by Susan Patron
“Dying on the Vine: Nineteenth-Century French Poetry on Love and Death, by Jean-Pierre de la St. Helene,” he read, showing Lucky the front cover of a large gray rectangle against a yellow background. He pulled out another book. “Letters from Home: Correspondence Between the Duc d’Auvergne and His Daughter.” This jacket featured a photo of a bleak-looking mountain.
“See what I mean? Those both look, like, boring to the max.”
Pete shrugged; he didn’t disagree, but he said, “Maybe you’ll appreciate them when you’re older.” He turned to the title page of the poetry book. “Whoa—check this out, Lucky.” He passed it across the table to her and opened the other book.
“‘Translated from the original French by Taggart Theodore Trimble,’” she read.
“He translated this one too. I bet these are all books he translated.” He said, “Pretty obscure authors—there’s probably not a very big readership for them.”
Lucky considered. Her father had never talked to her except one time after her mother died. He had said the next decision would be hers, and it would be the right one. That was a strange thing to have said, but at the time she hadn’t even known he was her father! If she had known, she’d have asked questions and tried to find out what he meant.
She thought about how he had spent his life translating words from one language to another. Perhaps it was his way, his only way, of saying something—through other people’s thoughts. She turned to the next page in the poetry book. There was a little quote all alone on the page by someone called Edna St. Vincent Millay. It said, “Life must go on; I forget just why.”
Those words seemed to tug at her; they made her want to curl up in someone’s lap like a small child. Maybe, Lucky was thinking, there are all kinds of heaven and all kinds of hell. And maybe we get a little taste of them even before we die, just like Lincoln said.
She slid out from the table, walked over to Pete, and gave him a peck on his coarse-grade sandpaper cheek. She liked the way it felt. “I’m going to read them,” she said. “Someday.”
30. a masterful communication
On his way out, Pete said, “Oh, that stuff in the plastic bag—I saw it in the trash bin at work. Probably from some student project.” Pete worked for Cal State Northridge as a geology professor. “Thought you might be able to use them, but they’ll need some Windex first. Otherwise, you can just toss them.”
Inside the large white plastic bag was a jumble of clear acrylic boxes of varying sizes, from small enough for a button to large enough for a football. Some of the plastic was a little scratched, and most of the boxes were smudged, but they were fine. The close-fitting lids revealed the purpose of these boxes to Lucky: They magnified the thing you put into each box.
Specimen boxes!
She sat there, resisting the strong urge to bring out her Altoids tins with their scorpions, tarantulas, ants, wasps, dragonflies, moths, and owl pellets, plus her mouse mummy and almost perfect snakeskin in an old shoe box. The snake had outgrown its skin and left it behind in a water meter box; it was one of her great treasures. The skin was as fragile as a butterfly wing and transparent and quite dry; it had to be handled carefully. She thought it would look magnificent coiled inside the largest box.
“Beag,” she said to HMS Beagle. “Can you imagine how much Charles Darwin would have loved these specimen boxes? Can you even imagine?”
The Beag listened attentively, as she always did, because everything Lucky said was interesting and true and important. She got up from her rug, stretched out her neck, and thoroughly sniffed the boxes. She wagged her tail very slowly from side to side, a sign that she was intrigued. Lucky realized that the Beag probably knew, because of her exceptional sense of smell, exactly what the student had used them for, precisely what creatures had been inside those boxes.
The dog tucked her rear end neatly beneath her, sitting gracefully; then she shifted her weight from one front paw to the other and back again, her ears slightly raised, watching Lucky intently. Then she gazed at the door, then back at Lucky, then at the door. Without even thinking about it, Lucky translated: We should go OUT! OUT is good! Bugs and snakes are OUT! And birds! They are OUT also! I can catch them for you! Or chase them and let them get away! Or we can go OUT and just smell things! We really should go OUT!
