“My aunt Jewel saw the picture … the photograph of this in the post office,” he said, nodding respectfully toward the sketch rather than touching it. “She told me all the bits and pieces you got here and I thought, that gonna look like a big ol’ bowl of Brunswick stew for sure. But it don’t. The way you spread it all out, and how you made this part—the trawler and the Mill Village—how you made them smaller but they still stand out. It looks right good.”

“Thank you, Jesse,” she said. “I think you have a real artist’s eye. Can I see some of your drawings?” She carefully moved her sketch aside so he could put his sketchbook on the table, facing her. He handled the book with a delicacy she understood. It was precious to him, and she was touched. She would handle the pages with the same care as she turned them.

To say she was astonished by his skill would have been an understatement. She had to keep reminding herself that he was an untrained seventeen-year-old. The sketch pad contained portrait after portrait of his family members. “This my little sister, Nellie. This my aunt Jewel. She the midwife ’round where I live. This my mama. My other sister Dodie. This my cousin Chee.” And on and on. Then there were cows and pigs and chickens.

“You have to go to art school, Jesse.” The way Anna said it, it sounded like a foregone conclusion. That’s how she felt at that moment. There was no other path for this young man. He must go to art school. “You have to hone your talent.”

“What that mean? Hone?”

“You’re extremely talented,” she said. “You’re a natural. To ‘hone’ it would be to learn all the technical aspects of art to bring your talent to full fruition … your full potential.”

He shook his head. Leaned away from the table. “I’m done with school, ma’am,” he said. “I jest want to sit on a stack of hay and draw.”

“Please don’t be done with school!” she practically begged him, and he drew back slightly. She thought she’d momentarily scared him with her intensity. “Please don’t hide this talent in your … your family barn or wherever.”

He laughed. “You sound jest like Miss Furman.” He looked toward the wall where the cartoon paper was still draped with twine. “What that for?” he asked.