Ben’s confessions about The Pit didn’t change our daily activities much. Although we made ourselves scarce for a while, after two weeks, I realized we were spending just as much time at the cabin. It almost seemed like Old Ned didn't exist -- except for one thing. We made sure we started home long before dark.

          The old man still pointed out medicinal plants to Charlie, and although the season for native blackberries had passed, she waited and watched, impatient for the huckleberries to ripen. Not far from the clear-cut, a seasonal stream zigzagged down Carbon Hill. Near its moist banks, chest-high huckleberry bushes grew in abundance.

          Checking their fruit, Charlie held them in her hand and noted the tiny, round berries were fully formed, but still green. “I’d say about two more weeks until we can start picking them. That would make it the second week in August. I can hardly wait.”

          Bear loved helping with the chickens. “See, you throw some of the chicken feed in the trough,” he said, giving some grain a toss, “then you can spread some outside on the ground. That way they’ll swallow some little stones too. The tiny rocks go in their gizzards to help grind up their food.” He took pride in spouting off his new-found knowledge. But he hadn’t learned some important facts yet. The maturing hens had just started to lay eggs, and he seemed to enjoy checking the egg boxes. Overhearing him talk to Ben as he held an egg in each palm, I forced myself to bite my lip.

          “Hey, Ben, when are we goin’ to leave some eggs?”

          “What d’ya mean ‘leave some eggs’?” Ben raised an eyebrow.

          “Well, how are we goin’ to get new chickens unless we leave some eggs to hatch once in a while?”

          The old man let out a little chuckle and began pulling on his beard. “It looks like I need to start with the birds first when I start explainin’ about the birds and the bees.”

          Brian's eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Ben.”

          “I know, I know,” said the old man, “I’ll give ya a few more facts later. Just don’t worry about none of it right now.”

          I just enjoyed hanging out with my friends. Brian was more entertaining than anyone else. I never knew what he was going to do or say next. Charlie was special, but not always fun to be around. When she focused on herbs and other plants, she tunnel-visioned me right out of the picture. Jason was different. Sure, he wrapped himself up in his sketches, but he always made room for others. I never felt in the way around him

          Out of all of us, I think he enjoyed being at the cabin the most. Jason and his sketch pad seldom became separated. Whether it was the cabin, the hills, the trees, or the flowers, he was always drawing something. He also managed a candid sketch of Ben working over the stove, hair, grin, and eyebrows, with everything more real than a black and white photo.

          When I first saw his sketch of high meadow Indian paintbrush, I asked, “Man, that’s really good, but don't you need oil paints to really get the colors?” Jason just shrugged, but Ben overheard my remark.

          Later that day Ben pulled me aside. “Despite appearances, the boy’s just dyin’ to paint in oils on canvas, but his dad won’t take him to Enumclaw to buy art supplies.” Then he mumbled, “Heck, that good for nothin’ drunk won’t take the boy nowhere. I think he wants the boy’s prize money from the art contest to buy booze for himself.”

          That gave me an idea. My dad often drove to Enumclaw on Saturdays to check on orders at the Thriftway warehouse. There was no reason he couldn’t drop off Jason at the art supply store while he continued his rounds. On the way home, I mentioned it. "Hey, Jason, how about going with me and my dad to Enumclaw tomorrow? We could shop at the art store while my dad checks the Thriftway warehouse."

          Jason’s face brightened at the prospect of visiting a real art store with money in his pocket. "Wow! That would be great -- if it's no trouble."

       

          His excitement pulled me in. "No trouble at all. Just bring your money. See you at ten in the morning at my house."

          We parted that afternoon with him wearing a smile I could see a block away.

          The next day Jason’s eyes bulged as we swung open the door to the “The Artful Place”. “Good thing I made a list. This store is loaded with stuff,” he said, making his way up one aisle and down the next. His eyes lingered over dozens of items, and he picked up several brushes, examining each one with care. He even ran his wistful hands over a manufactured palette made of maple wood and checked the price tag before returning it to the shelf. He ended up with several brushes of different sizes, a couple dozen tubes of oil paints, a small can of thinner, several loose canvases, and one prefabricated canvas on a wooden frame.