Her dog, Lucky thought, was a masterful communicator. Even if you were from the South Pole or the moon, you would know exactly what she was saying.
Lucky checked under the sink for the Windex and found a piece of old T-shirt in the clean rag corner. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go out for a while before we start that project.” The dog was already at the door. As Lucky opened it, she added, “I just hope Brigitte likes Pete as much as we do.” HMS Beagle, flying down the steps after Lucky, thoroughly agreed.
31. two problems
Lucky had learned, through Miles, that Klincke Ken and Short Sammy had discussed the problem at length before they finally decided to consult Brigitte. They each carried a paper grocery sack, making their way on foot, grim but determined, to the kitchen trailer.
Hearing their approach, Lucky opened the door and Brigitte was right behind her. “Come in,” Brigitte said. “We are almost ready for the grand opening, which is very soon. So what do you think of the new name: The Regulation Number 1849 Café?”
Klincke Ken and Short Sammy stared at Brigitte, speechless.
Brigitte laughed. “Oh, it is a joke. Do not look so worried! Stu Burping inspects the cooking cabin yesterday and Brigitte’s Hard Pan Café has the new permit.” She hugged Lucky from behind. “Every table has been reserved. You and Dot and the Captain are our guests of honor, of course.”
Short Sammy tipped back his stained white hat as a gesture of respect, allowing Lucky to see his forehead’s wavy horizontal creases, which were similar to the pattern of the corrugated tin of his water tank house roof. “Brigitte, we need help,” he said.
“Anything! Tell me what you need.”
“We need to go to ironing school,” Klincke Ken explained.
“Ironing school? What is this?”
Klincke Ken pulled out a wadded-up shirt from his sack. “Can’t come to the opening with our clothes in their normal way,” he said. “So we tried ironing ’em, but we just plain can’t do it right.”
“They want you to teach them how to iron their shirts,” Lucky explained.
“Ah! Of course!” Brigitte stepped aside so the two men could come inside.
“Here’s our board we used,” Short Sammy said, pulling a short wooden plank from his sack.
Brigitte made a tsk sound. “Lucky, can you bring out the ironing table and the iron? We cannot use this little piece of wood.”
A few minutes later, Miles stuck his head in the door as Brigitte began demonstrating how to lay out the sleeve and spray it with a little water. The two men leaned over the shirt, paying close attention. Lucky put a finger to her lips and gestured for Miles to follow her into her canned-ham trailer.
“Is Paloma here yet?” he whispered.
“Not yet. What’s up?”
“Nothing.” He let himself fall forward onto his knees next to HMS Beagle, then he lay down beside her on the rug, one arm draped over her body. She raised her head briefly, then let it drop back down.
“Wow, you guys are pretty lively.”
“Don’t be ironic right now, okay, Lucky?”
They heard Short Sammy asking whether it was really important to iron all around each button, since the other side, the side of the shirt with the buttonholes, covered up all that cloth around the buttons. Couldn’t you just let it stay wrinkled where nobody would see? They heard the iron being parked firmly on Brigitte’s board. They heard Brigitte ask, “It is important? Of course it is important if you want to do this ironing the right way. I thought that is what you are coming to find out!” They heard both men agreeing, yes, that was exactly what they came to find out, and would she please continue with the lesson.
Luck
y wandered over to her porthole window, the one that gave out onto the Café tables and beyond them to the Mojave Desert. She opened it, and the scent of sage and creosote came in, mingling with the smell of boy and dog. The worry she had had before—it used to come at odd moments, about going to Einstein Junior High in a few weeks—was mostly gone now. Ollie had announced that he would be, kind of, her sponsor. This happened very rarely in junior high, especially between a famous popular ninth-grade skateboarder and a nonathletic unpopular seventh-grade scientist, and Lucky was grateful. He said he would make sure nobody bullied her, although she was already pretty good at dealing with that situation herself, and he’d help her find her classrooms if she wanted. He said she shouldn’t sit with him at lunch, but she could if it was an emergency. Lucky found this very generous.
