chapter 29

SAND AND PAINT

Saturday morning Calvin brings paint. Leftovers from their new house in the upper development. He comes down Jonagold Path dragging the two buckets on the road. Looks like his pencil arms will pull out of the sockets. I go to help.

I say, “Calvin, you are scraping a trail.”

He grunts. “Would you take the buckets?” I do. But he still looks pretty weighed down. Still huffs and puffs. That is due to his heavy backpack. He tells me he has a bag of sand in there.

Pretty soon, we are in the root cellar. Flashlight shining. We are mixing that sand into the paint. It’s a recipe Calvin learned off his tablet. The stirring feels good. Sand into the pale paint. We take turns to mix it. Then we start with two old brushes from our shed. We stroke the paint onto the root cellar walls. Thick and spready. It is the perfect thing. When I brush it on the wall I say, “Aww!”

Then Calvin says, “Aww!” Because this is perfect Caves of Lascaux paint.

We work awhile. Until Calvin drops his brush. He says, “Ugh.” He makes a puking face. He says, “Mason, we have to ventilate or we’re going to die in here.”

I get it. Ventilate is about two things. The paint is smelly. And it needs air to dry.

I set down my bucket and brush. Rub my sweaty hands on my pants. I say, “We’re going to have to open that door, huh?”

Calvin shakes his head. He says, “No way are we giving up our location. If they find out we are here, it’ll ruin everything.” He looks at me straight on. He says, “Let’s never give up the root cellar, Mason. Not for anything. Tell no one.” That is a dead-serious look on Calvin. Maybe because he feels like puke.

So I say, “I won’t. I promise.” Then I tell Calvin, “I have an idea.”

The idea is this: We have the old tractor. And it runs. Sometimes. So I take Calvin up beside the shed where the tractor stays. Key is always in it. I hop up. Give it a start. That engine backfires first. A poof of stink sends Calvin running backward. Holding his nose. But now I know it’ll run pretty great as long as it has fuel.

Turns out it doesn’t have much. Or could be the gauge is off. But I set the throttle. Start driving it down to the dip. I am laughing because Calvin is jumping up and down. Running alongside to cheer me on. The tractor sputters and bucks. I tell it, “Come on, come on! Giddyap!” It goes. And goes. Rolls. And stalls out at the root cellar door.

I ask Calvin if that will be all right.

He says, “Perfect.” But I don’t know. The tractor is not that tall. But what Calvin thinks is this: The tractor is a distraction. Something to look at instead of looking at the door. And the door is open only about halfway anyway. And it is still under the cover of brambles. So okay.

There is air for Calvin. He stops feeling sick. Dip after dip, I load my brush the way Benny Kilmartin’s dad Andy showed me. But this is a different kind of paint job. Dirt from the wall mixes in. Makes it look even more like the Caves of Lascaux on Calvin’s tablet.

On we go. Load, stroke, and spread. Load, stroke, and spread. I work high. Calvin works low. Easier for me to put paint across the ceiling. I’m way taller. I watch out for the beams. Don’t need another bump on the head.

I paint and paint. I think this: If I could do nothing else for the next one hundred hours, I would be happy. But for sure we will finish up faster than that. The root cellar is not so big.

Calvin says, “The recesses in the root cellar walls are like the chambers. The real Caves of Lascaux had a good number of them. There was the Great Hall of the Bulls. And the Chamber of Felines, and the Shaft of the Dead Man.” Calvin knows them all.

He has an idea about us burning sticks to make charcoal. He says we can draw animals on the walls.

I listen to him. A thought comes to my brain: We are making something awesome right on the property of the old Buttle farm. Adding something instead of subtracting. First time in a long time for that. Unless you count Uncle Drum adding Shayleen, and I would not. Shayleen, with her shopping channel Chia Pets and her flying-saucer salad bowl. All still in the boxes.

Calvin and I finish painting the last patch of wall. We sit down on our five-gallon-bucket chairs. Pick paint off our hands. We look around us. Clean pale walls.

I say, “It sure is different now.”

“Transformed,” says Calvin.

I say, “So hey. What about that Sonotube?”

Turns out Calvin has special paint for that. It is not just pale. It is white. All white.

He tells me, “The inside of the tube absolutely has to be a light color. Reflective. So it gives back the light. See how the brown of the cardboard is dark? Well, that is absorptive. It eats the light up.”

I like the way he explains. I get it.

Calvin reaches inside one end of the tube with his brush and I reach inside the other end with mine. I get my arm in deep. Up to the shoulder. Calvin too. Not so easy painting where you can’t see. But it is funny.

Calvin tells me, “You just painted my hand, Mason. And you keep twisting the tube.”

I say, “Yeah, well. How do you like my Caves of Lascaux knuckles?” I pull my arm out of the tube to show him.

He says, “Now your hands almost match your head.”

I touch my head. Feels like plaster. But it is the sand paint from working on the ceiling. I say, “Looks like I dripped on your head today too.”

Calvin says, “Yes. That feels like bird turds.”

I say, “Looks like them too.”

So we laugh while we paint that whole inside of the tube. Me trying to roll it one way. Calvin trying to roll it the other.

Then finally, he says, “There. I think we’re done.”

I pull my arm out of the tube. Feels like pulling my whole self out. Got a cramp in my shoulder. I use my shirt to wipe my face. I say, “Phew! What a job.”

Calvin says, “Okay, so much for the easy part.”

I make some wide eyes at Calvin. I wonder what’s coming next.