Sunshine Picklelime

by Pamela Ferguson

  Later, her mom tapped on her door. She came into the room and asked, “PJ, did you see the news? A whole bunch of gulls attacked Tweety’s. Everyone’s talking about it. I never liked the man. He used to run those cruel puppy mills before switching to birds.”

  PJ closed her sketchbook. “Mom, it was like something out of a horror movie, wasn’t it?”

  Mrs. Picklelime was quiet for a while, then she said, “PJ, I’m leaving tomorrow, and—”

  “So soon?” PJ cut in.

  “The sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be home.”

  PJ got up and hugged her mom for a long time.

  “Don’t you mean a lunar halo?” Mr. Picklelime asked over breakfast. “You know, a whitish circle that goes around the moon?”

  “No, Dad, I mean a moonbow!” PJ said. She shaped a perfect arc with her hands. “It has all the same lovely colors as a rainbow. Only much softer.”

  “It’s also known as a lunar rainbow,” her mom cut in. “I’ve only seen photos of moonbows in Hawaii or southern Africa. They usually happen when bright moonlight hits rain or huge waterfalls. You’re so lucky, PJ.”

  “Lucky?” Mr. Picklelime shrugged. “But I don’t want her creeping around outside at night.”

  “I crept around gardens at night at PJ’s age watching raccoons and possums,” said Mrs. Picklelime.

  “Things were different where you grew up,” he said.

  “Not really,” Mrs. Picklelime said.

  PJ could sense an argument brewing and quickly changed the subject. “I drew the moonbow. Look!” She produced her sketch pad and explained that she drew it over and over to get the shimmering colors exactly right.

  “Art and animals. PJ, isn’t it time you got serious?” her dad said.

  PJ closed her sketchbook. They all sat in silence as he finished his scrambled eggs. Then he got up, mumbled something about needing to get to work early, and went out.

  “It’s OK, PJ,” her mom said when Mr. Picklelime left the house. “This has nothing to do with your art and animals.”

  “I know.” PJ finished her orange juice. “Did your parents get on your case when you went to watch raccoons at night?”

  “They never found out,” her mom admitted.

  PJ and her mother smiled at one another.

  PJ said nothing for a moment, then, “I saw your bags by the front door. You’re leaving straight after breakfast?”

  Her mom nodded. “I’m depending on you, PJ. I love the way you and Mrs. Patel planted herbs in the window boxes. Keep surprising me, honey. When I come home for the weekend, I’ll bring twin tumbler bins so you can start composting. Come, let’s water the plants together before I go.”

  PJ invited Ruth and Joshua to join her in Mr. Splitzky’s barn after school—with his permission, of course—so they could check on the owls and see which ones had returned home. Joshua came armed with his tiny camcorder. Blossom trotted along behind them up the path, tail wagging happily.

  The four of them stood there in the dim interior of the honey-scented barn and gazed up at the familiar crisscross rafters and beams. Because Mr. Splitzky built both structures, the barn seemed like the grandparent of Ruth’s tree house.

  Suddenly some twigs floated down to the left of them from a dark corner high above.

  “There!” shouted Joshua, aiming his camcorder.

  “Shhh,” whispered PJ.

  Two familiarly pointed ears shot up from a nest where a beam joined the sloping wood interior of the roof.

  “Oohoo?” PJ shouted. “It’s us!”

  The owl came swooping down to a lower beam, followed by two white-faced barn owls.

  PJ, Ruth, and Joshua whooped and cheered. The owls bowed graciously.

  “Oohoo, I am so happy to see you!” PJ said.

  “The guys want to thank you and those wild gulls,” said Oohoo. “Meet Monkey Face, to my left. And Tyto, to my right,” she said, pointing a wing in each direction, like an actor introducing two white-masked friends.

  “Heeeyyyy,” chorused the twins. Joshua took a step back and raised his camcorder to catch the full effect of the trio above.

  PJ said, “You don’t need to thank us. I’ll give the gulls your message. How did you find your way home last night?”

  All three owls rolled their huge eyes. “Come on, PJ. Don’t you know?” Oohoo said.

  “Instinct?” PJ guessed.

  “Hooo nooooo,” said Oohoo. “How do you think birds fly across whole continents when the seasons change?”

  “They follow landmarks?” Ruth asked.

