Free Here With Me (Paloma's Edge) by Robin Shaw

Glaring at me with those intimidating hazel eyes that had likely convinced jurors of his arguments, he tore one sheet of paper in two. I felt like he punched me in the gut real hard. I’d worked my ass off trying to draw the lines accurately of the neighbors German shepherd, but he kept on growing and he seemed to have muscle on top of muscle whenever I saw him. The dog’s name was Jerry and he always ran toward me when Dad wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
    “Hunter, how’d you get the pencils and drawing papers? I didn’t give you enough money to buy these things?”
    “Dad, I’ve been saving up my money,” I lied, because I wasn’t going to get Mother in trouble. She’d never made me feel like I wasn’t a good son, or a punk because I liked to draw. The only thing Chase and I both did together was swim, and those days were few and far between, now that he’d attended football camp for the past two summers and was on the youth football league. Chase wasn’t around, like he used to be. He’d watch me draw, or I’d practice catching a football with him on occasion. “I stopped for days and I couldn’t focus. I do the chores I am told to do. I do my homework.”
    Dad ripped the rest of my drawings to little pieces on my floor. He bristled. “I’ve specifically told you to quit with that pansy shit. You’re not a kid anymore. If you spent more time reviewing how the different branches of government exerts their power, you wouldn’t have gotten a seventy on your exam at your Law Youth program.”
    “I don’t wanna be a lawyer,” I told him in a low tone, when I really wanted to say that I hadn’t ever wanted to be one; I’d wanted to stay in his office with him while he went through tons of papers at his desk, because he’d looked so cool and important. Aside from those times I’d been with him in his office, I’d rarely seen him. Mom was either in her room or gardening.
    “You think you’re going to make a living by sketching chicken scratch? Well, I’ve got news for you—in ten years, you’ll be flipping burgers if you don’t get out of that dreamer mentality,” he yelled, his voice echoing down the hallway.
    A second later, Mother was by the other side of the door in her silk nightgown. Loose auburn waves were like curtains on either side of her symmetrical pale face. Her golden brown eyes grew larger as she gazed at little pieces of paper on the floor. She hadn’t purchased cheap sketch paper either. It took a lot to easily tear it into little pieces like that.
    “Gerald,” Mom addressed him with a crack in her voice, “Hunter spent weeks doing those sketches. You’re such a bully!” She bent down and slowly began gathering the pieces of paper in her hands, her eyes filled with tears.
    “So, you’re the one who bought all this junk.”
    “I am the one who bought the easel in his tree house, the charcoal, and the pencils for his sketching,” Nana said as Mom dropped the papers into my trashcan and then stood up. “So, you owe me money back, because that’s my money in the garbage. You know I’ve got a fixed income at my age. Charlotte told me what my grandbaby likes when we were at the art supply store and I saw to it that I got it for him. Must you spoil everything?” She turned her back to him and by the time she was by my side, she was rubbing my back in soothing circles. My breathing was erratic and I tried to calm down.
    “Mom, you’re spoiling his future by encouraging these fantasies of his. The only artists who earn anything substantial are the dead ones—”
    Nana made a dismissive gesture at Dad and said, “He’s having a tantrum just like his father had.”
    Dad told Mother. “If you told my Mom my stance—”
    “You barked orders at me to not get him anything for his drawing or to speak about it, but he’ll go on doing it. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.” Swallowing hard, Mother’s gaze darted over to me and she moved her head a fraction of an inch.