Everything Else in the Universe

by Tracy Holczer

  “You’re digging a hole, not moving to Argentina,” Lucy said.

  “Speak for yourself.”

  Milo seemed in a mood. The way Uncle G could get sometimes. Like a bear, all pinch-faced and growling and claws ready to scratch. She wondered if Milo’s moods passed the way Uncle G’s did, like summer storms.

  Lucy sighed and followed him toward the creek. “Whoever buried that Purple Heart did it on purpose. Don’t you feel like we’re about to rob a grave?”

  Milo stopped in his tracks and looked at Lucy. Hard. “I feel like we’re doing something that needs to be done. If you don’t want to, that’s up to you. But stop chattering about it.”

  Which Lucy supposed was fair. And her father was right; they wouldn’t know anything until they accomplished their task. “Well, you don’t have to act so annoyed about it. I’m entitled to my feelings.”

  Milo kept walking.

  There were a few dragonflies flitting above the sun-dappled creek and Lucy took a moment to get her bearings, looking up through the canopy of trees she’d identified with the tree catalog from Great-Uncle Lando’s nursery. There were the snowflake-shaped leaves of the bigleaf maple, the bushy white alders and western sycamores. Here and there were coastal live oaks, and the ferns that grew confident in all the shade. Birds sang harmony with the trickle of the creek as it moved around the stones that had been pushing through the earth for thousands of years. There was comfort for Lucy in knowing, precisely, how to identify everything.

  Eventually, they both stood looking down at the wishing stone that marked the place where the helmet was buried. The dirt was still soft, so it didn’t take long for Milo to dig it all up. He handed Lucy the helmet, and when Lucy lifted the flap of the lining, the pictures were there, but the Purple Heart was gone.

  “Oh my gosh!” Lucy said, and fell to her knees to dig around in the hole. “The Purple Heart fell out!”

  “I’ve got it,” Milo said.

  “What do you mean?” Lucy sat back on her heels and shaded her eyes from the sun. “How can you have it?”

  “I never put it back, okay?”

  Lucy just blinked at him.

  “I think I was meant to find it.”

  Hold the fort. Now he sounded like Great-Aunt Lilliana with her irrational premonitions. Which never came true. Except for sometimes. Which was the scientific nature of things, anyway.

  Then, as though the universe was conspiring against the scientific nature of things, the dragonflies came.

  Green, yellow and blue, the sky was filled with iridescence and the soft whispering of wings. Milo laid the shovel down softly and raised his arms out to his sides. He closed his eyes and made soft clicking sounds as though trying to call them.

  But much to Lucy’s dismay, they came to her instead.

  They landed on her arms, her shoulders and down the front of her shirt. Her first instinct was to run, screaming, but she held still, arms raised ever so slightly so she wouldn’t squish them against her sides.

  “It’s a swarm!” she whispered, panicked, trying not to move her mouth too much in case one might fly in. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s called a flight. A flight of dragonflies,” Milo said, mystified. “It doesn’t happen very often, but it’s nothing to worry over.”

  Which was not particularly comforting to Lucy. Eyes closed and concentrating, Milo seemed hopeful they’d land on him, too. He stood so still, Lucy wondered if he was breathing, but those flashing bits of iridescence ignored him. And even though Lucy was slightly annoyed that Milo had swiped the Purple Heart without telling her, and still unsure if they should even be doing this in the first place, the sheer wonder of the moment, and Milo’s obvious yearning for the flying insects, broke through her fear.

  Lucy inched herself, ever so slowly, to stand right beside him. She raised her arm to his and took his hand, hoping the dragonflies might see how much he seemed to need and want them. She waved her other arm so they might dislodge themselves and find a better, steadier place to land.

  Her plan worked.

  Little by little, the dragonflies lifted from her arms, shoulders and head, and flutter-buzzed straight for Milo. They dotted his shirt, his ears, his spiky blond hair. One even landed on the top curve of his glasses. Lucy watched as a wide smile took over his face.

