Connect the Dots

by Keith Calabrese

  “That’s Hedy Lamarr,” her mom explained. “She was a huge movie star back in the 1930s. But she was also a scientist and an inventor. In fact, she co-invented a communication system that allowed radio signals to rapidly hop frequency. That technology led to cell phones, GPS, and Bluetooth.”

  “Wow,” Matilda said. “I’m a little embarrassed I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Well, you have now.” Her mom smiled.

  Matilda took the Moonglow poster off the wall and put up the portrait in its place.

  “Thanks, Mom,” she said.

  “Our rotten luck,” Frankie said, nudging Oliver in the arm. “Now we’ll never get rid of her.”

  Matilda had just told the boys about her dad’s new assignment and how it meant she’d be sticking around for a while.

  “I’m happy for you, Matilda,” Oliver said, forcing a smile. “I really am.”

  Matilda gave him a funny look. “What do you mean?” Then it clicked. “Oh, Oliver. I forgot. I’m so sorry.”

  “What?” Frankie said. “I’m not following.” He looked at Oliver for help. Then it came to him. “Crud. Belchertown.”

  It had been weighing on Oliver for the last couple of days. Once the excitement of Kaplan’s arrest had worn off, he remembered all the other worries he’d put aside these last several weeks. Like how he and his mom were going to have to sell the house and move to Massachusetts.

  No George Kaplan meant no job for his mom, even if it hadn’t been a real job in the first place. So now, despite finding the smartest man in the world and stopping an evil villain bent on world domination, it looked like Oliver and his mom were still right back where they had been at the start of the school year.

  Frankie summed it up perfectly.

  Crud.

  When Oliver got home, he heard his mom on the phone.

  “Yes, Mr. Beecham,” his mom was saying. “Sorry, sorry. Henry.”

  Oliver wandered into the living room. Mrs. Figge sat on the couch while Oliver’s mom paced around the room as she talked.

  “Well, thank you. Of course, that sounds great.”

  Oliver gave Frankie’s mom a questioning look. She shrugged.

  “Are you serious?” his mom said. “No, no, that’s more than generous. Absolutely! See you Monday.”

  Floss hung up the phone. Her eyes were teary, but they looked like happy tears this time.

  “I got a job!”

  Mrs. Figge jumped up and the two women hugged.

  “Here?” Oliver said.

  “Here!” his mom said.

  “So, no Belchertown?”

  “Nope,” Floss said. “No Belchertown— Wait, how did you know? You know what, never mind. No Belchertown, and no selling the house!”

  Oliver felt like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He couldn’t wait to tell Frankie and Matilda.

  “Oh my God,” Mrs. Figge said, overjoyed. “But how did this happen?”

  “You know Henry Beecham? He owns that market over on MacDonald. Well, he makes this gourmet jam that is kind of a big deal. He just got an offer to distribute it nationally. And he needs someone to run his marketing.”

  “When did this all come about?” Mrs. Figge asked, perplexed. “Did you interview for this?”

  “I didn’t.” Oliver’s mom laughed. “Not really. I just bumped into him one day at the hospital—I was there visiting Preston—and we talked and, I don’t know, it just happened.”

  “Wow,” Mrs. Figge said. “I mean, imagine the odds!”

  Oliver’s face clouded over. He should have been happy, but one mention of Preston, followed closely by “odds,” instantly soured his mood.

  Suddenly, he just wanted to be alone.

  “Wanna go to the hospital after school?” Matilda said the next day.

  “No. No, thanks.”

  She and Oliver were sitting in the bleachers during gym class.

  The class was playing dodgeball, and Frankie was still in the game. He had kind of become the king of gym dodgeball. All that running with Archie was really paying off. He could run circles around everyone else, and his reflexes were faster, too.

  “Preston gets out tomorrow, you know,” Matilda said. “Kinda harsh if you don’t visit him at least once.”

  Oliver shrugged. Maybe he wanted to be harsh.

