“Mr. Hampton called the foil and some of the other things he used the Seven Most Important Things,” he added, in case that might help to explain more.
For some reason, the group found this funny.
“I have no clue why he used seven for everything, but that’s what he did,” Arthur finished quickly, embarrassed by the laughter.
“I can tell you why,” the man with the Einstein hair said. The rest of the group nodded as if they knew the reason too. “Traditionally, seven is the number of completeness and perfection—seven days of the week, seven days of creation in the Bible, and so on.”
Seven—the number of completeness and perfection.
That was when the puzzle pieces finally started to fall into place for Arthur. Mr. Hampton had wanted him to find seven things to complete the project. The building blocks, he’d called them. But Arthur had also suspected they were the building blocks of his redemption too. The seven things he needed to find for himself, for his life…
“Is that all?” the woman with the rhinestone glasses asked Arthur.
Looking up, Arthur realized he’d completely lost track of what he’d been saying. The whole group was staring at him, wondering what the heck was going on. Wondering why the kid had suddenly lost it and stopped talking.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, still feeling kind of dazed, still thinking of the seven things. “I think that’s all I know.”
“So, have we seen enough?” the white-haired guy asked the other four people, who nodded.
“We’ll let you know what we’ve decided once we’ve had time to talk it over with the board,” the man continued.
Arthur had no idea what board the museum guy meant, but he nodded anyhow, as if the plan was fine with him. He wasn’t really sure if he was allowed to agree with anything. Hampton’s Throne didn’t even belong to him.
The entire visit only lasted about thirty minutes. Then everybody made their way across the uneven gravel again. As Arthur watched the taxis back up and leave, he hoped he’d said the right things. He hoped Mr. Hampton would have approved.
FIFTY-ONE
Arthur’s fourteenth birthday was June 26. A Friday. He told his mom all he wanted was a chocolate cake and a couple of Mad magazines. Nothing special.
He thought about adding that he wanted just his mom and Barbara to be there—the three of them for dinner without Roger—but he knew his mom would probably take it the wrong way. She wouldn’t understand that it wasn’t really about Roger being there; it was about Arthur’s dad not being there.
So he decided to keep his mouth shut.
On Friday, Barbara woke him up. “Happy birthday! I made a birthday picture for you, wanna see?” she said, hiding the picture behind her back.
“No,” Arthur said. “Go away. I want to sleep.”
“Look!” She waved it in front of his face. “There’s you.”
She pointed at a stick figure holding a baseball bat and glove with a big 14 in purple clouds over his head.
“That’s nice.” Arthur tried to be patient. “Thanks. Now go away, okay? It’s my birthday. I want to sleep in.” He turned to face the wall.
“Do you know why you have a baseball hat and glove?”
Arthur shoved his face into the pillow. “No,” he said into it. “I don’t.”
“Well, it’s a surprise. Mom and Roger said I can’t tell you,” his sister replied in a loud whisper. “You’ll find out soon. You can go back to sleep now. Bye.”
She left the picture lying on his pillow and shuffled out of the room in her slippers.
—
Arthur wasn’t sure how chocolate cake and Mad magazines got turned into a Washington Senators baseball game, but they did.
Roger took all of them to a game at D.C. Stadium that night.
Actually, it was a lot more fun than Arthur thought it would be. At first he kept thinking about his dad listening to games on the radio and felt guilty his dad wasn’t there and he was. But then the Senators got a couple of hits—and they were one of the worst teams in baseball, so that was a big deal, even if they ended up losing to the Orioles.
Barbara was so excited about everything, she stood up to catch foul balls that weren’t anywhere close to their seats. Whenever a ball was hit, she’d leap up and put out her hands, as if the ball would somehow drop out of the sky and land in them.
Roger finally ended up buying her a souvenir baseball. “Even though it’s not your birthday,” he said. “I know Arthur won’t mind.”
