Sunshine Picklelime

by Pamela Ferguson

The next afternoon after school, ready to work with Ruth’s animals, PJ changed into blue-and-white-striped dungarees and a dark blue shirt. Mrs. Patel met her at the front gate and they walked together to Ruth’s place a few blocks away.

  Everyone in the neighborhood knew Ruth’s garden. Massive live oak trees grew every which way. PJ nicknamed them the “arms-and-legs” trees. Huge trunks splayed out of deep roots surrounding the house, back and front. Branches sprawled wide and high at the top and also curved and snaked close to the ground, like some mythical sea creature that couldn’t stop growing. The two-story house was built sort of zigzag around the trees. Vine-covered branches poked in and out of balconies.

  Ruth’s tree house nestled in the curve of a giant trunk and balanced on two thick branches. When Ruth saw PJ and Mrs. Patel, she hung over the top half of her Dutch door and grinned at them. She wore a large, bright purple T-shirt. Her honey-colored hair was loosely braided into a wide pigtail that dangled in midair.

  Mrs. Patel said, “Ruth, here’s PJ. She has a wonderful way with birds and I thought you could do with an extra pair of hands.”

  “Cool!” Ruth said, waving at PJ. She opened the lower half of the door and tossed a rope ladder down from the tree house. Rolling her eyes, she explained, “I keep the ladder up here because my twin Joshua’s going crazy with a tiny camcorder zooming in on anything that moves. The animals freak! Come on up, PJ.”

  “Girls, I’ll leave you to it,” said Mrs. Patel. She hugged PJ goodbye.

  PJ swung herself up the rope ladder and grabbed Ruth’s hand at the top to jump inside. Her first glimpse made her gasp. Ruth’s tree house was something every kid dreamed of having. The walls, floor, and ceiling were crafted out of raw planks of oak salvaged from trimmed branches. The tree house was tall enough for an adult and roomy enough for PJ to stretch out her arms and make two complete circles in each direction. Later she found out it had been built by their neighbor Mr. “Bearded Beekeeper” Splitzky as a mini version of his barn.

  “I love it! Great woody smell. Does Joshua have his own tree house?” PJ asked.

  Ruth shook her head. “His bedroom’s twice the size of mine and full of junk. I chose the tiny bedroom, so my parents had the tree house built for me.”

  Books filled corner shelves. One shelf held a soccer ball and a team photograph. Big, puffy bright blue cushions lay below a sloping skylight. Four homemade cages painted in vivid reds and greens stood stacked two by two in the opposite corner under screened windows. Ruth opened the first cage and gently removed an injured red cardinal.

  “This is Cardy,” she explained. “I found him tangled in a fence one afternoon. He was scared and tore some of his wing feathers. He wasn’t badly injured, but he couldn’t take care of himself. So I cleaned him up and treated his cuts. Maybe tomorrow we’ll see if he’ll fly.”

  “Can I hold him?”

  “Mmmm, better not, he’s still a little nervous,” Ruth said, smoothing his brilliant red feathers. The bird nestled into Ruth’s hand as though he had been born there. PJ began to tell Ruth about Lemon Pie.

  Ruth nodded. “I hear you, PJ. It’s tough when you get attached. But birds need to fly around feeling the winds for thousands of miles. You’re lucky your friend sent a b-mail.”

  Ruth seemed very wise for a thirteen-year-old. Her intense gray eyes were flecked with gold. PJ wondered if animals looked into them and felt a special connection. She watched Ruth place Cardy in his little cage, shake some birdseed into his dish, and lock the cage carefully.

  “Do you like jazz flute?” Ruth asked. “We love it.” She leaned over to select something from her laptop and turned up the speakers. All sorts of birdlike chirps and twirly sounds filled the tree house. Ruth and Cardy began bobbing their heads at one another in time to the music.

  PJ smiled and told Ruth how she used melodious sounds to help Lemon Pie develop his voice.

  “Great. Maybe you can do the same for Oohoo?” Ruth said as she reached into the next cage. A fat owl sat in there, huge eyes staring out of a motley of fluffy gray, brown, and rust-colored feathers. If PJ didn’t know she was a live owl, she’d have thought Oohoo was one of those owl dolls people used on their roofs to scare seagulls away. The flute music hit a high note in the background. Unlike Cardy, the owl showed no response.

  “I can’t figure Oohoo out,” confessed Ruth, eye to eye with the owl. Holding Oohoo aloft, she lowered herself cross-legged onto one of the blue cushions. PJ sank down into the other cushion, opposite her.