  “More than that. Birds have special eyes,” Monkey Face explained. “Birds can see lines of energy in the air. Like you see roads.”

  “You see them in colors?” PJ asked.

  “Some of us do,” said Tyto.

  “Cool!” PJ, Ruth, and Joshua chorused.

  Talking about colors reminded PJ of what she had seen the night before. She told everyone about the beautiful moonbow and how she believed it was the sky’s way of thanking them and the gulls for the SWAT-style rescue.

  “I think you’re right, PJ. Nothing goes unnoticed in nature, does it?” Ruth said. Then, looking at the owls, she asked, “Hey, guys, did all of you escape yesterday?”

  “Yes, but …” Monkey Face looked at Oohoo sadly.

  “My chicks haven’t returned. I was hoping …” Big tears plopped down Oohoo’s mottled feathers.

  Tyto piped up. “They weren’t at Tweety’s. We’re so sorry.”

  The two barn owls leaned forward. “There was a tiny chick, come to think of it,” said Monkey Face. “Don’t believe it was an owl. Tiny. It dropped behind.” He closed his eyes and tried to remember.

  “It went into a tree over there,” said Tyto. She pointed a wing tip eastward. “Come on, friends. Tonight, let’s spread out and hoot and sssss and screech and see if we can find it.”

  All of a sudden, the barn door banged open.

  The owls immediately lifted off the beam and disappeared into their dark corner.

  “It’s OK, gang,” Mr. Splitzky chuckled as he walked in. “This old barn is much happier with all of you here. It’s alive. Even the bees are humming louder. That’s good for my honey.” He gestured toward the rows of jars lined up on either side of the doors. Then, cupping his hands around his mouth, he called out, “Hear me, owls, just take care of the mice!”

  “Oh, they will,” PJ reassured him.

  “You kids are the greatest,” said Mr. Splitzky. “Josh, keep up the good camera work.” He winked. “Ruth, how many critters are you taking care of in the tree house these days?”

  “Just Squirt the squirrel,” she said.

  “Not for long.” PJ smiled.

  “Well, I think I could do with a little break,” Ruth admitted. “You can take care of the next bunch, PJ. I’m pooped. And I’m behind in math.”

  They all looked at her. It was unlike Ruth to worry about school.

  “No problem,” said PJ. Puzzled, she looked at one twin and then at the other.

  “I’ll help you catch up, Ruth,” Joshua promised.

  “Sounds like it’s time you kids went home,” Mr. Splitzky cut in cheerfully. “Help yourselves to some jars of honey for your folks on your way out. Come back and visit us whenever you like!”

  Later that night the owls swooped out around town making every possible call they knew and eventually found the tiny chick, not an owl at all, but a baby black-and-white magpie, huddled, frightened and hungry, in the curve of a pecan tree branch. The three owls lifted him out carefully, named him Domino, and took him home with them, way up into the rafters above Mr. Splitzky’s barn.

  Right away, Oohoo took funny little black-and-white Domino under her wing. She decided to set up camp there with them all for a while since she didn’t feel strong enough to find a tree nest on her own. She had become used to being indoors in Ruth’s tree house. Anyway, setting up camp with others was a lot more fun than being alone. She even took the barn owls
around the windows of the Chocolate Dream to show Evi Lenz they were back in town.

  Ms. Lenz was so happy to see and hear them again at night, she made some special owl-shaped chocolates with peppermint eyes, ears, and little feet and displayed them in her window beside the lemon truffles.

  With less to do in the tree house, PJ welcomed Mrs. Patel’s help in the garden. Together they raked over the Picklelimes’ veggie patch to plant rows of lettuce, spinach, beets, carrots, and radishes. PJ stapled lengths of twine along the ground to keep the lines beautifully straight. She planted beans and honeysuckle close to the fence. She also planted climbing jasmine against the trellis under her window. But she knew she would have to train it to grow up only one side so that she could skim down the other side at night.

  “The art of creating a garden is to have a mix of plants and shrubs that flourish in different seasons, PJ,” Mrs. Patel said after wheeling a barrow full of young flowering rosemary bushes over to the Picklelimes’ to plant in bare and scruffy areas as ground cover. “Rosemary stays green and strong all year and grows beautifully in full sun. Snap some twigs for pretty displays on the kitchen table. It smells lovely. Or boil potatoes and sprinkle sprigs of rosemary over them with a little sea salt. Delicious!”