They ate hot dogs and popcorn and drank Cokes. Arthur’s mom laughed a lot. Probably too much, he thought. It was kind of embarrassing. Roger wasn’t that funny, he wanted to point out.
Then they came back and had his birthday cake around midnight. Which was cool, until Barbara stayed up and chattered for half the night because she couldn’t sleep. And then had to pee the rest of the night.
Arthur saved his ticket from the game. It had been a good birthday, and he wanted to remember it.
FIFTY-TWO
Officer Billie was the one who called Arthur to tell him the news about Hampton’s masterpiece. It was right before the Fourth of July holiday weekend. Roger was over for dinner, as usual. Arthur had been cutting lawns all day to earn money for the August garage rent, so he was wiped out. He didn’t even move to answer the phone when it rang. His mom jumped up to get it.
Holding her hand over the receiver, she told Arthur the call was for him. “It’s Officer Billie,” she whispered loudly. “Tell her you’ll call her back later because we’re eating supper now. The casserole will get cold.”
Arthur ignored his mom and the casserole. He hadn’t heard from Officer Billie in weeks. And she was calling before a holiday weekend. He knew it had to be something important.
He took the phone. “It’s Arthur Owens,” he said, trying not to sound nervous.
“Mr. Owens, I have some news I think you will be pleased to hear.”
Right then, all Arthur could hear was his heart—which sounded like it was about to fly out of his chest.
“The National Collection of Fine Arts here in Washington has decided they would like to acquire Mr. Hampton’s work.”
“What?” Arthur asked, not quite sure what she meant. “Acquire?”
“The museum would like to have…to keep the work of art.”
“What?” Arthur said again, feeling dizzy.
He’d been to the national art museum only once, on a school field trip in elementary school. All he could remember was the huge gold picture frames and the marble steps. It had been like a palace. He couldn’t believe Hampton’s collection of foil-covered art would be in a place like that.
“They’re going to put Mr. Hampton’s work in the museum downtown? For everybody to see?” Arthur repeated slowly.
There was a long pause before Officer Billie said, “Well, no. Not right now.”
Arthur was confused. “What do you mean, not right now?”
“For the moment, the museum is acquiring it for their storage collection.”
“Storage?”
“They’ll put it away until they have a place for it someday.”
“Oh.” Arthur pictured all of the beautiful pieces being packed away in cardboard boxes in a musty attic somewhere. Like their Christmas tree.
“How long will it be there? In storage?” he managed to ask, trying not to sound as disappointed as he was.
There was a loud, exasperated sigh from Officer Billie. “I don’t know. But I thought you would be happy to hear that Mr. Hampton’s work is going to one of the top museums in the country.”
“But—”
“Stop! Are you happy the project was saved or not, Mr. Owens?”
Arthur could tell Officer Billie probably had her traffic-cop hand up.
“I guess I’m happy,” he mumbled.
And actually, he was glad Mr. Hampton’s work was going somewhere, so he wouldn’t have to lie awake nights worrying about it any longer—and mowing lawns to pa
y the rent. He only wished it was going to a place where people could see it. He didn’t think Mr. Hampton would want heaven packed up and left in storage. He hoped he hadn’t let him down.
“Nothing in this world is perfect, right?” Officer Billie said more patiently.
“Right,” Arthur agreed. He managed to resist adding—except the number seven.
“Well, that’s all the information I have right now. When I hear more, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.” Arthur did his best to sound grateful. He didn’t want another lecture.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Have a good evening.”
—
Arthur turned back to the table to see everyone staring at him. The casserole was untouched. Nobody had moved.
“What was that all about?” Arthur’s mom asked.
Arthur took a deep breath and forced himself to smile. “It was Officer Billie calling to tell me that Mr. Hampton’s masterpiece is going to a museum.”
FIFTY-THREE
“Mr. Hampton’s art is going to a museum?” Squeak practically launched out of his chair in Arthur’s kitchen when he told him. He’d come over for lunch after being away for the Fourth of July weekend. Of course, he’d brought his own foil-wrapped food with him.
