The Lost Boy's Gift

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  The other day, he slept later than usual and he awoke to their chattering on his windowsill. He hurried outside and threw the peanuts on the ground. Then he backed away five long steps and watched them eat. Once they finished, they scampered off to the big oak in Tilda Butter’s yard. Each day he planned to move in a few inches closer after he dropped the peanuts. Soon he would eat his oatmeal next to them while they ate their breakfast.

  Since the other kids that lived on the street hadn’t returned yet, he explored While-a-Way Lane by himself. He would show his dad everything, including the secret pathway he’d created weaving through the neighborhood. He knew where every loose picket was in every fence and he’d found out that thick hedges made the best hiding places.

  After all, he was Daniel, top-notch spy. He especially loved spying on Tilda Butter, the woman he’d caught talking to a snake. Today he thought he saw her whispering to a bush in the front yard. When she went inside, Daniel rushed over to it and discovered a lizard. But when he said hello to the lizard, all it did was puff out a little red pouch under its throat. That was interesting, but he wished the lizard had talked to him.

  That night he rode his bicycle later than he ever had. Clouds covered the moon, and not a star was in sight. It was very dark. Daniel was not scared, though. Well, maybe a little. He pretended his stuffed snail, Snappy, was sharing the seat with him. He sure wished he hadn’t given him away.

  He rode his bike out of the driveway and pedaled slowly past Tilda Butter’s home. Her light was on, and he could see her through the window. She was sitting in a plump chair with a book on her lap. Nearby, her dog was looking at something. When he leaned in closer, he discovered the dog was staring at a terrarium.

  Maybe he could knock on Tilda Butter’s door, and she’d ask him inside and make hot cocoa for him. Wasn’t that what old ladies did for kids? When he was little, he’d seen a picture of a grandmother, doing that in a storybook. He didn’t have a grandmother, and Tilda Butter kind of looked like one.

  But he changed his mind. She’d probably tell him it was late and that he needed to go home. If she knew about the china, she’d never ask him over for hot cocoa. Daniel pedaled slowly so he could watch Tilda Butter and her dog as long as possible.

  He saw a group of tiny twinkling lights in front of him. Was it a falling star? The sparkles moved closer in and surrounded Daniel, casting a glow on him like a spotlight. Fireflies!

  Until now, he’d never seen any, but last year his teacher had read a story about them. The story talked about how kids caught the insects and put them in mason jars with hole-punched lids.

  Daniel pedaled quickly past Tilda Butter’s mailbox just to see what the fireflies would do. To his amazement, they kept up, circling him like a hug.

  Faster, he pedaled faster. The fireflies flew faster. When he reached the mailman’s house, he slowed his pace. The fireflies slowed their pace. The mailman had not lowered the shades yet, and Daniel could see him in his pajamas, sitting on a sofa, reading a book (just like Tilda Butter!).

  He thought the mailman was wearing a nightcap, but then Daniel realized it was a cat curled up on top of his bald head. Daniel almost laughed, but he kept on down the street all the way to the pond. He and the fireflies.

  Then back to the other end of the street. He did it again, except this time he stopped at the edge of the pond. The fireflies flew out a few feet, hovering above the water. Their reflections caused the pond to glisten. Daniel thought they were leaving, and he said, “Goodbye!”

  He wished his dad were here to see them. He had started to pedal away when he noticed the fireflies had caught up and were circling him again.

  Just as he almost reached his house, he heard his mother calling out his name, but Daniel and the fireflies kept going. He looked toward Tilda Butter’s home. Her curtains were now closed. That disappointed him because he’d planned to yell, “Look at me!”

  Music came from the piano teacher’s house across the street. It didn’t sound like piano music. It sounded like a radio inside her house. He slowed his pace to watch a dancing shadow on the upstairs shade. It was the piano teacher. He recognized the hooked nose. She was holding something. It looked like an instrument. A saxophone? But she wasn’t playing it. He watched for a second and then picked up his speed.

  The third time he passed his house, his mother was yelling his name and starting to count.