          I caught of whiff of the pungent odor of turpentine and paint from a little workroom behind the counter. To me, it made the whole place smell clean and fresh.

          We walked up to the cash register, and Jason laid down his purchases. “Looks like you’re going to do some painting with oils," said the cheerful clerk.

          Jason nodded.

          "Have you ever used them before?” asked the man after scanning the counter. He was wearing a goatee like a painter.

          “Well, I’ve done a little bit in art class . . . but not very much.”

          “You almost have all you need here, but you’re missing one important thing. You need some gesso to prime the canvases.” He held up the prefabricated canvas and a raw one. “Feel the surfaces. See how different they are? The stretched one is ready to use. You notice how smooth it is?”

          Jason touched it and nodded. Then he touched the raw canvas, feeling its rough texture right away. “How much for some gesso?” he asked.

          “It’s $6.95 for a can this size,” he said holding up a pint. Then he paused when Jason’s face fell. “Looks like you’re a serious artist,” he said with a smile. “I’m going to give you a professional discount. Here it is.” He laid the can on the counter. “What you paid should cover the whole thing. I’m sure you’ll be back.”

          “Gee, thanks, mister. You bet I’ll be back.” Jason’s face glowed again.

          The clerk grinned and stuffed the purchases in a huge bag, and we headed out the door, mission accomplished. With a tenderness reserved for the most important things, Jason laid the sack in the trunk of the Chevy for the return ride to Carbonado.

          After we got comfortable in our seats, my dad winked at me and then turned to Jason in back. “It’s almost 1:00. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m as hungry as a bear in springtime. How does Dairy Queen sound to you two growing boys?”

          “Gosh, it sounds great to me, Mr. Carr,” replied Jason. “But I just spent all of my money.”

          “No problem. Since you’re our guest today, it’s our treat.”

          At my dad’s words, Jason's face glowed. “Gee, I used to go to Dairy Queen a lot when I lived with my Aunt Lucy in Tacoma.”

          “I thought you always lived with your dad,” I managed, a bit startled. Jason was so close mouthed about himself that I’d never heard of his aunt – let alone living with her. Maybe buying the art supplies or tying the fast food place to good times in his life loosened his tongue.

          “You know my mom died when I was born, right?” He hung his head a little. “My dad couldn’t take care of me by himself, so I went to live with my mom’s sister.” His eyes sparkled.

          “So, how long did you live with your aunt?” my dad asked.

          “Oh, until I was eight. We did all sorts of stuff – went to Dairy Queen a lot, went to the ocean a couple of times. We even saw a Seattle Mariners game once.”

          We pulled into the Enumclaw Dairy Queen and parked the car instead of going into the drive thru. Inside, Jason and I ordered burgers and fries. He ordered a chocolate shake; I chose vanilla. My dad ordered the same as me. The smell of the grilled meat made my stomach growl, and saliva watered the inside of my mouth.

          We chowed down, stuffing our mouths and demolishing our food, while my dad quizzed Jason. “My, you guys act like you haven’t eaten for a week.” Jason tried to smile with his mouth full. “Does your dad ever take you out to eat – or to the movies?”

          At that question, his face darkened like a blind covering a window, and he swallowed hard. “My dad works a lot. He doesn’t have much time to take me places. We just mostly work at our house.”

          “But your Aunt Lucy took you places. What else did you like about living with her?

          Jason’s gazed toward the ceiling. “Well . . . she taught me how to draw and bought me watercolor sets. But – the best things were her laughs and hugs!”

          My dad let loose a great big belly laugh. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean. In our family I give Sandra and Nathan the laughs, and she gives Nathan and me the hugs. It’s hard to live without hugs. Your aunt seems like a great person.”

          “Yeah, I really miss her.” He picked at the last few fries and sighed. “But my dad needed me, so I moved back with him.” I thought I noticed his lips quiver a little.

          “Do you get to see your Aunt much?” Dad continued.

          Jason’s head tilted toward the table. “No, hardly ever. Aunt Lucy and my dad had a big fight about -- about something. The last time she came out to take me to visit her, he slammed the door in her face. Wouldn’t let her in.”

