It bugged Arthur that the guy always had to be so nice.
—
A week later, Squeak and Arthur met to count the money they’d collected. On Saturday, Squeak came to Arthur’s house carrying a cardboard box full of jangling coffee cans.
Even before they started counting, Arthur had already figured out that the jangling noise wasn’t a good sign. It meant the cans were mostly full of coins—and most of those coins were dimes, nickels, and pennies. It didn’t take a math genius to figure out they’d need an awful lot of pennies and nickels to raise the money they needed.
And clearly, some people couldn’t read either, because they left crumpled gum wrappers, a cigarette butt, store receipts, and a girl’s barrette in the cans.
—
But in the bottom of one of Squeak’s coffee cans—the Save a Heavenly Work of Art can—they found a business card from a reporter at the city newspaper. On the other side of the card, the reporter had scrawled in pencil: Sounds interesting, call me.
“Where did you leave this coffee can?” Arthur asked curiously. “Do you remember?”
A strange look passed across Squeak’s face. He didn’t say anything. After a minute or two of weird silence, he took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. Then he put them back on again, still saying nothing.
Arthur started to ask what was wrong when Squeak interrupted him and said, “All right. I have a confession to make.”
“A confession?” Arthur was confused. “About the coffee can?”
Squeak sighed loudly. “I put it in the office of the newspaper where my dad works.”
It took a minute for Squeak’s words to sink in.
“Your dad is a reporter?” Arthur said slowly.
He hated all reporters—especially after they’d plastered his crime across every newspaper in D.C. They’d done the same thing after his dad’s motorcycle accident. They’d written things about his dad’s death that weren’t true—or at least, things people didn’t need to know about his drinking and past misdeeds.
“Why didn’t you tell me your dad was a reporter?”
“No, not a reporter,” Squeak jumped in quickly to explain. “A truck driver. He drives a delivery truck for the newspaper.”
Arthur squinted at Squeak, trying to picture him being the son of a newspaper delivery truck driver. It wasn’t what he’d imagined at all. He’d figured Squeak’s parents were professors or rich people or something.
“Okay.” Arthur shrugged. “So your dad drives a truck, no big deal.”
“Don’t you remember what happened with Mr. Hampton?” Squeak continued, looking more and more nervous. “Remember how it was a newspaper delivery truck driver who found him on the sidewalk?”
And now the truth behind Squeak’s confession finally dawned on Arthur.
“That guy was your dad?”
“Yes,” Squeak said, swallowing loudly. “It was.”
“For real, you’re not making this up?”
Squeak shook his head.
At this point, Arthur burst out laughing.
He fell back on the worn-out blue carpet of the living room, holding his stomach and laughing so hard he thought he might puke. The whole crazy train wreck of coincidences suddenly seemed ridiculously funny: Squeak’s dad saves Mr. Hampton after he’s been hit by Arthur. Mr. Hampton saves Arthur from juvie. Arthur saves Squeak from the trash can at school. And now here they were—trying to save Hampton’s masterpiece from destruction.
“What’s so funny?” Squeak’s face reddened.
“Do your parents know you’re hanging out with me?” Arthur said, sitting up to take a breath. He couldn’t believe any parent would allow their kid to hang out with him—especially not the parent who had found Mr. Hampton with a busted arm on the sidewalk.
“Not—not really,” Squeak stammered. “Well, they know about you being my friend, but I’ve kind of made up a different name and story for you. You’re not who they think you are.”
Arthur grinned. “I’m not who a lot of people think I am.”
“I know,” said Squeak.
“And I guess you’re not who people think you are,” he said with another loud snort of laughter.
“I know,” said Squeak, finally starting to relax and smile. “I think that’s why we get along.”
Arthur picked up the business card from the carpet. “So what should we do about this reporter?”
“I think you should call him.”
Although Arthur didn’t really want to call, once he looked over the lousy collection of coins and bills and junk spread out on the living room carpet, he knew they didn’t have much choice.
FORTY-EIGHT
When Arthur reached the reporter at the newspaper office, he seemed confused at first. “What’s this about?” he said. “I’m not clear on what you’re saying.”
Taking a deep breath, Arthur repeated his story of how he’d found the reporter’s business card in the coffee can he’d been using to raise money for a special work of art. “It said on the back that I was supposed to call you,” he added.
“All right,” the guy said, still sounding kind of lost. “Give me a few more details about what you’re doing.”
Stumbling over his explanation, Arthur started out by telling the reporter how he was trying to save an important piece of artwork made out of junk by a man who had just died.
Squeak glanced up from the coins he was counting. “Make it sound better than that!”
Trying to be more convincing, Arthur explained how the idea for the work of art started with World War II and how it was supposed to represent heaven with a throne and wings and stars made of shiny things like old foil and mirrors. “It’s in a garage here in D.C., on Seventh Street Northwest, if you know where that is,” he said. “I think there are more than a hundred and fifty pieces inside the garage. But I haven’t counted them all yet.”
“Let me get this straight. The guy you’re talking about made heaven out of shiny stuff he got from the trash?” the reporter asked, sounding dubious.
