The Upside of Ordinary

by Susan Lubner

  Inside the barn I flip on the light switch. The fluorescent tubes that run across the ceiling buzz softly as they flash. I gently stomp the snow off my boots and leave my coat on the floor. It feels warmer than usual in here. I check the thermostat on the wall. Mom must have forgotten to turn the heat down when we were done pickling.

  Before I search for the ring, I film the jars on the table and scan the camera around the rest of the barn. At least if it’s not that interesting for the reality show, it might be good for business.

  I prop the camera on one of the shelves across from the cooling table, leaving it on so I can catch the moment I find that ring. Hopefully mom will think it’s all pretty funny by the time she sees my show aired on TV. But what if I don’t find it? What if a customer finds it in a jar of pickles instead? We’ll get sued! Like Barbeque Bob, who had to pay some lady a million dollars after her husband almost chocked to death on the top of a pen that was in his coleslaw. What if someone choked on the skull ring? I’d have to go to prison! They’d definitely be able to trace the ring back to me. Anyone who knows my mom knows she’s not the type to wear a skull ring, even for good luck. Relax, Jermaine. Those dills have to pickle for weeks before they’re ready to hit the stores. You have plenty of time to find that ring. And when you do, the proof will be right on film!

  I lift a jar up off the table and hold it above my head. Maybe it sank to the bottom. I turn it around, checking inside—nothing but pickles.

  “One down, fifty-nine to go,” I say. I check a second jar and then a third, but nothing. Then I hear POP! POP! POP! My heart tries to punch its way out of my chest. I can’t breathe. But I quickly realize it’s only the sound of the jars sealing. If I didn’t have such extensive pickle experience, I would have hightailed it out of the barn. I probably would have even called the police.

  Just as my heart starts to slow to a normal beat, the door to the storage room swings open and some weirdo flies out. I close my eyes and scream. Weirdo screams. I drop a jar of pickles and it smashes. POP! POP! POP! POP! The rest of the jars continue to pop, echoing through the barn. I stand, frozen in place, eyes shut, still screaming. Just when I run out of scream and I think I might have wet my pants (I find out later it was pickle juice), I hear someone shouting my name.

  “Jermaine! Jermaine!” My eyes focus long enough to realize it’s my long-lost Uncle Larry standing before me, wearing his penguin wings. I am desperately trying to breathe when he comes over and puts a flipper around me.

  “Jermaine, it’s me, Uncle Larry. It’s okay.” I’m still trying to catch my breath when he says: “What the heck is that racket? I thought someone was shooting up the place!” Uncle Larry holds his wings out. His hands poke out underneath through the arm holes, index fingers extended and thumbs up, like pretend guns. “BANG, BANG,” he yells out, pointing his “guns” around the barn. “They’re coming after me, I guess!” He laughs. It dawns on me that there might be something seriously wrong with my uncle. His normal self is weird, but the sight of him in those ridiculous penguin wings pretending to shoot up the place is pretty unsettling. Besides, you’d have to be crazy to come out and investigate if you really thought someone was shooting a gun … wouldn’t you?

  “Uncle Larry,” I manage to say finally, “what are you doing here?”

  “I should be asking you the same question,” he says to me. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

  “I’m looking for something,” I tell him.

  “It isn’t me, is it?”

  “No, something else,” I tell him. “Wait,” I say as my brain tries to process the penguin wings and why he’s here in the barn. “What are you doing here?” I ask again. “Aren’t you supposed to be home?”

  “I got cold feet,” he tells me. Then he cracks his knuckles. He sighs. “Ever hear that saying, Jermaine?”

  “Doesn’t that apply to people who are getting married but change their minds?” I ask.

  “Yes. But it applies to other events, too …bungee jumping … confronting an angry wife … you know what I mean?” I nod my head, but I’m a little confused. “I was all set to go home, but I got nervous, so here I am. I really have cold feet, too. It’s freezing out tonight.” Uncle Larry notices me staring at the penguin flippers he’s wearing. He blushes as he lifts them up. “That’s why I put these on,” he explains. “They’re cumbersome, but warm.” He drops his arms back down to his sides. The flippers, curved and heavy-looking, hang like a couple of frowns. “By the way,” he says, “your mother really needs to lock this place up. Her pickles are extremely tempting.”

