* * *
—
About an hour later we’re back at Hank’s house in the basement playroom with at least two thousand buttons spread out across a Ping-Pong table. We only went to that one thrift shop after all, which made his mom happy. And for now we’ve got plenty of new buttons to mess with.
Hank says, “First I think we should sort them all by what they’re made of, okay?”
“Sure—that makes sense.”
I can tell Hank really wants to be in charge of the sorting process, which is fine by me. He sticks pieces of masking tape at different places on the table and then starts writing on each one with a Sharpie.
“Okay, so celluloid buttons go here…then Bakelite…Lucite…vegetable ivory…china—”
“ ‘Vegetable ivory’? What’s that?”
“It’s an ivory substitute made from the nut of the tagua palm tree, which grows in the tropics.”
“Oh. And Lucite?”
“That’s a kind of clear, hard plastic. Yeah, so, china…glass…mother-of-pearl…leather…bone…and wood.”
“You don’t mean, like, actual bone?”
“Yeah—sometimes antlers were used, but mostly cow bones.”
He scans the whole batch of buttons and reaches out and picks one up. “Wow! I didn’t think we’d have any of these, but check it out! This is bone.”
He’s got a button about the size of a dime on his palm, sort of a pale yellowish color, and there are two large holes, like the eyes on a happy face.
“This was probably made by hand, maybe as far back as 1850. See how the holes are uneven? That’s how you can tell this one wasn’t made on a machine. And if you looked at it through a strong magnifying lens, you could see the lines in the bone where the blood used to flow—not smooth like plastic.”
That kind of grosses me out. But the science is interesting. Buttons made of cow bones—who knew?
Hank Powell, that’s who.
The sorting goes pretty fast once I learn what to look for, and Hank’s a good teacher. In no time at all, I can tell the difference between vegetable ivory and Bakelite with my eyes shut. Almost.
Also, when Hank doesn’t know something, he doesn’t pretend he does. And I like that. As we sort, he keeps stopping to search on the internet, to be sure he’s not messing up.
After the sorting comes the dividing.
Hank says, “So…do you want to pick first, or should I?”
I can tell he’s nervous about this part. Our deal from the start was simple—whatever we find, we go halfsies.
So I smile and say, “You should go first.”
Because I’ve already decided that Hank can have whichever buttons he wants. He’s the one who’s getting into collecting them, plus he thought up this whole plan. And it’s not like I need any more buttons. At all. Ever.
We take turns choosing from each group, one material after the other. I pick just enough of the nicer buttons of each kind so that Hank doesn’t feel like I don’t care. Because I know he wouldn’t like that.
Seeing his face get all lit up about a button? It’s great.
And it’s sweet, too, because he tries to make me take some of the ones that I can tell he’s dying to keep.
“Are you sure you don’t want this burgundy-and-ivory octagon? I mean, it’s a classic two-tone Bakelite, and look at the carving, and the edges—they’re so crisp!”
“Thanks, but I like the lighter colors.”
So sweet!
An alarm bell goes off in my head.
Because sweet is a word I don’t use much, and I just used it twice in the past thirty seconds.
So I take a careful look at Hank as he’s trying to decide which mother-of-pearl buttons to choose first.
I like what I see—I do. He’s cute…in a tallish, thinnish, awkwardish sort of way. Dark hair and eyes, straight nose, a mouth that smiles a lot. It’s all nice. But mostly Hank looks…smart. And that’s mainly in his eyes, the way he’s always got a question there.
I think he likes the way I look, too. But I know that’s not the reason why we’re friends.
We go back and forth, dividing up the pearly buttons, and then the glass, the china, the leather, the celluloid, and the bone.
There are only five of the bone buttons, and I make Hank take them all. For his collection. And then he says I should get to keep the old container the buttons came in, because I’m the one who found it.
Halfsies.
After we’re done, my mom comes and picks me up. And riding home with a cookie tin of buttons on my lap, I think about the afternoon.
I also think about Ellie.
On a regular Saturday during the school year, I’d have spent at least a couple of hours with her. She’d have called and said something like, I’m going to go get some shoes—want to come? or, I feel like seeing that new movie—want to come? Because time with Ellie is mostly me tagging along while she does whatever she wants to.
Still, I sort of miss that.