  “Look, I know this isn’t really my business,” Matilda said. “But I thought you sort of liked Preston.”

  “I don’t know. He’s fine, I guess,” Oliver said. “That doesn’t mean I want him around.”

  “But those things you said, back at Kaplan’s, I just—”

  “Why are you pressing me on this?” Oliver snapped. “I thought you of all people would understand. He got your dad shot!”

  “Well, yeah,” Matilda conceded. “But he didn’t mean to.” She leaned into Oliver, nudging him with her shoulder. “I don’t know, maybe I’m mellowing with age.”

  “You know, you said some stuff, too, that day,” Oliver countered. “About him moving all of us around like chess pieces. Remember that?”

  “You’re right, I did.”

  “Then why are you defending him?”

  Matilda thought for a moment. “When things were really bad, when it counted the most, he showed up. He threw himself in front of a bullet. The smartest man in the world did the dumbest thing he could possibly do. Because when you love someone, it doesn’t matter how smart you are. You’re always going to wind up thinking with your heart.”

  Matilda got up from the bleachers.

  “It’s up to you, Oliver,” she said. “But I think someone like that deserves a second chance.”

  Oliver stood in the hospital hallway, watching through the door as Preston Oglethorpe slowly gathered his things. He was being discharged. Standing in the hospital room by himself, Preston looked fragile, small even. Without all his computers and chalkboards and equations, he looked completely vulnerable, like a turtle out of its shell.

  Oliver tapped lightly on the open door.

  “Oliver, hi,” Preston said, turning a bit too quickly to face him and wincing from the pain.

  “Hi,” Oliver said.

  “They’re letting me out today,” Preston said.

  “Yeah. My mom said.”

  “How are you two doing?”

  “Okay,” Oliver said. “She got a job.”

  “Oh?”

  “It means we can keep the house and we don’t have to move to Massachusetts.”

  “That’s wonderful news.”

  “Yeah,” Oliver said. “You don’t have to pretend to be surprised.” The words came out more biting than Oliver had meant them. But he couldn’t help feeling like it had to be said.

  They were quiet for a moment, neither one sure what to say next. Then Oliver reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little box.

  “Here,” Oliver said, handing Preston the box. “It’s a new watch. Seeing as how I broke your old one.”

  “Oh,” Preston said, taking the box delicately in his hands, opening it, and peering inside. “That’s very kind. Thank you.”

  “I need to ask you something,” Oliver said directly. “All the things you planned, the stuff that you made happen and all that?”

  Oliver could tell that Preston knew what he was going to ask, but the man wasn’t going to take away his right to ask it.

  “Did you have anything to do with my dad leaving us?”

  “No, Oliver,” Preston said. “I didn’t.”

  Oliver stared at Preston for a long while. “I believe you,” he said finally.

  “Thank you, Oliver,” Preston said solemnly. “And, for what it’s worth, I didn’t have anything to do with your mom’s new job. She got that on her own.”

  “Really?”

  “My equation fell apart the minute you got in the car, remember?”

  “Then, how?” Oliver said.

  “Just your mom being, well, your mom,” Preston said in a way that sounded almost reveren
tial.

  “Wow,” Oliver said. He was surprised how overcome he felt by this revelation. On the surface, it wasn’t such a big deal. But at the same time, it was everything.

  “You know,” Preston said. “I’ve devoted my entire scientific career to finding and controlling that one elusive element, the one seemingly insignificant detail that would make everything in my life work out perfectly.”

  “The butterfly wings.”

  “Exactly.” Preston chuckled a little. “Funny thing is, after all this time, I’ve come to realize that the unstable variable in all my equations is always me.”

  When Oliver looked at the man who was possibly the smartest person of all time, all he saw were the sad, faraway eyes of the child genius on that orientation video from the first day of school.

  Ever since his talk with Matilda, Oliver had been torn about whether to come to the hospital to see Preston. In the end, it was something she hadn’t said that had ultimately changed his mind. Something he was sure she’d figured out a while ago but kept to herself. Perhaps because she knew Oliver had to get there on his own. Either that or she just didn’t want to sound like a pushy know-it-all.