  “I thought Oohoo was blind,” Ruth explained. “I found her sitting under a tree one morning looking exactly as she is looking at you now. You don’t normally see owls by day. They’re night creatures. When I realized she wasn’t blind, I decided she was catatonic.”

  Puzzled, PJ looked at the owl and back at Ruth. “She thinks she’s a cat?”

  Ruth giggled and ruffled the owl’s feathers with her nose. “If only! ‘Catatonic’ means Oohoo’s freaked into a sort of frozen state. Maybe a hawk chowed down on her babies or something.”

  “Oh wow. Poor Oohoo,” PJ said.

  “You can hold her, PJ. Here, she likes her little ears to be rubbed. Be gentle but firm. She won’t peck you. See, she’s puffing out her chest. Isn’t she cute?” Ruth said cute in a squeaky little voice. “See how soft her feathers are?”

  PJ cupped her hands and reached out for the owl. Oohoo was much bigger than Lemon Pie, but she felt the owl’s warmth and was sure Oohoo leaned into her hands. Yes, Oohoo even dropped her head so PJ could scratch behind her ears.

  “Hey, PJ, she likes you.” Ruth smiled and lowered the volume on the speakers. “She doesn’t usually respond like that. Go, girl!”

  “If you haven’t heard her hoot, why do you call her Oohoo?” PJ asked.

  “It’s Swiss German for ‘owl.’ You know the Chocolate Dream? Ms. Lenz is from Basel. She noticed me rescuing Oohoo and named her on the spot.”

  PJ loved Ms. Lenz’s store. Wonderful bronze fountains of molten white and milk chocolate stood in the Dream’s front window. Deliciously sweet smells wafted out to the street from morning to night. When was Ms. Lenz going to create the special Lemon Nectar chocolate they had talked about during the lemonade-stand party? An idea jumped into her mind.

  PJ looked into Oohoo’s eyes and said, “I don’t believe you’re catawhatzit. You and I are going to work together. Starting tomorrow. We may need to pay Ms. Lenz a little visit, of course, so she can see how you’re doing.”

  “Go for it, PJ. Any excuse for chocolate, right?” Ruth laughed.

  Oohoo kept staring at PJ as Ruth took the owl, opened the cage door, and placed Oohoo back on her perch. PJ liked the confident way Ruth handled the owl. She made it look so easy.

  “Now it’s Squirt’s turn,” said Ruth, reaching into the third cage. Squirt the squirrel came soaring out and jumped all over the tree house. He was a combo of spiky gray fur with the softest golden belly, which he enjoyed showing off. He sort of matched Ruth’s eyes, PJ thought. Squirt spiraled from the cushions to the bookshelves, sent the soccer ball bouncing to the floor, and flew at full stretch onto Ruth’s shoulder. He made annoyed brrrkbrrrkbrrrk sounds and flicked her honey-blond pigtail with his bushy tail.

  Ruth flicked his tail in response. “Squirt’s just about ready to leave,” she said. “He was attacked by something and I found him dragging his leg across the lawn. Look at how he moves now!” She shook nuts into a dish and tried to lower him from her shoulder. But Squirt dug his back claws into her shirt and dangled down like a large exclamation mark, nose twitching around the bowl.

  “Oh, Squirt, you’re a piece of work,” said Ruth. “Tomorrow we’ll open the windows and let you jump around out there.” She nodded at the huge branches swaying outside the tree house.

  “Do they come back and visit once they leave you?” PJ asked.

  “Sometimes. I know Squirt will,” said Ruth, ruffling the fur down the full length of his spine while he continued to crunch n
uts. “Cardy’s family lives in the bushes a few houses away, so he won’t go too far. As for Oohoo, who knows?” Ruth tugged her pigtail and gazed at the owl’s cage for a few minutes. “Do you think she needs one of those bird shrinks, PJ?”

  “No.” PJ shook her head. “She needs me.”

  “Hey, RUTH!” A voice yelled from below.

  “I’m BUSY!” Ruth yelled back.

  “RUTH!” The voice was loud and impatient.

  Placing a protective hand over Squirt, Ruth rose and looked over the Dutch door. “Joshua, are you deaf?” she called down. “I’m busy. PJ, come and say hi to my other half.”

  Both girls hung over the door. Joshua stood below, legs apart, hands on hips. His thick, bouncy honey-blond hair was the same color as Ruth’s but splashed over his shoulders and practically covered his face. He wore black-rimmed glasses, a black T-shirt, black jeans, and red-and-white-striped high-tops. His eyes matched Ruth’s.