  “Have you been staying here the whole time?” I ask. Was he hiding out while I was working in the barn? I imagine him crouched down behind the shelves watching me count cucumbers, sometimes only eleven.

  “No, no,” he tells me. “I did splurge a couple of times and stay at a motel. But the other nights I slept in my car. The heat isn’t working so well in that old van tonight, so I figured I could stay here. I didn’t expect to run into you. Sorry I scared you.”

  “Why did you leave?” I ask him. “Where have you been?” Uncle Larry sighs again and his face gets very serious.

  “I know it wasn’t a nice thing to do, Jermaine. I know that. It was supposed to be a quick business trip but things didn’t go the way I had planned.” He shakes his head gently.

  “It was a business trip? Why was it a secret?” I ask.

  “It’s complicated. Let me show you something,” he tells me. He slips the wings off and leans them against the wall. Then he strides into the back room. When he comes out, he’s holding an open jar of pickles. A bit of pickle juice splashes over the lip of the jar on his way back across the floor. He puts the jar down on the table and fishes two dills out with his fingers. “Have one,” he offers.

  “No, thanks.” I notice something bulky sticking out from under his arm. It looks like a cloth bag. He wipes his fingers across his pants, reaches for the bag, and lays it down on the table. It’s about the size of a magazine, slightly bigger.

  “In here is my reason,” he says slowly. “This is what it was all about,” he whispers. He reaches into the sack. I didn’t know what to expect. But I sure am surprised, not to mention more confused than ever, by what he pulls out of that bag.

  18

  The Glove

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “A glove?”

  “Not just any glove,” Uncle Larry explains. “It’s an electric balloon-fastening glue glove.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Have you ever been to Philadelphia?” he asks me.

  “No.”

  “It’s a beautiful city, tell your parents to take you there. Your Aunt Edie and I took Melinda two summers ago. Remember that?”

  “I think so,” I say hesitantly.

  “Anyhow,” he continues, “in Centre Square there’s a forty-five-foot-tall clothespin.” He leans across the table toward me. “It’s FASCINATING!” he bellows. “It’s supposed to resemble a couple kissing, but I don’t see it.” That makes me blush, and Uncle Larry notices. “I’m getting off track, aren’t I?”

  He slips his hand inside the glove and gazes at it. He holds it out in front of me and turns it from side to side. An electrical cord hangs from the wrist of the glove and knocks against the table. “When I saw that giant clothespin I couldn’t help but think about balloons,” he tells me. “How wonderful to have a giant balloon, maybe in the shape of a T-shirt or a pair of pants, clamped atop that wonderful clothespin. I bet the artist who designed that sculpture never imagined that!” He pauses for a few seconds. I don’t know what to say. “It gave me the idea for a new way to fasten a balloon!” he says excitedly. “After our trip, I created some mini clothespins. I used all of our savings to make those pins. Ten thousand I had made! Instead of tying the balloons, I would use the mini pins to close them. But the balloon animals and bouquets were a problem. The edges of the plastic pins were popping the balloons. It was a big fiasco. And afterward, Aunt Edie made m
e promise never to spend our money on any more of my ideas. But I knew there had to be a better way to fasten a balloon. If only I could figure it out, I could turn the balloon industry on its ear!” He is practically shouting.

  “What’s wrong with just tying the balloon? Why would anyone want to use a glue glove?” I ask. “No offense,” I add.

  “Why wash dishes by hand if you can use a dishwasher? Why use a non-powered screwdriver if you have a powered one? Why whip cream with a whisk if you can whip it up with an electric mixer?”

  “I get it,” I tell him. “You can fasten more balloons with the glue glove?”

  “Right! It’s called efficiency!” he says proudly. I remember at the Fourth of July dinner Uncle Larry had used that same word. “I drove to Aroostook County to get the glove,” he tells me.