  She knew why Preston had concocted this whole crazy plan. Why he’d forced mango-chutney jam and beef jerky and lost dogs and new friendships into their lives.

  It was about saying goodbye.

  Oliver would never understand any of the dizzying formulas Preston created, but he did know one thing for sure: that all of Preston Oglethorpe’s great equations had always ended the same way. With Preston on the other side of the equal sign, alone.

  Whether trapped in Kaplan’s gilded cage or hiding from the world in janitor’s overalls and a shaggy beard, Oliver was sure that Preston had never calculated a happy ending for himself. That he was always trapped in the last box on his massive flowchart. And that all the other boxes preceding it, everything that had happened since the boys first stepped into Henry’s Market, had been Preston’s way of saying goodbye to the world. His way of doing something special, something perfect for his friends and their kids and the people they loved, before he disappeared for good.

  Trust the math, Preston had told Oliver. Because he believed it was all he had.

  Oliver shook his head, got up, and made his way to the door. “You know,” he said. “You really do think too much. All those equations, formulas, wall charts, whatever. Just a big waste of time, if you ask me. In the end, everything boils down to one number anyway.”

  “Really?” Preston said, intrigued. “What number is that?”

  “Seven.”

  “Why seven?”

  “That’s when we have dinner. Don’t be late.”

  “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do …”

  “Oh, do shut up, Einstein,” Marie Curie snapped.

  Albert was singing off-key, Preston guessed, on purpose.

  “He needs to get on with it,” Albert said.

  “And he will,” Marie said. “But your caterwauling isn’t helping matters.”

  Preston sat at the main terminal of his computer. With a couple of keystrokes he would wipe out all four of the talking portraits. Not just turn them off temporarily, but erase them completely.

  He knew he had to do it, but he didn’t think he could.

  “It’s the only way, Preston,” Leonardo said. “You need to rejoin the world again, my boy. And that can’t happen if you keep hiding in here with us.”

  “You’re ready for this, I know you are,” Marie added.

  “This is getting way too sappy,” Albert barked. “Pull the plug already.”

  Preston smiled. He looked over at the last portrait. Nicola Tesla, as usual, remained frozen in place. It was time.

  “Goodbye, Albert,” Preston said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Albert grumbled as Preston hit the button, turning the portrait to black.

  “Bet that felt good,” Leonardo quipped.

  “A little,” Preston admitted.

  “You know we’ll always be with you,” Marie said.

  “Literally, seeing as he’s memorized all our code,” Leonardo said. “Take care, kid.”

  Preston shut down Leonardo’s portrait. He looked at Marie, and she at him.

  “I would say I’ll miss you—” Marie said.

  “—but seeing as you’re just a bunch of ones and zeroes—” Preston followed.

  “—it wouldn’t be accurate,” Marie finished, smiling. “Nevertheless, I reserve the right to be proud of you.”

  Preston nodded but didn’t say anything for a few moments.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, finally.

  “I know,” Marie said. “But your life is waiting for you.”

  Preston’s finger hovered delicately over the button.

  “Goodbye, Marie.”

  Only the Tesla portrait remained. Preston waited a moment, just in case, but knew it was pointless. Nicola had said all he needed to weeks ago. Anything more than that just wasn’t him. Not every goodbye gets a send-off.

  Preston shut down the last portrait and then left the warehouse.

  He had someplace to be.

  There was a knock at the door promptly at seven. Oliver answered and led Preston to the backyard where Frankie’s father was grilling burgers.

  Oliver introduced Preston to Frankie’s parents and to Steve Bishop and Frankie’s aunt Josie. He pointed out Frankie’s twin brothers, who were wildly attacking Archie over by the swing set.

  “I hope it’s not too much,” Oliver said to Preston. “I know you’re not exactly used to people.”

  “It’s okay,” Preston said, more, it seemed, to himself than to Oliver.