And in a few days Brigitte’s Hard Pan Café would have its grand reopening; they’d prepared for it all week. Sandi the bus driver signed on to be an additional server. Stick had sent a gift: a spectacular restaurant-style dishwasher; it washed, sterilized, and dried dishes in just a few minutes. Dot was going to bring flowers from her garden, and Justine would make bouquets in tiny spice jar vases for each table. There would probably be at least three seatings, a very busy day, and the same again on Sunday. The fridge in the new kitchen cabin would soon be filled with desserts, salad ingredients, and the makings for all the blackboard menu dishes. They were nearly ready.
And yet Lucky didn’t feel ready, and she didn’t know what she wasn’t ready for.
Out of nowhere, Miles said, “It’s not that we don’t believe in evolution.”
Surprised, Lucky said, “Really? What made you think of that all of a sudden?”
He didn’t answer. Lucky sat on the bed and placed her socked feet very gently against his back. “Like a virus can evolve into a stronger virus,” he explained finally. “A species of bird can adapt, over time, by its beak getting longer or whatever. But one species cannot evolve into another species.”
“So . . . ?”
“So we’re not related to the other primates. We didn’t evolve from a common ancestor.”
“Ah.”
Lucky knew that prior to Justine’s return, Miles had read a zillion books about dinosaurs and early hominids. She poked him gently with her big toes.
Miles continued, “If it weren’t for God, I wouldn’t have a mom. He saved her, and he brought her back here. I say prayers about that a lot, every day. But some of my questions I can’t ask God about, like what will happen in school.”
“You mean if your teacher says something and it goes against the Bible?”
“Yeah.”
“Your mom should go in and talk with Ms. Baum-Izzart, so she can let your teacher know that you have different beliefs.”
“She’s checking to see what all she has to do for me to be homeschooled.”
“Uck. You’d have to spend your whole entire life in Hard Pan and never see any other kids.”
“Well, she says we could have field trips once she gets her driver’s license, when Grandma doesn’t need the car, and maybe she’ll meet other moms in some of the outlying towns or in Sierra City, and we could all be homeschooled together.”
“Hmm.”
“Lucky, it’s kind of hard. I love God, and I know Jesus loves me, but I hate maybe not being able to go to school and read regular books, and I hate having to not believe things I’m pretty sure are really true, like things in science.” Miles raised up on one arm, looking at Lucky. His face was angry and sad and hopeful all at the same time.
“Well, listen, Miles. Even though you’re a kid, you’re still a person. You can decide things. Maybe your decision right now is to keep learning everything about the Bible.”
“I can already recite a ton of verses by heart.”
“I know. It’s amazing. But anyway, think about this: You could make your own choice to keep on doing that, not because anyone forces you but because it’s what you decide. Then later you can make up your mind about dinosaurs. Later you can read all you want about science. But right now, maybe you could decide to stick with the Bible. See what I mean?” She jiggled him with her toes. He didn’t answer.
She said, “Just keep thinking with your brain like you always do. You don’t have to say everything you think out loud. And the other thing is, remember that Justine is still a beginner mom, like Brigitte was my beginner mom. Trust me, they really don’t know what they’re doing at first. But the big thing is that Justine loves you. No matter what, she loves you and she’s trying her best. And your grandmother, too. Maybe they’re driving each other crazy because they each want different things for you.” Then Lucky added softly, “So maybe you have to be the one to cut some slack.”
“That almost sounds like something out of the Bible.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. Maybe. But here’s what I think: Right now it’s the grown-ups’ world. But later we’ll be the grown-ups and it’ll be our world and we’ll be able to do anything we want. We can fix things then.”
Miles gazed at her. “Lucky,” he said, “if it’s okay with Lincoln, I mean if you’d rather it was Lincoln, that would be okay too, but—” He reddened, then went on in a rush. “Could we get married? I mean when we’re grown up. We could both be scientists together.”
