathed in the familiar smell of acrylic mixed with hair relaxer and cedar deodorant. It was the only familiar thing his body had experienced since they left their house to slog through the water, and it made him suddenly and forcefully sad.

”What are you painting, Papa?” he asked.

He was stalling for time before he asked his question. The question that could only have one answer.

”Tiny landscapes.”

”You never paint tiny.”

”True.”

”Youve only ever painted one landscape.”

”True too.”

Papas paintings were of Mardi Gras and musicians and fis.h.i.+ng for shrimp and oysters and catfish. They were huge too. He usually painted right across a whole wall.

”Sometimes the world tells you to do something new.” Hearing that made Zavions sadness break apart like fireworks. Maybe this wouldnt be so hard. Maybe Papa was ready for something different. ”I woke up with this mighty strong urge to paint some very small landscapes,” continued Papa. He picked up a slate s.h.i.+ngle that was drying next to him. ”The slate makes the colors pop,” he said. ”And it feels good to hold this tree in my hands.” He opened his fingers so the s.h.i.+ngle balanced in the middle of his palm. ”Its in one piece. I can see the whole thing.”

The tree was from the Appalachian spruce-fir forest.

”A red spruce?” Zavion asked, but he was sure he was right. Its green needle-tipped branches reached to the very edges of the s.h.i.+ngle, and the sky around it was a tropical blue, almost like the sea, but quieter and flat, no brushstrokes to indicate waves. ”Mamas tree?”

Papa nodded.

It was the tree at the top of the mural that Papa had painted in Zavions room. The tree that stood on top of Grandmother Mountain, where Mama had grown up. It wasnt actually there-the University of North Carolina Public Television broadcasting tower was on top of the real Grandmother Mountain-but Papa had given Mama a red spruce on theirs.

Zavion wanted to climb the tree, jump from the ground to its lowest branch and climb all the way to the top, all the way to the still, silent sky.

”I like it,” he said.

He had to do it.

He had to ask Papa now.

”Speaking of the world telling you to do something new-” he began.

”Yes?” said Papa, placing the red spruce tree down again and picking up his paintbrush.

Zavion picked up his own dry paintbrush and pushed it along the wooden table, tracing the shape of a mountain, as if a picture would speak to Papa better than words.

”We need to go to Mamas mountain.”

”Weve had this discussion.”

That didnt sound like a promising beginning. Maybe a picture really would be better. Zavion was going to have to be clearer.

”No, we havent had a discussion about this. Weve had a mention of it.”

”A mention?”

”Yes, I mentioned it and you made fun of me, and then you left the kitchen.”

Papa dipped his paintbrush in water and wiped it dry with a rag. He squeezed a dot of orange paint onto the corner of the slate. ”Why dont you go for a run, Zavion? Wouldnt that feel good?”

Zavion couldnt imagine running. He was exhausted. Trying not to think about...before...was exhausting.

”Lets go to Mamas mountain,” he tried again.

”I dont know why you are so obsessed with this mountain idea.”