  With PJ indoors and Mrs. Patel outdoors, the two tracked one another from window to window to plan new plants for the best views.

  “I know what I want,” PJ said when she ran down into the garden. “Pretty pink and red bushes and flowers to attract masses of butterflies and hummingbirds we can enjoy watching from all the windows.”

  “Good choice,” said Mrs. Patel. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, child.”

  The seriousness in her voice told PJ this had nothing to do with butterflies and pink bushes. “Yes, Mrs. Patel?” she said, shading her eyes from the sun.

  “Helicopter Pete left all of a sudden. Someone said he was offered a job in Singapore, or was it São Paulo?” She paused. “Funny thing is this: Mr. Tweety the pet store owner left with him.”

  “All right!” PJ whooped.

  “Of course their departure wouldn’t have anything to do with you, or those birds escaping from Tweety’s, would it, PJ?”

  PJ grinned but said nothing.

  “And you didn’t know that Helicopter Pete was seen running for his life, surrounded by swarms of angry seagulls?”

  PJ frowned, totally baffled. So Big Gull and Little Gull had organized this on their own? Way to go!

  “Well, let’s say our community lost some bad apples.” Mrs. Patel sighed. “But a little word of advice, here, PJ.”

  “Mrs. Patel?”

  “Next time, if you and Ruth suspect something, talk to the police. Because we don’t know what those two scoundrels will do next, do we, child?”

  The thought hadn’t even occurred to PJ. “At least Tweety’s name is all over the Internet now.”

  “True. Still, don’t get too reckless, PJ, will you?”

  “I won’t, Mrs. Patel,” PJ said, and kept her fingers crossed behind her back.

  Ruth

  While waiting for her mom to come home on the weekend, PJ felt a need to do something very practical with her dad. Something that wouldn’t end in an argument. So she asked him to help her paint her room egg-yolk yellow.

  “Egg-yolk yellow, PJ? Such a strong color?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “Oh, Dad. It’s sooooo my color this year!”

  “Next year it’ll be red?” He smiled.

  PJ laughed. “We’ll see,” she said. Together they went to buy drop cloths, egg-yolk yellow paint, rollers, paint trays, and brushes. Ready to tackle the task together, PJ and her dad moved everything in her room into the center, draped it carefully, and layered the drop cloths on the floor.

  Mr. Picklelime showed PJ how to pour paint into the trays, then spread it back and forth before rolling it on the walls, careful to avoid drips. He masked the windows and painted the rims an even darker shade of yellow, PJ’s choice.

  “Wouldn’t you prefer white trim, PJ?” asked her dad.

  “No way,” PJ said, sweeping the roller up and down. She didn’t want white trim or ledges, because they would show webbed bird footprints too clearly. But she didn’t tell her dad that. “Dad, thanks,” PJ said. “This’ll be like living in a sunflower.”

  “Sounds nicer than living in egg yolk,” he said.

  Later, when everything was dry, they moved the furniture back and PJ reorganized all her pastel drawings in sequence on the corkboard opposite her bed. The yellow wall was the perfect backdrop to the array of drawings of birds, moons, gardens, the tree house, Ruth, and sunsets on display. It was getting quite crowded.

  PJ lit some sandalwood incense, a gift from Mrs. Patel, to mask the paint smell, even though they were careful to buy a nontoxic variety. She was so excited about her new room, she hopped on her bike in her paint-spattered jeans and T-shirt, now covered in yellow, and cycled over to Ruth’s house to tell her and to share the news about Pete and Tweety’s departure. She also wanted to find out how Squirt was doing alone since the birds had found new homes.

  Ruth’s street was blocked by cars.

  Puzzled, PJ dismounted and pushed her bike the rest of the way. People she didn’t know or barely recognized were going in and out of the gate. Then she spotted Mr. Splitzky with Blossom on the sidewalk. He had tears in his eyes.

  “Oh, PJ, I’m so glad to see you. We’re all heartbroken about Ruth.”

  “Heartbroken? What’s happened?” PJ asked.

  “You haven’t heard? Your parents didn’t tell you?” Mr. Splitzky looked distressed.

  “Heard what? Is Ruth sick?” PJ parked her bike at the curb.