“And other things,” Arthur tried to say. “Like cardboard and glass.”
“And everything the guy built is inside a garage that nobody else knows about?” Arthur thought he could hear the reporter writing something down.
“No, I don’t think anybody really knows about it,” he answered.
“When can I see it?”
“Uh, right now, if you want to, I guess,” Arthur stammered.
Despite not sounding very sure about anything, he must have been convincing enough, because the reporter said he’d be there. “I’ll bring along a photographer to shoot some pictures too,” he told him.
“Okay.”
“I’ll need an address.”
“Oh yeah,” Arthur said, feeling stupid. He told him, then remembered all the trouble he’d had when he first looked for the garage. “But it’s kind of hard to find by the address,” he added. “You can’t see it from the street. It’s easier to watch for a tattoo shop called Groovy Jim’s and then drive down the gravel alley next to it. The garage is in the back.”
“A garage behind a tattoo shop…”
“I’ll meet you there,” Arthur said. “I promise.”
—
An hour later, Arthur and Squeak met the reporter and his photographer at the garage. The reporter was about sixty, while the photographer looked like a younger version of Groovy Jim—tall and skinny, with a rumpled shirt and slacks. He carried the biggest camera and flashbulb Arthur had ever seen, slung casually over one shoulder. He also seemed to be really fond of the words wow and impressive.
When the four of them stepped into the garage, the photographer walked straight over to Hampton’s creation. “Wow. Impressive,” he said. Still staring at the scene, he pulled the camera off his shoulder and started to shoot some pictures.
But the reporter’s eyes swept quickly over the work of art, as if it was just another job he had to do. He snapped open his noteboo
k and rattled off his questions like a cop.
What was the work of art made of? Who had made it? How long had it taken? What was the purpose of it? What had the artist been hoping to do with it?
Arthur couldn’t answer some of the questions. He didn’t know how long Mr. Hampton had worked on his creation—only that one piece had been made during World War II. He didn’t really know Hampton’s purpose for the Throne either—except for being one of the few works of art to show what heaven might look like.
“It’s a lot easier to show hell. Everybody has done that,” he added, which made the reporter look up from his notes and give a coughing sort of laugh.
—
At the end of the interview, the reporter asked for Arthur’s and Squeak’s names.
“Spell your names for me,” he said as he was wrapping up his notes for the article. “I want to mention what you two young fellows are trying to do.”
So far, Arthur had been able to avoid telling the reporter who he was—about his crime and probation sentence. He hoped to keep it that way.
“Uh, I’d rather not have my name in the article, if that’s okay,” he mumbled. Then Squeak jumped in to add in a pseudo-innocent voice: “Actually, both of us would like our volunteer work on this project to remain anonymous.”
We’d like our work to remain anonymous. Perfect, Arthur thought. Sometimes it helped to have a smart kid on your side.
“Sure, I understand.” The reporter flipped his notebook closed with a loud snap. “Thanks, fellows. I’ll try to get my editors to run the piece on Monday. Slow news day, usually,” he said. “Good luck. Hope you find a home for the guy’s work.”
Next to him, the photographer looked back at the shimmering creation again. Some of the foil-covered wings seemed to be moving a little in the warm breeze that was sweeping through the garage. There was a soft metallic-paper sound.
“Wow, I gotta say, it is a pretty impressive piece, with all those wings and everything,” the photographer remarked again as he pulled his camera strap over his shoulder. “But it’s kind of sad too, if you think about it…old guy, working on this project all those years alone. Sad.”
Arthur didn’t really see the sadness of the Throne of the Third Heaven, but he didn’t say anything. It was what Hampton had wanted to do. A lot of people had done worse things with their lives than taking ugliness and turning it into something beautiful.
FORTY-NINE
The article came out in the newspaper on Monday. Despite its being on a back page below a column about the best ways to trim rosebushes, everybody saw it.
ECCENTRIC ARTIST BUILDS MASTERPIECE IN GARAGE
It didn’t take much for Officer Billie to guess that the “anonymous individuals collecting money to save the masterpiece” mentioned in the article probably included Arthur Owens.
She called on Monday afternoon, right after Arthur got home from school, and demanded that he give her all of the details. “I want to know exactly what you are doing and how involved you are in this project,” she said. “The buck stops with me, remember?”
Arthur couldn’t tell if she was mad or pleased. He had the feeling she knew more than she was letting on.
“I told you the landlord needed money,” he cautiously explained. “So that’s what we were trying to collect.”
“And how did you do?”
“Not great,” Arthur admitted. “But maybe the article will help.” He and Squeak had distributed all the coffee cans around town again.
Officer Billie told him she would keep looking into things.
—
Arthur’s mom acted as though he had saved somebody’s life. “I’m so proud of you,” she kept saying after she saw the article. “I had no idea what you were really talking about when you were describing that project in the garage,” she said, squinting at the small photograph in the paper. “I can’t believe this is what you were working on for your probation.”