“Miles, that’s my very first proposal, and I’m not even twelve yet. I’m, I don’t know, honored. Let’s think about it for a while . . . like twenty years or so, okay?”
“Sure,” he said, and hugged HMS Beagle.
When Lucky got up to look out her window again, she saw Klincke Ken and Short Sammy walking away, each holding an ironed shirt on a wire hanger. One was very short, in cowboy boots and hat; the other, wearing bib overalls and construction-worker boots, a foot taller. They walked in a peppier way than when they’d arrived, like people who had faced a troubling problem head-on and resolved it with just a little help from a friend.
32. climbing upstairs to heaven
Lucky had caught on that things hardly ever turn out the way you expect. For instance, once Justine finished making her Climbing Upstairs to Heaven sculpture out of bird and rodent bones regurgitated by owls, she became famous.
Well, famous in a Hard Pan kind of way. When word about the sculpture got around, everyone wanted to see it. Mrs. Prender had set it up on its own little table right in the living room of her double-wide, where it got the morning sun. The sanded and lacquered Popsicle-stick platform base measured about a foot square; it was raised up to form a pedestal by more layers of interwoven Popsicle sticks underneath. In its center was a spiral staircase, so well proportioned and structurally sound that you knew immediately what it was. A person about the height of a Popsicle stick could have climbed those stairs, curving around and around, gliding along with a hand lightly on the railing.
The staircase itself drew people closer, as they realized that all the lacy filigree steps and the railing, everything but the central pole, which was a stainless-steel barbecue skewer, all were made from tiny bones intricately fit together and invisibly glued. It looked impossible, like a DNA pattern. And it had an airiness, a lightness that made people take in their breath and want to touch it, to feel the tiny smooth bones that looked, on close examination, so much like certain human bones.
So when the Wellbornes came to Hard Pan for a visit, Lucky and Paloma brought them straight to Mrs. Prender’s. Mrs. Wellborne was on the board of a famous art museum in Brentwood, and she had admired the small oil paintings, painted by Lucky’s mother Lucille, that were displayed in the new kitchen cabin. They figured Mrs. Wellborne would be blown away by Justine’s Climbing Upstairs to Heaven.
But they were wrong. It wasn’t Mrs. Wellborne, though she did like it very much. No, it was Mr. Wellborne who was over-the-top captivated. He walked around it five or six times. He bent down, his nose almost touching, for a close look. He asked for a step stool in order to look straight down on it. Lucky was very proud of her own role in gathering the
pellets and dissecting them so that Justine would have the materials she needed, and she never tired of telling visitors how she had done this. (Mrs. Wellborne wanted to know, like all other adults, whether she’d washed her hands after handling the pellets, and she assured Pal’s mom—with only the barest hint of irony—that she had.)
“Well, Ms. Prender,” Mr. Wellborne said at last. Justine, sitting off to the side, looked up. Lucky stared at her, puzzling because there was something different, until she realized what it was. Justine’s hands rested on the arms of the chair and her feet rested on the floor. She was totally relaxed and calm, not a twitch, tap, or jiggle. Lucky frowned. She figured Justine must be so, so scared about the Wellbornes examining her staircase that it almost paralyzed her. But then Justine smiled a radiant, confident, trustful smile. She did not look one bit worried or nervous. Mr. Wellborne smiled back at her. “I don’t know if you’re interested in selling this piece,” he said, “or if you have any others, but I guarantee I know at least three producers who would buy it. You could name your price.”
“It’s not for sale,” Justine said. “I’m going to give it to the Found Object Wind Chime Museum and Visitor Center, if the museum wants it.”
“Well, how about making some other bone sculptures? This is an exciting piece of art, Ms. Prender. You should get yourself an agent.”
“He’s right, dear,” Mrs. Well-borne said. “You should.”
