The Birthday Room Read Free Page B

April, he had his photograph taken with the governor at the capitol, where he was awarded a blue satin ribbon, a certificate with his name written in fancy script, and a savings bond for fifty dollars. The photograph appeared in newspapers all over Wisconsin. Even Gramma Lu’s newspaper carried it.
    Afterward his parents framed Yellow Sky and hung it above the fireplace, replacing a weaving that Ben’s mother had done in college. Many times a day Ben passed it, sometimes noticing it, sometimes not.
    Ben’s mother had even tried to arrange for private lessons for him with a painting professor at the university, a professor whose work she particularly admired. She made an appointment with the man and showed him a portfolio of Ben’s work. Ben was relieved to hear that the professor had politely declined, stating that his busy schedule wouldn’t allow it.
    â€œBut he said you were extremely talented.” His mother had glowed as she reported that bit of information. “Gifted.”
    â€œWhatever,” was Ben’s weak response.
    During the first days that followed Ben’s birthday, the idea of a studio of his own became more and more of a burden to him. He didn’t want the room. He didn’t want to feel pressured into being an artist. Although Ben liked art, he had no real desire to “be” anything, much less an artist. What about a basketball player? Or a journalist? Or some kind of professional traveler, if there was such a thing? Occasionally he imagined taking over his parents’ bookstore one day. But there were too many choices for him to be narrowed down so soon. And if it took as long as it had to reach age twelve, it would be forever until he needed to decide what he wanted to do with his life.
    Ben wished he had never painted Yellow Sky .
    Another blank white day had become a still, hot night, continuing the endless pattern. The moon was nearly full with a blurred halo—a dandelion gone to seed. Ben and his mother were sitting out on the front steps. Ben’s father was up in his new studio; jazz from his CD player drifted down to them, a comfort to Ben, the next best thing to having his father right there.
    Ben ran a sweaty can of cream soda along his calf until he shivered. He wiggled around and settled himself on the concrete stoop. Already, Ben had gone back inside the house three times. Once to turn off the porch light that was drawing so many bugs it looked like a prop for a horror movie. Once to get another can of cream soda for himself and the bottle of red wine from the kitchen counter for his mother. And lastly to search for insect repellent to ward off the mosquitoes. They bothered Ben much more than his parents. Itchy red bites dotted his arms and legs.
    â€œDo you think he’s writing?” his mother asked, tilting her head upward.
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œI hope so. I think he’s a fine writer. I’d love for him to have some luck with it. Some success.”
    â€œYeah.” Ben was trying to think of a way to change the subject. Talking about his father’s writing could easily lead to talking about his father’s new studio, which, in turn, could easily lead to talking about Ben’s new room—a subject he wanted to avoid.
    It was four days after Ben’s birthday, and he had avoided it fairly well so far. His mother had been avoiding something, too; she had been avoiding the subject of Uncle Ian.
    â€œDad’s music must be on pretty loud,” Ben said. “I mean, if we can hear it with the windows shut and the air conditioner cranking.”
    â€œWell, at least he’s actually in his studio. That’s more than I can say. If I’m in mine for more than five minutes, I can’t bear it and I have to leave.” His mother clinked her teeth against the rim of her wineglass. “I look around my beautiful new studio—all set up and ready to go, the warp strung on my loom—but I