But today was good. It was me, Hank, and a bunch of buttons: three different elements mixed together.
When elements combine, they don’t actually change, but they sometimes link up and form a new compound, the way hydrogen and oxygen join to make water.
That’s how this feels.
And if I had to describe this new compound?
It’s 99 percent fun and 1 percent sweet.
Sunday 7:47 PM
You there Grampa?
Yup. How are you?
Good. You?
All good here. Picked the last of the tomatoes all afternoon. Sitting down now—feels great.
So I’ve got a question. About buttons.
What a surprise! : >) Shoot.
Do you think Gramma kept any buttons around the house? You still have some of her stuff, right?
Grampa?
Sorry. Yes, I still have all her things. Maybe in her upstairs sitting room? Haven’t been in there for quite some time.
Oh. Well never mind. I’ve got PLENTY of buttons! I took a picture last week of the ones we have here in our house, and then yesterday I went with this boy named Hank to a thrift shop and we found a huge tin of buttons all from one family over a long time. So I’m kind of interested in comparing. Here’s a pic I took of our Hamlin family buttons:
And here’s the bunch from the thrift store:
Interesting, huh?
Very. Sort of like little graveyards. When a button drops off, you pop it into the graveyard.
That’s way too gloomy Grampa. But yeah, I get that. Still, I’d just call each group a collection.
Collection, final resting place, graveyard—pretty much all the same. Just being accurate, Gracie.
But mostly gloomy and sad…I can hear your voice when we text—you know that, right? Maybe let’s call them…time capsules.
I like that. A family buttons time capsule.
Yes—much nicer.
This Hank fellow—would I approve?
Definitely. Even Dad likes him.
That’s quite impressive! Details, if you don’t mind…
You remember Ellie, right?
Of course—the unforgettable Miss Emerson.
Well we’re not best friends anymore. Or even friends at all. And Hank used to be on her *approved* list, but then he totally ditched her and stuck with me instead. That’s about all there is to it.
I like him already.
He’s really smart—collects butterflies and moths. And now buttons. Diving deep.
Fourteen monarch butterflies passed through our garden three days after you left, going to Mexico—and it’ll take them two or three generations to even get there. Always so amazing. Your grandmother planted those four purple butterfly bushes along the garden fence—remember? The monarchs and the swallowtails can’t resist the blooms. Such a treat, even now.
I hear your voice again Grampa. Sorry you still miss her so much. Me too.
Yes, you too. I’m glad my neighbors don’t live close, because they’d hear me talking to her now and then. And the way you hear my voice when we text? I can hear hers too. And guess what? She tells me the same things you do—stop being sad, keep being grateful. And that self-pity nonsense? KNOCK IT OFF!
Haha—I can hear her saying that too!
But things are better. That old mill building is just what I need right now. I’ve got my first big meetings with contractors coming up this week. And I can’t wait to send you the specs for the solar panels I’m installing on the roof—wonderful progress. And not as much time to be sad!
I’m so glad—I love that place! You know what the building was like before you got hold of it?
What?
A graveyard!
Haha—good one! You got me back! How about your week? Big stuff coming there? Projects, reports, holding hands with Hank?
Soooo *funny* Grampa. No, nothing much coming this week. Except this buttons thing? It turned into this huge fad at school, totally goofy. And I have no idea where it’s all going.
Wherever it goes, I have this hunch that you’ll be right in the middle of it. Take good notes, and keep me in the loop! Is your giant cache of buttons still a secret?
You, me, Mom, Dad, Ben. That’s it.
I won’t tell a soul!
Good. I love you Grampa.
I love you too Gracie. Have a happy night.
And you take good notes too, and keep me in the loop about our mill building okay?
Will do—I promise! Good night.
Nite.
“You’re kind of quiet this morning.”
“Just thinking.”
I can tell that Mom wants me to talk more, but I know she’s not going to push it. She’s good with silence.
And anyway, if I talked to her? I don’t think she’d like what I have to say. I’m still kind of stuck on graveyards—ever since I texted with Grampa last night. He was so sad about Gramma.
When I asked Mom if she would drive me this morning, she said, Sure—no questions asked. I wanted to avoid the scene on the bus. I feel like gangs of button maniacs would pounce on me, looking for trades.
Of course, I don’t actually know if buttons are even still a thing.