“Yeah, I guess. That’s what Officer Billie told me.” Arthur shrugged, as if it were no big deal, and kept eating his ham sandwich.
“Which museum?” Squeak asked, still talking extra loudly.
“National Collection of Fine Arts.”
“One of the Smithsonians?” Squeak shrieked. He was so loud Barbara came running from the living room to see what was going on.
“Hampton’s work is going to a Smithsonian?” Squeak shrieked again.
“Seriously, Squeak, tone it down a little.” Arthur waved his sister away. “They’re just putting it in storage, not in the museum.”
“Well, it’s better than sitting in an old garage in an alley, isn’t it?” Squeak still couldn’t contain his excitement. He pushed his entire packet of vanilla cremes toward Arthur. “Here. You can have all of my cookies to celebrate,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “Congratulations!”
Smiling, Arthur shook his head.
Sometimes Squeak could be such a pinhead.
THE SEVENTH IMPORTANT THING
On the last Saturday in July, Arthur decided to take one more walk to Mr. Hampton’s garage.
He knew he didn’t have to go there at all. His probation was over. The judge had suspended the rest of his sentence for good behavior, and Officer Billie had officially released him from being one of her kids—with another tin of caramel corn as a gift. The landlord had rented the garage to a new tenant, and the museum people had already finished packing up Hampton’s Throne. They’d been working in the garage all week, according to Groovy Jim.
But Arthur wanted to see the place one last time.
—
It was a beautiful summer morning. Arthur couldn’t help thinking that it would have been a great day for collecting the Seven Most Important Things. In the brilliant sunlight, he could see the world as perfectly as if it was outlined. He kind of felt like he was outlined too. Arthur T. Owens against the bright blue sky.
The sun warmed Arthur’s neck. He thought about how almost a whole year had gone by without his dad. He felt like a different person. It felt like a different life.
Would the judge call this redemption? He wasn’t sure.
He was definitely taller and stronger now. Maybe that was what pushing a grocery cart through the snow and sleet for months did to a person. A lot of his clothes didn’t fit anymore. He was starting to get pale wisps of hair on his upper lip, he’d noticed, and that was funny and weird at the same time.
A lot of things were funny and weird to him these days. Like being the Director of Special Projects for the State of Eternity. He’d never told anyone about the title Mr. Hampton had given him before he died—not even Squeak—but remembering it always made Arthur feel secretly proud, as if he had a superhero side nobody knew about.
—
Maybe because he was so lost in his own thoughts, the walk to the garage seemed a lot shorter than it usually did.
In no time at all, Arthur was standing outside the familiar corrugated door with the drippy address numbers. The morning sunlight had just reached the garage. It glinted off the three glass bottles of Nesbitt’s soda still pouring out their guilt and regrets onto the ground. Arthur was glad to see that the landlord hadn’t gotten rid of them yet.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled Mr. Hampton’s keys out of his pocket and opened the door. He knew the garage would be empty when he switched on the lights. He had prepared himself for the emptiness. Still, it was a shock to see almost nothing left in the space where Hampton’s shimmering, heavenly creation had once been.
The first thought that whispered through Arthur’s mind was that maybe it had never been there. Maybe he had imagined the whole thing.
Don’t be stupid, he told himself. Of course it had been there.
He walked slowly across the cement floor, noticing how his footsteps—even his breathing—seemed to echo loudly in the emptiness.
The museum people had left a few things piled in one corner of the garage. There were some boxes of broken mirrors and bottles and lightbulbs Mr. Hampton hadn’t used. And his office chair. And the familiar grocery cart.
It was the shopping cart that got to Arthur the most.
It’s a chariot, Mr. Hampton had told Barbara. You just can’t see the horses.