  “Aroostook County!” I say. “That’s practically in Canada!” I didn’t want to point out that it might have been more efficient to have the thing mailed. As if he can read my mind, Uncle Larry explains.

  “After the mini clothespin disaster, I had to be sure the glove worked. Remember that phone call the night I left, the balloon delivery to the senior home?” I nod. “It was really the man who made the glove. He called to confirm our meeting later that night.”

  “But why did you have to meet in the night?”

  “I left that night to pick up the glove because I had to act fast,” my uncle explains. “Edie had planned to buy the van the next Monday. I was running out of time. It had to be a secret because of the promise I had made her … see? But I figured if I could show her how great the glove worked, she’d be excited about it. So I left to pick up the glove. I drove back home late that same night. I knew Edie and Melinda would be asleep. My plan was to fill up all of the rooms downstairs with balloons. In the morning Edie would see with her own eyes that the glove was a great idea. She’d forget all about the money I used up to have it made.” Uncle Larry rubs his eyes. “And she’d realize my idea was better than a second van,” he says softly.

  Then Uncle Larry takes the glove off and slams it roughly onto the table.

  “What are you doing?” I gasp. “Don’t break it!”

  “It doesn’t matter. The darn thing doesn’t work,” he says wearily.

  “It doesn’t work?”

  “Well, it starts out okay, see?” He shows me a small hole at the tip of one of the fingers.

  “When you turn the glove on, the glue comes out here at the index finger.” Uncle Larry finds an outlet next to the table and plugs in the cord. “Watch.” He points to a bead of glue that appears on the fingertip of the glove. “This goes inside the neck of the balloon. Then you squeeze the neck like this.” Uncle Larry pinches his thumb and middle finger together. “But the longer you use the glove, the hotter it gets,” he says, shaking his head. “It heats the glue and the neck of the balloon and melts it. What a mess!” He yanks the cord roughly out of the wall.

  “But—” I start to say.

  “It worked fine when I tested it up in Presque Isle. But back at home, after I used the glove on seven or eight balloons, they all started to melt. I immediately drove back up north hoping the guy could work out the kinks. I suggested changing around the wires inside or adding a lining that would protect the fingers of the glove from getting too hot. But nothing worked.” Uncle Larry shakes his head.

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. “At least you gave it a shot,” I offer.

  “I spent every single penny we saved up for the second van.” He sighs. “Now I have a glove that doesn’t work and no money for a van. I messed up! I didn’t mean to be gone so long. The longer it took me to try to fix it, the harder it got for me to come home. Then she discovered the money was gone … she’s very mad. On top of that I broke my promise. She might never forgive me.”

  “Can’t you get your money back?” I ask him.

  “Nope, I can’t.” Uncle Larry’s eyes shine. “It cost the man who made it for me a lot of money … and a whole lot more to try to fix it. The glove was my idea … not his … that’s the way it goes with inventions … no guarantees!”

  “You were planning a surprise,” I remind him. “If you explain that to Aunt Edie, maybe she won’t be so mad.” At first I think he’s laughing at me, which seems odd. But then he holds his head in his hands. His shoulders are jumping up and down, and I hear a strange noise like an animal sound. It’s a wail. He’s sobbing. I have never seen my uncle cry. I wonder what I’m supposed to do. I try to remember what Mom does to make me feel better when I cry. She usually hugs me, or rubs my back. Sometimes she gives me a cookie. Should I offer him a pickle?

  “It will be okay, Uncle Larry,” I say, trying desperately to cheer him up. “It’s not like you lost the money on purpose … it’s the thought that counts.”

  “I shouldn’t have done what I did,” he mumbles. “I keep screwing up! I’m supposed to be home right now.” He sniffs.

  “Well, you can still keep that promise. The day isn’t over yet.” I point to the clock behind him. He looks over his shoulder. With the back of his hand he wipes his eyes.

  “You’re right, Jermaine.” He smiles a little. “I’m going home now.” He leans forward and kisses me on the forehead. “Thanks for listening to me.” He pats my arm, then shuffles toward the door, snatching up his black-and-white wings on the way. “Good night,” he calls out. A gust of winter wind howls when he steps outside.