  The fifth time he passed, she was still counting. She was up to three hundred and seventy-two. She’d never made it to four hundred. She always threatened to punish him if she ever reached that number.

  Daniel turned around, peddling toward home. When he got there, his mother was now up to 399 ⅝. He should have hurried, but instead he straddled the bike and watched the fireflies flutter away.

  “Good night!” he told his new friends. “Come back soon!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DANIEL

  THE BOY’S NAME was Daniel. He had not told her, but Tilda had heard his mother calling him from her kitchen window. Seemed his mother was always hollering for him to come in or go out. After meeting him, Tilda understood how a mother might be exhausted if he asked such ongoing questions as he had asked Tilda. They’d lived there a week now. Tilda figured that was enough time for boxes to be emptied and knickknacks dusted and placed in their new spots.

  That was why, instead of going into the garden like on any other spring morning, she went into the kitchen to make a sugar cream pie for Daniel’s family.

  Tilda hadn’t set out to make eight pies, but she had a big carton of cream, and she thought, Why not? Baking pies made her happy.

  Tilda baking pies made Fred happy, too. She was sure to slosh some of the sweet filling onto the floor, and when she did, Fred would be ready. He considered licking the floor clean his duty.

  It was an unspoken agreement this pie-making duo had between them, an agreement that always resulted in a spotless floor and fine pies ready to slice. If only Fred could do the dishes.

  While she gathered the ingredients, she felt like she was being watched. And she was. The two squirrel brothers, Zip and Zap, were outside the window, following her every move. Zip and Zap were not her favorite neighbors. They dug up and gobbled down her tulips. They planted acorns all over her yard. They tipped over her wooden statue of Saint Francis. To Tilda, Zip and Zap were pure mischief!

  Now she noticed them from the corners of her eyes. They were flicking their tails as she measured the sugar, but when she cracked the eggs, the brothers froze, staring. Then back to flicking their tails again. Until she added the flour. They watched so intently, as if holding their breaths. This happened when she added the cream and vanilla, too.

  The moment Tilda slipped two of the pies in the oven, their tails pointed at the ground. They seemed disappointed.

  Later, when Tilda finished, she placed the pies in the wagon on her porch and read her list. She’d made a pie for eight of her neighbors.

  The sun was shining bright in a cloudless sky. She could see the tip of Pointy Mountain and the top seat of the library’s Ferris wheel on the next street. Six houses down the lane, she noticed Dewey Wonder’s jeep, moving slow, so slow that Tilda thought Dewey might have fallen asleep at the wheel.

  “Beware of ssslow-moving objectsss,” a familiar voice said.

  Tilda peered down. It was Isadora, her body stretched up over the patch of daffodils so that she could see the road.

  “Dewey Wonder is nothing to beware of,” Tilda said. “But I’m curious why he’s driving so slowly.”

  “You don’t know?” asked Isadora.

  “No,” Tilda said, “do you?”

  The way Isadora had asked that, Tilda could have sworn she winked, but that would have been impossible since snakes don’t have eyelids.

  “Well, do you know?” Tilda asked again.

  “Oh, I have a hunch he ssseesss sssomething interesssting.” And with that, Isadora slid away.

  Tilda had no idea what she meant. She d
ismissed Isadora’s comment from her thoughts and started toward her wagon, but was stopped in mid-step by Spider dangling from a string of web in front of her. He swung back and forth. Back and forth.

  Tilda had to restrain herself from swatting.

  Spider groaned. “Oh, I hate this part—beginning!”

  “Surely you aren’t going to make a web on my porch,” said Tilda.

  “I can’t very well live next door,” Spider said. “That deplorable child!”

  Tilda did not have to ask whom Spider was talking about.

  “He tried to squish me!”

  “You don’t say?” said Tilda.

  “But I’m the captain of my ship, looking out to ever-changing views. Courage and persistence come with the territory.”

  Fred barked.

  Dewey had finally stopped in front of her mailbox, and Tilda welcomed the chance to leave Spider. She would deal with him and his web later.

  Tilda waved and called out, “Good day, Dewey Wonder! Don’t drive off yet. I have a pie for you.”