Arthur knew there was no way he could leave the rust-bucket cart behind. Not after he had pushed the thing around the neighborhood for months. Not when he knew exactly where to kick the right front wheel to make it turn. Not when he had finally figured out how to get the bone-rattling noise to stop by putting heavy stuff in the bottom of the cart first. (Surprisingly, a couple of bricks came in handy for this.)
Arthur tugged Hampton’s chariot from behind the boxes.
He knew his mother would have a fit about keeping a rusty grocery cart in their garage. He’d have to come up with some excuse about storing his basketballs in it or something.
—
As Arthur pushed the cart across the cement floor, he took one last look around.
It was hard to leave the place, even if it was just a run-down garage at the end of an alley.
He wished he knew whether he’d done the right thing. He wished Mr. Hampton had given him more directions before he died, or told him what to do. Had he saved the artwork or ruined it? he wondered. Would anybody ever see Mr. Hampton’s unbelievable creation again?
And that was when Arthur noticed the square piece of cardboard in the middle of the garage floor.
It looked like the torn flap of a box.
He shook his head, thinking there was no way the cardboard was a message from Mr. Hampton. It was just a scrap that had been left behind by the museum people when they were packing up. Some piece they had forgotten.
Still, he couldn’t resist picking up the piece and looking at it. Just to check. Just to be sure.
On the other side, he found seven letters carefully cut out of silver metallic foil and glued on the cardboard, which had been covered with purple paper. Arthur’s breath caught in his throat as he read them.
The seven letters spelled out two words:
SEVEN YEARS LATER
Arthur didn’t want to wear a suit to the reception. His mom insisted.
“This is a big deal,” she said. “I don’t care if you are too grown-up for me to fuss over anymore. I want you looking nice. I want to be proud of you.”
She tugged on the sleeves of the new dark blue suit jacket and smoothed the fabric across his broad shoulders. He was twenty-one now and as tall as his father had been, and he had his father’s stubbornness about getting dressed up for anything.
“There. It fits you perfectly. Look.” Arthur’s mom spun him around to face the mirror in the bathroom. “You
are handsome enough to make me cry.” Her voice trembled a little, and Arthur rolled his eyes.
“Please, Mom.”
“Roger, Barbara—come look at Arthur,” his mom called before he could stop her.
Of course Roger had to stick his head in the tiny bathroom, with Barbara right behind him. They were both decked out for the occasion too. Barbara was wearing a yellow dress with a big summer hat and white gloves—which Arthur thought was a little over the top, but she was fourteen and you couldn’t tell her anything these days.
“Now all you need is a nice girl to marry, Artie,” she teased.
“Oh, you be quiet,” his mom scolded.
Actually, Arthur did have a nice girl he was dating. Her name was Carol, and he’d met her at the city college where he was taking a couple of classes in design and architecture. But he wasn’t spilling the beans about going out with her. Not yet.
Which was typical of Arthur.
“Jiminy, everybody looks awfully sharp,” Roger said. Like Arthur, he was wearing a suit—the same one he’d worn when he’d married Arthur’s mom at the courthouse four years before. Arthur had been his best man.
“Are you sure I look all right?” Arthur’s mom peered anxiously into the bathroom mirror. She was wearing too much blue eye shadow and her hair was piled kind of high on her head, but Arthur told her she looked perfect.
—
The four of them got into Roger’s white Cadillac to go to the reception. He’d had the whitewalls scrubbed and the leather seats cleaned. The car smelled of lemons. Arthur would have preferred to drive there himself, but his mom wanted all of them to arrive together. He suspected she was afraid he wouldn’t show up on time. The reception started at six, and Arthur was always late.
The first person Arthur spotted when they pulled into the parking lot downtown was Squeak, which made him relax a little. Arthur had invited him, and he’d driven down from Boston to be there. He was heavier and rounder now, with thicker black glasses. But he was still Squeak. Once Roger had the car safely in the space, Arthur leaped out to flag him down.
The Seventh Most Important Thing Page 17