  “Hey, PJ.” He waved. “Are you staying for dinner? Mom’s making enough pasta to feed the world.” Joshua’s voice was all crackly, just about to break.

  “Wow, some other time maybe, you guys. I need to go. My mom’s probably out looking for me,” she said.

  Ruth tossed the rope ladder to the ground. “See you after school tomorrow? Joshua, hold the ladder steady for PJ. Can’t you see it’s wobbling?”

  “Bye, Ruth. Thanks for a great time,” said PJ as she climbed down.

  “You’re welcome,” Joshua said. He held the ladder with one hand and grinned up at his twin. “Coming, too, Ruth? Or do we call room service?”

  When PJ returned home, she found her mom eating alone at the kitchen table, reading a book.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He went out for a walk,” said Mrs. Picklelime. She got up to ladle bean-and-veggie soup for PJ out of a large glass pot bubbling happily on the stove.

  “Thanks, Mom, this smells so good,” said PJ, taking her bowl to the table. They sat there enjoying soup and crusty whole-wheat bread while PJ told her mother about Ruth’s tree house and Squirt, Oohoo, and Cardy and the funny way the twins spoke to one another.

  “It’s a wonderful opportunity for you, PJ,” Mrs. Picklelime said. Then she launched into, “‘The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea in a beeeeee-you-tiful pea-green boat: They took some honey, and plenty of money …’”

  “Mom, be serious,” giggled PJ.

  “Who wants to be serious? It’s sooooo boring,” said Mrs. Picklelime.

  Later PJ sketched the tree house in the wavy oak tree, with Ruth in her purple T-shirt, Oohoo, Cardy, and Squirt, while her mom read all sorts of poetry to her about wild swans and goats that she didn’t really understand. Long after she went to bed, PJ finally heard her dad unlock the front door.

  the chocolate dream

  After school the next day, PJ collected Oohoo from Ruth’s tree house and hid the owl down the front of her mottled gray-and-brown peasant shirt. PJ had picked the shirt that would best blend with the owl’s feathers. She started on her bike toward the Chocolate Dream but decided to swing around to see Mrs. Patel first.

  “PJ, slow down, child,” said Mrs. Patel. “The way you cycled around that corner! Are Mr. Splitzky’s bees chasing you? And what’s that in your shirt?” Mrs. Patel lowered her shears and smoothed clippings off the top of her flowering purple sage hedge into a bucket for her compost pile.

  PJ parked her bike against the sidewalk and opened the top buttons of her shirt. The tips of Oohoo’s ears popped up.

  “Good grief, PJ! First you’re hiding birds in your hair. Now they’re down your shirt. Whatever is next? Who’s this?”

  “Oohoo the owl, Mrs. Patel. Ruth says she’s catatonic, so I’m taking things slowly. What makes a bird catatonic?”

  Mrs. Patel stared at the bulge in PJ’s shirt. “Trauma, PJ. Your new friend has seen something dreadful. Otherwise she wouldn’t just sit there like a statue. But”—Mrs. Patel nodded—“it’s good for her to feel your heartbeat.”

  “I also like to feel hers.” PJ laughed. “I’m rehabbing her.”

  “How, child?” Mrs. Patel continued to snip stray branches off her hedge.

  PJ rubbed some of the cut sprays of purple sage between her hands so she could enjoy their lovely smell. At that moment, their neighbor “bearded beekeeper” Mr. Splitzky ambled by with his caramel-colored retriever mix, Blossom. Ever curious, Blossom lifted her head and sniffed, nose twitching.

  Knowing the dog sensed more in the air than humans and purple sage, PJ placed a protective hand over Oohoo.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Patel. Afternoon, PJ,” Mr. Splitzky said.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Splitzky,” they chorused.

  “C’mon, Bloss,” he said. He gave the retriever’s leash a tug. Blossom followed him but kept glancing back at PJ.

  “She’s wondering why I don’t ruffle and cuddle her,” PJ said. When they were out of earshot, she added, “I didn’t want to get too close in case she scared Oohoo.” PJ stroked the front of her shirt until she could feel the owl relax and soften against her.

  “Do you sing to Oohoo, PJ?” Mrs. Patel asked. She put down her shears and reached for the bucket.

  “No. She doesn’t react to humming. I just do the deep breathing you taught me.”

  “Keep doing that, PJ, when she’s close to you like this. Remember, if you get agitated, she could try to claw her way out of your shirt. So be careful.”