Maybe over the weekend everybody decided buttons are dumb. Maybe there’s some new fad I don’t know about, some online craze that lit up the screens, blasting the buttons out of every single kid’s head.
Right back into all the little button graveyards.
“So, where do you think Gramma is right now?”
Mom smiles a little, her eyes on the traffic. But it’s like my question doesn’t surprise her one bit.
“I don’t know, Grace—not for sure. If you’re asking me if your grandmother is still herself, still somewhere, then I would say yes, I believe she is. But do I know that, the same way I know that the sun comes up every morning? Then, no, I don’t know it like that.”
“Then how come you believe she’s still herself? Are you saying that you think Gramma’s still alive but somewhere else—like heaven?”
We’re backed up at a stoplight now, moving ahead only a little with each green signal. And Mom is thinking before she answers me.
“I don’t recall if I’ve ever told you this before. I was about twenty years old, and in one of my college courses, the professor asked the whole class to close our eyes and sit very still. Then she asked, ‘Is it possible for you to imagine that the world you’ve known your whole life isn’t there anymore?’ And I decided I could imagine that, no problem. Then she said, ‘Is it possible for you to imagine that your physical body is not sitting in a chair in some classroom, that your body isn’t really anywhere in this world at all?’ And again, that was pretty easy for me to imagine. Then she asked, ‘Is it possible for you to imagine that the part of you that is doing all this imagining could just stop it, and never think anything at all, ever again?’ And after about a minute of sitting there thinking, I decided I could not imagine that—not at all.”
“Those are some weird questions!”
“I agree. It turned out that our professor was borrowing them from a philosopher named Descartes, and we went on to study a lot of his writings. But I never forgot that moment. And I believe that Gramma is still herself, still thinking, still loving you and Ben and your dad and me and Grampa.”
“So…you’re saying people don’t really die when they die?”
“I’m saying that I think I can see how that would be possible. Do I know it, for sure? No. And I guess I won’t completely know any of this for sure until that moment when I die, or rather, when I don’t die—when I figure out that I haven’t stopped thinking or stopped being myself. Where I will be at that moment, or what any of that will be like—I have no idea. Not yet.”
“So this is a theory.”
“Correct. A theory.”
I’m quiet, and the traffic starts moving again.
Mom reaches over and pats my arm. “Pretty deep thoughts for a sunny Monday morning.”
“Yeah…sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I love the way you think and think and think—always have, always will.”
“Thanks.”
We have another quiet stretch before her next question.
“Did I hear you tell Dad that you and Ellie are having some troubles?”
“Uh-huh—at least right now.”
“Sorry to hear that. You two have been friends for a long time.”
“Yeah.”
I don’t say more because I don’t know if there’s anything else to say. But I do think of a question. “Of all the kids you knew back when you were in sixth grade, are any of them still your friends?”
“No, not a single one. My family moved from Ohio to Massachusetts, then from Massachusetts to Illinois, and then back to a different town in Massachusetts, all before I graduated from high school. It’s hard to keep in touch with school friends. I know I could track down some of them now if I wanted to, but once you lose contact, there are fewer reasons to pick up the threads again. And I was out of high school before Facebook and texting and all that came along. Now it’s a lot easier.”
“Yeah, totally.”
Easier.
Easier is a very nice idea.
There are about a hundred things that I wish would get easier, right now, right this second.
Except wishing isn’t scientific.
“Isn’t that Hank Powell, standing there near the door?”
We’re pulling into the drop-off area in front of the school, and Mom’s right.
“That’s him.”
“Say hello to him for me, will you?”
“Sure.”
“And have a wonderful day, Grace. You know how you’re always telling your father to stop worrying? Take your own advice, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks for the ride.”
“You’re welcome—I love y
ou, Grace.”
“I love you, too. Bye.”
“Bye.”
As the car pulls away, Hank sees me and waves, a smile on his face.
I smile back, partly just to be friendly. But there’s another reason for my smile: I can see that walking into the school this morning is going to be better than I thought it would be.
It’s going to be easier.
“I made six fantastic trades on the bus!”
These are Hank’s first words of the new week—not Hi, not Great to see you, not How are you? So I guess the buttons thing is still going strong, at least for him. I’ve never seen Hank so totally hyper.
The Friendship War Page 7