  Mr. Splitzky couldn’t speak for a moment. He turned away and looked down, as though studying his feet. “PJ, I hate to be the person to share the news with you. There isn’t an easy way of telling you. Your wonderful friend Ruth is no longer with us.”

  “You mean she left town?” PJ looked confused. “Was she kidnapped? Is that why there’re so many cars here?”

  Mr. Splitzky shook his head. “PJ, Ruth died earlier today.”

  “Died?” PJ’s voice rose. “Mr. Splitzky, that’s sooooo impossible. We were in your barn a few days ago talking about owls!”

  “PJ, hold Blossom for a moment,” he said.

  PJ bobbed down and buried her face in Blossom’s golden fur. This isn’t real, she thought. Children didn’t die just like that. Ruth wasn’t even sick! “Did she have a bike accident? Did a car hit her? Did she fall out of the tree house?” she asked.

  Mr. Splitzky shook his head. “They’re still trying to figure out what happened,” he explained. “One of those rare things, PJ. Hard to tell so early. Hard for any of us to understand. No advance warning. She felt this strong pain and died in the ambulance.”

  “There was nothing wrong with her, Mr. Splitzky. This can’t be true!” More cars wove by, hunting for a parking space. Families got out, heads bowed. “Are you sure it wasn’t her great-grandmother who died?”

  “I’m so sorry, PJ, but no. Come, let’s walk home together. This isn’t the best time for you to see her family.”

  “But Squirt the squirrel’s in the tree house at the back …,” PJ began, pointing toward the sprawling live oak branches she could see sticking out above the roof. “I need to go there.”

  “Tomorrow, PJ. Let Josh take care of things like that right now. They’re all in shock.”

  PJ held both hands on Blossom. The dog’s soft fur, rhythmic breathing, and warm body comforted her. Children didn’t just die. Something was horribly wrong. After a moment, PJ lifted her hands off Blossom, reached for her bicycle, and followed Mr. Splitzky home. “I want to see Ruth,” she said.

  “That’s not a good idea, PJ. Doctors are still examining her to find out exactly what went wrong. And then there’s the Jewish ritual of wrapping the body, done by experts who are specially trained. Kind people will be very loving and ca
reful when they touch her body. You can go with me to the funeral in a few days if you like.”

  Funeral? PJ blocked the word. She followed Mr. Splitzky and Blossom home in silence, too stunned to understand what was going on, and refusing to believe she wouldn’t see Ruth ever again. She kept thinking about Ruth’s gold-flecked gray eyes and the way she twirled her honey-blond pigtail to help her solve some problem. “Mr. Splitzky, what do you think happens when someone dies?”

  “Ah, PJ,” he explained, “I was raised in a Jewish household, like Ruth, and like Ms. Lenz. Traditionally we believe in the here and the now. I wasn’t raised to believe in an afterlife. But talk to Mrs. Patel, PJ. She’ll share her Hindu thoughts on reincarnation. Ask your art teacher, Mr. Santos, about Catholic beliefs. Talk to Mr. Kanafani about Islam. Ask Mrs. Martins about Protestant beliefs. Go and talk to Ms. Naguri about Zen Buddhism. Then you can make up your own mind.”

  “How will this help me?” PJ asked.

  “Just listen,” said Mr. Splitzky. He placed a comforting arm around PJ’s shoulders. “Keep Ruth in your mind and heart. You will soon hear something to help you make sense of this unhappy day.”

  She stood by the gate and watched Mr. Splitzky go, followed by Blossom swishing her tail. PJ longed to talk to her mother or to Mrs. Patel. But first she needed to go off alone. She began to feel a heaviness close around her heart, so she climbed back on the seat of her bike and pedaled toward the cliffs.

  The loss made her think about Lemon Pie and how much she missed him, how much she would miss Ruth. If she felt this way, how must Josh be feeling? And Ruth’s parents? Mr. Splitzky said it was too soon to see them, but if all those other people could, why couldn’t she?

  The wind was brisk. It whipped her cheeks and tugged her curls. She felt the sting of salt spray. A couple frolicked with dogs on the beach below, but PJ preferred to stay up on the cliffside. She didn’t want to risk bumping into anyone she knew. Gulls tumbled about in the strong wind, but she didn’t recognize any of them. BG and LG were nowhere in sight.