  PJ smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Patel, I’ll remember. Bye!” She remounted her bike and headed over to the chocolate shop. Blindfolded, she could easily have found her way through the streets to Ms. Lenz, not just because she loved the route, but because wafts of chocolate got stronger and stronger as she approached, especially when the air was warm.

  Ms. Evi Lenz was in the Dream’s window, adjusting the chocolate fountains. She wore a green apron patterned with dancing goats and milk buckets. She also wore a matching green bandanna around her forehead to keep her cluster of bell-like copper curls from bouncing around her face. Every time she nodded or laughed, PJ heard a tinkling sound from the curls. She waved cheerfully as PJ parked her bike outside and met her at the door.

  “Hi, Ms. Lenz.”

  “Grüezi, PJ,” she replied. Ms. Lenz always used a friendly Swiss German greeting when she saw PJ. She dropped her eyes and stared at the owl’s ears brushing PJ’s throat and said, “I don’t believe this. You brought Oohoo to see me?”

  PJ undid a few more buttons. Ms. Lenz placed both hands on her knees and leaned over to stare into Oohoo’s eyes. “Wise Oohoo,” she said, “I miss hearing you at night. Come to think of it, I don’t hear any owls at night.” Ms. Lenz rose, turned to PJ, and frowned. “PJ, why are the owls so quiet?”

  PJ was equally puzzled. “I hadn’t noticed. But I’ll stay up late and listen tonight!” she offered.

  Oohoo blinked and then closed her eyes.

  Evi Lenz said, “Hmmm, she knows why. She will let you know in her special way.” Ms. Lenz turned toward a glass-front display cabinet and opened it up at the back. The top shelves were lined with her handmade assorted truffles in dark, milk, and white chocolate. Pralines and the boxed varieties were below. Framed pictures of all her truffle and praline varieties hung on the wall behind her.

  “Oohoo, look what you’re missing!” said PJ, patting the front of her shirt.

  “Oh, wait for the best!” said Ms. Lenz. She reached into the cabinet and removed a small tray of white chocolate truffles lightly sprinkled with tiny slivers of lemon peel.

  “Allllllso,” she said proudly, “Lemon Nectar … inspired by Mrs. Shanti Patel and PJ Picklelime! Go on, help yourself. Tell me what you think.”

  PJ hesitated. “Shouldn’t Mrs. Patel be here to try it with me?”

  Evi Lenz smiled. “She will come later. Don’t worry, PJ. Best you try them separately so you don’t influence one another. Trust me. I know!”

  PJ reached out and popped a round lemon truffle into her mouth.


  “Let it melt slowly,” Ms. Lenz advised. “Don’t chew.”

  PJ kept the round truffle between her tongue and palate and resisted the temptation to roll it around in her mouth like a fireball. It began to dissolve. Her eyelids fluttered. The intense lemon-flavored center was richer than the Lemon Nectar drink she had concocted with Mrs. Patel that day! She tried to talk, but it came out as a gurgle. She waited a few more minutes, then said, “No way will I brush my teeth tonight. I want to taste lemon when I wake up tomorrow morning!”

  “Now, PJ, don’t go that far!” Ms. Lenz scooped a few of the truffles into a little box patterned with dancing lemons. She closed it with a pretty yellow ribbon and the Dream label. “For you and your parents to enjoy as dessert!” she said.

  “Ms. Lenz?”

  “Yes, spätzli?” she said. PJ loved it when she called her “little sparrow” in Swiss German.

  “Can I take some for Ruth and Joshua?” PJ asked.

  Ms. Lenz wagged her finger and said, “Just two each for those twins. Otherwise they’ll gobble them up like M&M’s and taste nothing! Teach them how to enjoy your special truffles slowly, PJ,” she added, placing four Lemon Nectars in another little box with a matching yellow ribbon. She put both boxes in a bag. “Now remember, I’m depending on you, your parents, Mrs. Patel, and the twins to give me feedback.”

  “They taste perfect!”

  “For you, yes, but let’s hear from the others. PJ, you’re my test market. I want to know if the truffles are too sweet, not sweet enough, too lemony, not lemony enough, too creamy, or not creamy enough. Try another one a bit later. Then tell me what your parents and friends have to say.”

  As if on cue, Oohoo began to move around in the front of PJ’s shirt.

  “No, Oohoo,” said Ms. Lenz, tapping the owl through PJ’s shirt. “Owls and chocolate don’t mix. Unless they’re Swiss owls!”

  PJ giggled and said, “Thanks, Ms. Lenz. See you!” She left the Dream and placed the truffles in a basket on the front of her bike. With a hand over the Oohoo bulge in her shirt, she pedaled to the tree house.