          Dad, realizing his mistake, added, “I’m sorry about that. It’s hard to lose the company of someone you love. At least you’ve got a lot of friends here – like Ben and Charlie, Brian, and Nathan – and you’ve got Mrs. Carr and me too.” Jason didn’t say anything, but he forced a smile and nodded.

          After we pulled into our driveway, my dad popped open the trunk. Jason pulled out his art purchases and asked, “Can I leave these at your house for safekeeping? I won’t need them at home anyway, and tomorrow I’ll lug them out to Ben’s so I can start painting.”

          I nodded but didn’t ask him why. I already knew.

          Then he turned to my dad. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Carr, and thanks for the Dairy Queen.” Then he turned and shambled toward home.

          Watching him disappear down the street, my dad made the comment, “No wonder he’s such a nice kid. Somebody else raised him. A person needs hugs to grow up right.” Then he turned to me. “You will always be Jason’s friend, right?” He waited until I nodded. “A kid like him without friends doesn’t stand a chance. Forgive me, Lord, but his dad is nothing but trash. I bet you he doesn’t do anything for his son.” Then Dad laid a soft hand on my shoulder and looked me square in the eyes. “Promise me that you’ll always be Jason’s friend.”

          I stared back and said, “I promise.” There was nothing else to say.

*  *  *  *  *

          After that day, my parents and the rest of the gang didn’t see much of Jason at the clubhouse. Instead, we found him at Ben’s cabin almost every time we trekked out there. It became his second home . . . where he seemed happiest. The old man was always doing things with him and for him. For instance, he used pieces of scrap wood to build Jason several canvas frames. Ben acted like more of a father to our friend than Jason's real one.

          A week after Jason's shopping trip to Enumclaw, Charlie, Bear, and I arrived in the nick of time for “the grand unveiling”. When we stepped through the door, Jason stood in front of something tall and pointed with a sheet hanging over it. Ben turned his grinning face and called, “You kids got great timing. I’m just ready to present a gift to our young Van Gogh here. Made it myself.” Then he pulled off the sheet to reveal an artist’s easel complete with three legs, hinged and chained, with a tray attached to place the canvas. Ben had designed it to fold up into one straight piece. By leaning it on his shoulder, Jason could carry it anywhere. Then he reached behind the stove and pulled out a rounded piece of plywood with a handle on the bottom. Ben couldn’t contain himself, and he just about shouted, “It’s a painter’s palette so you can squeeze out your paints and mix ‘em.”

          Although Jason acted tongue-tied, he thanked Ben with a big smile, hauling his new equipment to the lower meadow, anxious to begin painting the cabin and its surroundings while the light shone at the proper angle.

          Charlie waited until Jason was out of the cabin and halfway down the meadow. “Ben, that easel is beautiful. It’s going to make him so happy . . . but I need to ask you something. We’ve been seeing a lot less of Jason in town and at the clubhouse recently, but almost every time we traipse out to the cabin, he’s already here. What’s going on?”

          Ben gazed out the window at our friend, exhaled, and relaxed his shoulders. “Now, don’t tell Jason ‘cause he gets real touchy about the subject. I’ve been lettin’ him come out here and spend the night when things get a little rough around home. After Jason spent his prize money on art supplies, his life at home has got worse. Though his dad's real careful not to hit him in the face, he's got new bruises. I saw 'em the other day when he took his shirt off to wash. I swear, some folks don’t deserve to have kids. He’s such a gentle, talented, young man. I almost feel like his granddad.”

          That’s when Charlie reached up, grabbed him around the neck, and gave him a full hug. Ben rolled his eyes and glanced away, first trying to resist her assault of affection before giving in. His cheeks colored to red, and he stammered, “M-m-miss Charlotte, you’re ruinin’ my reputation as a standoffish, old hermit.”

          “Well, it’s a reputation that deserves ruining.” She relaxed her grip and shot him an impish grin. “Baloney on that old hermit stuff. You’re nothing but a kind-hearted, old softy.”

          That was the first and only time I ever saw the old man lost for words.