Arthur tried not to make a big deal of the newspaper article, but he was glad the secret was finally out. He felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders. People knew about Mr. Hampton’s work now. As the Director of Special Projects for the State of Eternity, he’d done his job. He’d gotten the word out. Maybe other people would step in and help now.
Only that didn’t happen.
—
It turned out just a handful of generous people dropped by the newspaper office to make small donations to the project after reading the article. Their donations amounted to less than thirty dollars.
A few visitors found the garage and stopped at Groovy Jim’s shop to ask for a tour. Most of them didn’t offer to leave any money for the cause.
One of the most promising visitors was a minister who was interested in Hampton’s Throne for his church. But after he saw how the work of art was made of foil-covered cardboard and lightbulbs and old furniture, he didn’t want it. “I don’t see what you’re going to do with it,” he told Groovy Jim. “No church is going to want a sculpture of heaven made of trash.”
Arthur was glad he hadn’t been there to hear the minister’s comments. He already knew time was running out. They’d scraped up enough money from the coffee cans and the other donations to pay for June and part of July, but that was all.
He kept hoping Mr. Hampton would somehow show him what to do next. He searched through every spare box of paper and tinfoil and cardboard in the garage, looking for clues from him. One Saturday, he went through the drawers in Mr. Hampton’s messy workbench, thinking maybe he’d left some plans about where the Throne was supposed to go.
Nothing.
He worried that he wasn’t looking deep enough. Where there is no vision, the people perish. That had been one of Mr. Hampton’s favorite sayings. So Arthur spent a lot of time sitting in front of the creation, trying to picture what he might have wanted for his work. But no matter how long Arthur stared at the masterpiece, he still couldn’t see what to do with it.
Finally, Officer Billie called with some good news. A few people from an art museum were interested in seeing Hampton’s work. Would Arthur be willing to give them a tour? she asked.
Not feeling very hopeful, Arthur said yes.
FIFTY
There were five people in the group—two women and three men. They came on a Saturday in two taxis. Arthur wished Squeak could have been there, but one of his cousins was getting married, so Arthur was on his own.
He didn’t like being on his own. He liked it even less when he saw the group. They looked as if they had come straight from a country club. Even though it was a warm June day, the men were wearing suit coats and bow ties. The two women had on stylish dresses and high heels. They didn’t seem very happy about having to walk through the trash-strewn gravel to the garage in their good shoes either.
Arthur tried to be polite—holding the door open and saying hello to everyone. But it didn’t seem to matter much. Once the five people got through the doorway, they ignored him completely and headed straight for Mr. Hampton’s creation.
They gathered in a tight knot in front of it, talking among themselves. Arthur couldn’t tell if they liked it or not because he couldn’t hear much of what was being said. But he was kind of shocked when one of the women walked up to a silver table in the display and pulled it forward without even asking for permission.
Then she started tapping a couple of the foil-covered lightbulbs with her painted fingernails and running her hands along the decorated sides. She even kneeled down to look underneath the table.
“It’s a discarded bedside table from the twenties or thirties,” she said to the rest of the group. “Decorated with cardboard scraps, lightbulbs, and maybe some foil-covered Ping-Pong balls here and there. Looks like everything is held together with strips of metal cans, straight pins, and glue.”
Ping-Pong balls?
Arthur shook his head. None of the Seven Most Important Things were Ping-Pong balls. They were crumpled balls of foil. If anybody had bothere
d to ask him, he could have told the group exactly what they were. He’d made some of them himself.
“But is it art?” one of the men asked. He was an older guy with thick white hair who kind of looked like Albert Einstein. “I’m having a hard time seeing the artistic value in this piece—other than the fact that it is an elaborate example of how discarded odds and ends can be transformed into a religious display.”
Arthur finally spoke up, because the museum people clearly had no clue what they were looking at and he couldn’t stand listening to them any longer.
“It’s called the Throne of the Third Heaven,” he announced from the garage doorway. “That’s what it’s supposed to be.”
All eyes turned toward Arthur, as if noticing him for the first time.
Arthur Owens didn’t really want to go on. But he decided to show off the piece Hampton had made in the war, since it was one of his favorites. He picked up the fragile box created of broken things and tried to remember all of the details about it. The island. The war. Hampton’s visions. The number 3.
“Mr. Hampton said this is supposed to be Death and War turned into something beautiful,” he explained.
“I like that idea,” said the second woman in the group. She took off her fancy rhinestone eyeglasses and leaned closer to study the elaborate box. “Death and War turned into something beautiful.”
Arthur walked around and pointed out some of the other symbols on the tables and pedestals—the angel wings, the stars, the crowns, the “lights in the darkness” lightbulbs.
The same woman who had liked the box said she thought it was interesting that Mr. Hampton covered every object in his collection with foil.
“Reflects the viewer,” someone else replied.
“So what the artist could have been saying is that heaven is supposed to reflect us, the viewers,” another voice added.
This bizarre idea had never occurred to Arthur. Had Mr. Hampton really wanted his masterpiece to reflect the people looking at it? Was that why everything had to shine? He glanced at the group behind him with more interest. Maybe they did know something after all.
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