  He said, softly, “My dad and me. We would draw them into our sketchbooks. But only the ones we saw up close and personal. Then we would compare the drawings to the book we have with all the different species and their names.

  “My dad . . .” Milo said. It took him a few moments to go on. “He’s in Vietnam.”

  Lucy blinked. “What?”

  “He’s career military. We’ve lived at Fort Bragg for the last three years.”

  Thinking back over her time with Milo, Lucy supposed it made perfect sense. “Was that why you wanted to see my dad come home?”

  Milo nodded, and a handful of dragonflies flew away.

  She had never met another kid with a dad in the war. “When does he come home?”

  Milo hesitated again. “Forty days.”

  Because her dad had come home almost three months early, Lucy imagined it only got harder as that homecoming day approached. Time stretched when waiting for the best of things, like birthdays or Christmas. Waiting for a dad to come home was like waiting for every good thing that will ever happen, combined.

  “This will help me pass the time,” Milo said, holding on to the Purple Heart.

  “My dad has one,” Lucy said.

  “I figured.”

  Lucy was glad he didn’t ask about Dad’s arm. She didn’t want to talk about it. Probably the same way he didn’t want to talk about his own dad; otherwise, he would have already. She thought about Tabitha, Rubin and Trina back in Chicago, how sometimes, on a bad day, quiet togetherness was just as important as laughing on a good day. How friendship was just as much about what you said to each other as what you didn’t.

  She’d gone a long time without a friend.

  Eventually, one by one, the dragonflies had better places to be. They fluttered here and there in between the leaves and low against the water, like fairy sprites. And in all the commotion and chaos of her life, all the uncertainty that seemed to just keep coming, Lucy was overcome by a feeling of momentary peace. She would never look at dragonflies the same way again. They were forever tied to Milo.

  “I think you found your talent, even if it is mostly useless.” Milo grinned, looking after the dragonflies. “Thank you.”

  Lucy thought about her friendless year. How she’d look across the school yard at the clumps of girls laughing so easily with each other, touching each other’s hair or blowing dandelions together, sharing their secret wishes. She knew that was something she wanted, with an unexpected feeling of desperation, but didn’t know how to achieve. Because her attempts at talking to the Dandelion Girls—did you know the word dandelion comes from the French dent de lion, which means “lion’s tooth,” because that’s what the leaves look like?—had made her feel strange, as though she were a clumsy giant plodding through their fairy kingdom. The way they’d looked at her. Especially Linda McCollam.

  So Lucy had gathered it up, all her feelings of hurt and loneliness, and pressed them down and down where they cooked and crushed like igneous rocks deep inside the earth. Easy peasy. Instead of trying again, and maybe again, she went to the library, where the facts she read about didn’t look at her funny or whisper to each other behind her back. But those facts didn’t listen to her sadness, either, or keep good company.

  Maybe it was time for Lucy to think about what came next.

  12

  cans and string

  Grandma Miller called every Wednesday night—rain or shine, through sickness and in health—at seven o’clock sharp. It was the only evening during the week that Grandma wasn’t
otherwise engaged, or so she said. No bridge, no volunteering for the Junior League. No teas, garden parties or quilting groups. Wednesday was Grandma’s “Me” day, and she’d often remind Mom and Lucy of it. They were lucky, she’d said many times, that she found time to call them at all.

  And every Wednesday night, Lucy prepared herself for Grandma’s nonstop talking. Grandma didn’t believe in question marks.

  Your last letter could have used better penmanship. I won three penmanship awards when I was your age. Schools these days are not what they used to be.

  Your mother tells me you aren’t starting with the Junior League until the fall. That is a bit late. Most girls are well under way by junior high school.

  I’ve sent a packet of seeds for your garden. Zinnias. Every garden needs zinnias.

  By the time Lucy would hand the phone over to Mom, Lucy felt as though she’d been poked repeatedly with a sharp stick.

  This Wednesday was no different.

  “We’ll be there on Saturday, of course. I assume there is much to do for your father’s party, and we want to be helpful. Don’t force your mother to remind you to get a bag ready. We aren’t leaving without you. Grandpa and I simply won’t take no for an answer.”