  Dewey waited. Even from the porch, Tilda noticed Dewey’s face was pink, including the top of his shiny bald head. By the time she dragged her wagon of pies to his jeep, he looked like an apple wearing a mailman’s uniform.

  “Dewey Wonder, your face is flushed.”

  Fred growled at Dewey.

  “Quit it, Fred,” Tilda said. “You know what, Dewey? I’ll bet this pie is exactly what you need.” She handed the pie over to him.

  “Th-thank you,” Dewey stammered. “Th-thank you v-very m-much.”

  Poor man, Tilda thought. She was used to Dewey always sputtering out his words. He’d done that since they were children together, but she’d never seen his face turn as scarlet as her roses.

  “Oh, dear, Dewey,” Tilda said. “You are sick. You better get to the doctor’s office as soon as you finish your shift. Then when you go home, have some pie.”

  Dewey nodded, raised his hand in a small wave, and drove away.

  Fred barked until Dewey’s jeep was out of sight.

  “Goodness pudding, Fred! I don’t know why you don’t like Dewey Wonder. He’s one of the nicest people who live on While-a-Way Lane. And he always delivers the mail on time.”

  Just as she started to head toward her new neighbors’ home, Zip and Zap darted in front of her. And did Fred bother to bark at them? No, indeed. He just sat and watched the squirrel brothers with fascination like he watched Snail.

  One of the squirrels (Tilda could not tell them apart) stopped and stuck his nose in the air, sniffing. He moved closer toward Tilda’s wagon.

  “Are there nuts in that pie?” he asked.

  “No, there are not,” Tilda said smugly.

  “Well, that’s a shame,” he said.

  The other squirrel nodded. “Yes, that’s a pity.”

  “Well,” said one of the brothers, “the next time you make a pie, put some nuts in it for Zip.”

  So this was Zip.

  The other squirrel flicked his tail. “No, put some nuts in it for Zap.”

  “Zip!” said Zip.

  “Zap!” said Zap.

  Zip began to chase Zap in a circle. It made Tilda dizzy to watch, but Fred followed them so closely his head looked like it could spin off his neck. The whole time they jabbered.

  “Zip!”

  “Zap!”

  “Zip!”

  “Zap!”

  Fred lowered his body onto the grass. If he could not have a pie, watching squirrels chase each other would have to do.

  Tilda moved away from them, pulling her wagon toward her new neighbors’ home. “Come on, Fred!”

  Fred caught up with Tilda. He didn’t want to miss out if a pie fell off the wagon.

  When Tilda knocked on the front door, nobody answered, but soon she noticed one eyeball peeking between the curtains.

  Daniel spread the curtains wide. Then he cracked open the window. “Whatcha got?”

  “Oh,” Tilda said. “Hello, there—” She almost spoke his name, but decided not to since she’d only overheard his mother saying it. “I’ve made a pie for your family.”

  “I don’t like pie.”

  “You might like this one. Everyone on While-a-Way Lane likes my pies.”

  He wrinkled up his nose. “Is it gooey?”

  “It’s a sugar cream pie, so it’s creamy.”

  “Oh,” he said, “it’s gooey.”

  “Is your mom home?”

  Daniel frowned. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Then I’ll leave it right here on the porch. Maybe your mom will want a piece of my gooey pie.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “she’ll eat anything.”

  “Very well, good afternoon! Hope you enjoy your first day at Falling Star Valley School.”

  Tilda turned to go, but Fred hung back, studying the pie on the porch. Does this count as a dropped pie?

  “Come on, Fred,” Tilda said. “We have more deliveries to make.”

  Fred sulked, following Tilda.

  As she headed away from Daniel’s house, the door squeaked open behind her. When she heard it shut, she turned and noticed Daniel through the window. He poked a finger in the middle of the pie and then stuck it in his mouth. His eyes popped wide, and his finger returned for more.

  Tilda sighed a deep sigh filled with satisfaction and delight. Her sugar cream pie recipe had not failed her yet.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE RETURN

  IT WAS DUSK, that sliver of time caught between day and night. Spring break was coming to an end. From his front yard, Daniel watched car after car and minivan after minivan return to While-a-Way Lane.