  “Good night,” I say. But the sound of the wind and the sliding barn door muffle my words. And before I can say it again, he’s gone.

  In the storage room I find a broom next to the shelves of pickles. I sweep up the broken glass. I gather the open jar of dills and an empty one Uncle Larry must have finished. I toss everything out and wipe up the spilled juice. My body feels heavy and slow.

  I wonder if Dad has ever cried like Uncle Larry did tonight. If so, would I have had the guts to reach out and rub his back? Uncle Larry seems different now. Not bad different, just different. And that makes everybody else seem different, too. My parents, Aunt Edie, even Zelda. Tonight I feel like the older sister. I’m not sure I like it.

  I put the broom away. I almost forget about my camera. It sits on the shelf still recording. It reminds me that I was able to get Uncle Larry’s homecoming after all. Even without the lucky skull ring. Speaking of that, I’ve barely started to look for it. It will have to wait until tomorrow. I’m not up to it now.

  I reach for the camera and press the stop button. After I grab my coat, I turn the heat down and flick the light switch off. The barn door feels heavier than usual when I slide it closed behind me. And the walk back to the house seems darker and colder than before.

  19

  Are You Awake, Mr. Carmichael?

  Dear Mr. Carmichael,

  I am writing this letter at midnight because I can’t sleep. But it’s only 9:00 out in Hollywood. You’re probably at a party right now with some other celebrities.

  Did I ever mention my disappearing uncle? He split a little over a week ago, and no one knew why. Tonight the mystery of Uncle Larry has been solved. I captured the 411 for my reality show! I was in the pickle barn looking for a skull ring (I’d tell you about that, but you’d probably never buy a jar of Nora’s Pickles if I do). It turns out Uncle Larry was in the barn hiding. He left to get a glue glove made for the balloon business he owns with Aunt Edie. It didn’t work out well at all. He spent all their money and my aunt is really mad. My uncle is very sad about everything. He cried.

  Lately the footage for my show has been much better. The thing is, my stomach hurts a lot. Is that a common side effect among reality-show producers? Has this ever happened to you?

  Looking forward to hearing back from you.

  Sincerely,

  “You know who!”

  PS Have you given any more thought to my suggestion about The Country Life? You and I would make a great team!

  20

  New Beginnings

  New Beginnings is t
he theme for tonight’s welcome-home party at my aunt and uncle’s house.

  “I think it’s lovely!” Mom clasps her hands together. Dad sweeps the ashes out of the fireplace. I zoom in on the little black smudge above his eyebrow.

  “I think they should celebrate Larry’s homecoming privately,” Dad says, dumping a pan of ashes into a tin pail.

  “Why would you say that?” Mom asks.

  “I’m glad everything’s worked out between them, of course, but do we need to be involved?” he asks. “Isn’t this a private matter?”

  “Nobody’s getting involved in anything. We’re going to celebrate,” Mom says happily.

  Aunt Edie was so relieved to have Uncle Larry home she wasn’t angry anymore. Three days ago, on Monday, the morning after Uncle Larry had finally come home, Mom spoke to Aunt Edie on the phone. Zelda and I quickly ran upstairs and listened in on another extension. I had to pretend some of the stuff I heard was news to me since I didn’t want to spill the beans on Uncle Larry’s cold feet and our meeting in the barn the night before. He didn’t snitch on me, either, because Aunt Edie never mentioned it. In fact, he must have left the whole hiding-in-the-barn part out completely. I only hope I don’t get blamed for the missing jars of pickles.

  “I was afraid this had to do with that ridiculous glove idea of his,” Aunt Edie groaned through the phone. “After the mini clothespin disaster, I didn’t think he’d dare.” Since Uncle Larry agreed to sell his prized pop-up camper to recover some of the van money, Aunt Edie forgave him. “He means well, he really does.”

  “We don’t need to wear a costume to this homecoming party, do we?” Dad is asking. He wipes his sooty hands on a rag.

  “Do we?” Zelda asks. She pours chocolate chips into a bowl of cookie dough.