  Lucy tried to tell Grandma that she was in the process of making a friend. That she was also involved in an important task. Maybe even a heroic task, depending on the outcome. Lucy wondered if they might even get their names in the papers.

  KIDS REUNITE PURPLE HEART WITH WOUNDED WARRIOR!

  It was possible, anyway. But Grandma, as usual, wasn’t listening. Except to herself.

  When Lucy finally handed the phone back to Mom, relieved that it was over, Dad said, “You should go. You know how much Grandpa wants to take you fishing.”

  He sat at their small dining room table next to a pile of reference books on blood disease. The table was a rattan upgrade Mom had brought home from the apartment complex. They were remodeling the clubhouse.

  Lucy couldn’t imagine leaving, couldn’t imagine spending one more minute away from her father. She was heartbroken he didn’t feel the same way. So heartbroken, she couldn’t find the words to respond.

  Later, Mom and Dad were in their room whisper-fighting about it, Dad insisting Lucy would be better off sent away. At least for a little while.

  “She’s watching you, Anthony. She’s watching every choice you make right now.”

  “That’s my point! I don’t want her following me around, watching me. I can’t think straight.”

  “What will that say to her, if you send her away?”

  While Lucy tried not to listen, she laid out the three photos from inside the helmet on her nightstand: the man and the little girl, the girl and the boy, and the blustery-haired woman. All three were taken at the beach, on a blanket spread out across the sand. The picture of the man and the little girl had names written on the back: Johnny and Amanda, 1963.

  Had Johnny come back home and buried his helmet and his family? Did that mean he’d left them? Or had he died and someone else did it for him?

  And if he had left his family, what was the final straw?

  A wife who fought with him?

  A daughter who followed him around too much?

  Lucy wanted to gather as much information as she could so she would understand what to watch for in her father, what sorts of things might drive a person right over the edge. Then, at least, she would know what not to do.

  * * *

  —

  By Thursday, Lucy was caught up in Rossi family pandemonium. With Dad’s Welcome Home party this weekend, everyone was going crazy making food and plans. And even though there had been no word on Stanford Hospital, Dad seemed optimistic, while also compiling a list of other possibilities, so Lucy felt that way, too. At least about his job prospects.

  Lucy and Milo also came up with a plan. Milo sketched multiple copies of the insignia for the Dirty Thirty, and they decided to ride their bikes to the Veterans of Foreign Wars and the American Legion. In both places, they would explain what they had found and what they were trying to do. Lucy suggested they go to the city library and see Ms. Lula, since she had access to more information than President Nixon.

  Lucy had asked Uncle G about Milo. He informed her that Milo was an only child and that his mom was working back in North Carolina. That usually she came during the summer for a visit with Milo, but not this summer. He told her that Milo was staying through August, as his family thought it might be nice for him to have a change of scene, a vacation of sorts.

  “Why didn’t you tell me his dad was in Vietnam?”

  Uncle G smoothed back his wavy hair. “If Milo wants to talk about his personal life with you, then he can. It’s not my story to tell.”

  Which was true, but also extraordinarily frustrating.

  It seemed Uncle G knew something Lucy didn’t.

  On Friday, Lucy and Milo were set to visit the American Legion, but one of the Joes got sick with food poisoning, so it was up to Lucy to fill in his meatball delivery schedule. When she told Milo they’d have to go later in the day, he asked to help. That way they could finish in half the time because Lucy wouldn’t have to go back to the deli for a second round.

  Because most of her family would be in and out of the deli preparing food for Dad’s party, she worried, of course, that Milo would take one look at the more colorful members of her family and she’d never see him again. Besides losing the only friend she’d been able to make in San Jose, he’d go about the Purple Heart mission without her, and then she’d have no way of proving to her dad she was still his brave, strong girl.

  Lucy tried to suggest that they meet after she was finished with her work, but Milo wasn’t having it. He wanted to meet the rest of her family. She reluctantly agreed.