  Bumper stickers and words spelled out with shaving cream were like banners telling of the neighbors’ whereabouts from the last week. SEE THE GRAND CANYON. AMARILLO OR BUST. I ATE TACOS IN SANTA FE. ELVIS IS ALIVE AND WELL IN MEMPHIS.

  Daniel thought about hanging a sign on the back of his bike that read MY PARENTS GOT A DIVORCE AND I HAD TO MOVE TO WHILE-A-WAY LANE.

  Even though the neighbors drove in from so many places, they all seemed to arrive at once. One of the drivers honked his horn as he headed down While-a-Way Lane and then the other drivers honked, too. It sounded like a song. Daniel listened closer. It was a song. He’d heard it before. “Yankee Doodle”! Everyone waved arms out car windows and honked horns and shouted to each other.

  “Hey, neighbor, wait till you hear about the fish I almost caught!”

  “Hey, neighbor, I have some pictures to share of our ride on an elephant!”

  “Hey, neighbor … hey, neighbor…” On and on and on.

  Tilda Butter stepped out onto her porch and waved at each vehicle as it passed. The piano teacher with the long fingers waved at them, too. Daniel bet she was glad she could torture her students with learning chords and scales again.

  The neighbors followed each other like a parade, driving all the way down to the pond and then turning around, honking until their wheels met their driveways.

  “Welcome back!” Tilda Butter hollered. “Welcome home!”

  They were so happy to be home.

  Daniel felt hollow inside. While-a-Way Lane would never be home to him. He didn’t want to live here, this place with all these happy people and air that smelled like cotton candy.

  Just as he was wishing his dad were with him he saw something sparkle in front of him. It flashed three times. Then there were a hundred flashes. Maybe a thousand. And even though the sun wasn’t quite down yet and the moon was nowhere to be found, his friends had returned.

  “I knew you’d come back,” he told the fireflies. With that, he began to pedal, and together, they made their way down While-a-Way Lane.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BIRD FEEDER

  TILDA OPENED THE DRAPES to the wide window in the living room, the one that faced her new bird feeder. The bird feeder hung from a low branch of the crape myrtle tree. She wished she could have hung it higher, but Tilda was not very tal
l, and she didn’t much care to step on a ladder. She felt a bit like Fred watching Snail’s slow drag, only there was no action this morning. There hadn’t been any since she’d hung it a week ago.

  Just when she thought of giving up, she saw a branch move. Could it be the chickadees she loved with their little black hoods? Maybe it was the house finches returning. She loved them, too. Their orange-red faces delighted the bird-watcher in her.

  She grabbed her notebook, ready to record any sighting. Then she would promptly notify the Falling Star Valley Bird-Watcher’s Society of her keen observations. But it was not a chickadee. It was not a house finch. No, it was Zip and Zap, the squirrel brothers, and they were eyeing the bird feeder like they were trying to size up the jump.

  Tilda stood and flapped her arms overhead, but it was too late. Zip and Zap were above the bird feeder. Zip (at least Tilda thought it was Zip) made his way down to the flat part and was riding it belly down like a surfer making his way out in the ocean. The feeder swung. Then Zap landed on top of the feeder, causing it to swing back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. They seemed giddy as they munched away at the seed.

  Tilda opened the window and hollered, “That is not a squirrel feeder! That is a bird feeder!”

  Zip and Zap ignored Tilda. Zip sat up. He’d filled his mouth with so much seed he had chipmunk cheeks.

  Tilda shook her fist as he gobbled down thistle and sunflower seed mix.

  Zap tried to make his way down, but the feeder was still moving and he jumped so hard that he missed and landed on the ground. Zip and the feeder followed with a big splat.

  Fred turned from Snail’s terrarium. When he saw the squirrels, he let out a weak “woof.”

  Zip and Zap didn’t stop eating.

  Fred gave his attention back to Snail.

  Tilda decided she’d waited long enough. She would return the bird feeder today, so she went in the garden to pick it up.