  Matilda and her mom showed up, along with Floss, who had run out to the store to buy more ice. Matilda’s dad, coming straight from work, showed up a little while later.

  Oliver could tell how overwhelming it all was for Preston. But these were nice people, kind people. They were who they said they were, and Preston needed that. So did Oliver.

  The barbecue went late into the night. No one wanted to leave. Preston, Floss, and Jimmy, once reunited, were inseparable the entire evening. And though Oliver was busy with Frankie and Matilda, he couldn’t resist sneaking peeks at his mom and her childhood friends.

  At one point, Oliver saw his mom take Preston’s hand and admire the watch Oliver had given him. It wasn’t anything fancy. In fact, it was very simple, no frills. Just a big hand, a little hand, and little dashes around the perimeter for the hours. It didn’t have a little box for the date. It didn’t even have a second hand.

  And it would never … ever …

  Beep.

  Ready for another adventure? Turn the page for a preview of A Drop of Hope by Keith Calabrese.

  A SURPRISE IN THE ATTIC

  Ernest Wilmette was alone in his dead grandfather’s house, and he really wished he wasn’t.

  He stood in front of the attic door. It was thinner than a usual door, and shorter, too. Probably by about six to eight inches. Not that it would make any difference to Ernest. Ernest was eleven, twelve in four months. He’d started sixth grade—middle school—a month ago, but you wouldn’t guess it to look at him. He still had to sit in the back seat of the car because he wasn’t tall or heavy enough for the air bag.

  Small or not, Ernest had made a promise. Not only that, he’d made it to a dying man. Ernest suspected those were the kinds of promises you really had to keep.

  It had been late last spring. They were in Grandpa Eddie’s kitchen, just the two of them, making sandwiches.

  “Ernest, can you do something for me?” Grandpa Eddie had said.

  “Sure,” Ernest said, expecting his grandfather to send him to the fridge to fetch some mustard.

  “After I’m gone, promise me that you’ll clean out my attic. Okay?”

  It was a strangely serious request. Stranger still for Ernest, who didn’t know how sick his grandfather really was. No one ever talked about it around Ernest. Small Ernest. Too s
mall for the truth.

  He was scared to ask the obvious question, but too curious not to at the same time. “What’s up in the attic?”

  Grandpa Eddie gazed down at Ernest, a knowing, weary look in his eyes. “Oh, just some things I should have parted with a long time ago,” he said in a distant, almost spooky voice that Ernest hoped was just the medication. His parents had told him that much, at least. That the pills Grandpa Eddie was taking might make him a little woozy and confused. Even still, Ernest couldn’t help but notice how his grandfather had been looking at him these past few weeks, as if he knew some secret about Ernest but wouldn’t say what it was.

  “Okay,” Ernest said, uncertainly.

  “Good,” the frail old man said, just as suddenly back to himself again. He patted Ernest on the top of the head. “Now that’s sorted, let’s have some lunch.”

  Ernest didn’t know how to explain what happened. There was a brief moment of quiet, and then Grandpa Eddie simply walked over to the fridge to get them a drink. But something about that brief moment seemed significant, the way some moments just weigh more than others. And something about the way they then quietly, almost reverently, ate their turkey sandwiches at the kitchen table suggested to Ernest that he and his grandfather had just sealed a fateful pact, like the blood oaths the Greek gods were always making in the books Ernest loved to read.

  Shortly after that, Grandpa Eddie took a bad turn. He grew feverish and weak. He coughed up blood and had to move into the hospital. The doctors put a tube in his arm that pumped medicine into his veins. It made him drowsy and confused.

  The last time Ernest saw him, Grandpa Eddie was really thin, and his skin was gray and loose on his bones. The dying man was awake, and pleading in a panicked, rasping voice.

  “Tell Ernest! Tell him he can’t forget the attic!” Grandpa Eddie sat up in his bed, something he hadn’t done for weeks. He looked right at Ernest, but with no recognition in his eyes.