  When she rode her bike over to pick him up, Mrs. Bartolo was on the porch, holding a ladder in place. Milo hung a hummingbird feeder, its bright pink liquid sloshing.

  “I don’t know what I’d have done without Milo this summer,” Mrs. Bartolo said to Lucy as she walked up with her bike. “It seems like everything is falling apart at once.”

  “Grams, you’re the one who taught me how to do all this stuff.”

  “Yes, but it’s nicer to drink lemonade and watch someone else do it,” Mrs. Bartolo said, and snort-laughed.

  As they rode their bikes from Mrs. Bartolo’s to the Pink Kitchen Deli, all Lucy could think about was the Frank Sinatra music that would be blaring and the gilt-framed photo of the Pope and Nonnina’s urn. So by the time they stopped in front of the bright pink building that was the same bright pink as Papo Angelo’s kitchen at home, which he had never changed from Nonnina’s original design—and declared he never would so long as he was in his right mind and free from drooling—Lucy was ready to fall over from pure thinking-exhaustion and anticipated embarrassment.

  “It’s like Pepto-Bismol,” Milo said with wonder.

  “I should warn you . . .” Lucy said, but had absolutely no idea what else to say that might prepare Milo for the rest of her family, so she didn’t say anything at all.

  Great-Aunt Lilliana and the other two Belly Button Aunts—Ida and Florence—were Papo Angelo’s sisters. Each aunt wore a white butcher’s apron, her hair pinned up in a net. They spoke Italian, cackling and laying fresh dough out on white bedsheets as Lucy and Milo walked in. Papo Angelo stood behind the counter running prosciutto through the meat slicer with his thick hands. He wore a shower cap, insisting it was far more hygienic than hairnets.

  “Why are you slicing prosciutto instead of helping?” yelled Great-Aunt Lilliana to Papo, motioning to the crank machine she was using to flatten the dough. “My shoulder isn’t getting any younger!”

  “You rather slice the prosciutto, sis?”

  “Lucia! Grab a couple of hairnets!” Great-Aunt Lilliana threw her hand in the air, her
large diamond ring sparkling. When Lucy and Milo didn’t move quickly enough, she went on. “Why are you two just standing there like a couple of yokels?” She pointed at Lucy with one crooked finger. “You. Go fetch me another bag of flour. And you”—she pointed to Milo—“grab the cooler in the back and load six packs of meatballs from the freezer. Plus bring me some eggs. Chop-chop.” Great-Aunt Lilliana clapped her hands, sending a puff of flour into the air.

  “Not hairnets, shower caps!” Papo Angelo reminded everyone.

  “His name is Milo, for the record,” Lucy said to no one in particular.

  Lucy and Milo tucked their hair into shower caps, Lucy’s blue, Milo’s green, both clearly marked HARRAH’S RENO from Papo’s last gambling trip. Lucy then led Milo to the back room and handed him the cooler they used for deliveries. Next, she took him into the walk-in freezer stocked with meatballs and all the other packaged meat Papo had gotten on his last meat run. Stock was running low.

  “Sorry about this,” Lucy said, meaning the shower caps, but ended up gesturing to everything.

  “Who’s that?” Milo asked, pointing to a large portrait of Nonnina that hung on the freezer wall.

  “That’s my grandma. Papo likes to hang her picture everywhere. He’s afraid he’ll forget what she looks like. She died two years ago.”

  Milo nodded, looking serious. “She has very red hair.”

  Which was true. Nonnina used to get her hair dyed every month by a lady named Vera, who wore hotpants. The aunts used to cluck about it at family gatherings as though it was a tragedy, like Romeo and Juliet, only with hair. Although whether they meant the red hair or Vera’s hotpants, Lucy was never sure.

  They hurried back out, and Milo set the cooler on the pink Formica table next to the refrigerated case of sliced lunch meat and salads. Lucy showed Milo how to stack the meatballs in the coolers. Then they went outside to attach the coolers to the handlebars of their bikes with Papo Angelo’s bungee cords.

  When they went back inside for the list of deliveries, Great-Aunt Lilliana spied Milo up and down. “You’re Italian.”