PJ leaned forward. “How old were you, Mrs. Martins?”
“A few years older than you, my girl. But remember I grew up under a terrrrrible past political system that was hell on earth. I didn’t need some minister to tell me about an abstract hell. We lived it, hey? I thought to myself, I have responsibility for my own soul in the same way I have responsibility for my body. Exercise, eat the rrrrright foods, no cigarettes or booze. In the same way, feed and exercise the soul. Think. Change political darkness to light in the community. Spread goodness. Swim, walk in the mountains. Feel God’s abundance. Be aware, hey?”
“You make it sound so simple, Mrs. Martins,” said PJ. She remembered Lemon Pie’s b-mail about spreading seeds from the sacred fig tree that started to bear fruit again when the politics of South Africa changed.
“It is simple, PJ. Create a special energy around yourself to give others joy, hope. God supplies the raw material. It’s up to us what we do with it.”
“Ruth did a lot.”
“That’s it! Otherwise you wouldn’t be rrrrrunning around asking all these questions, my girl.”
That evening, PJ sat on her window seat and replayed everything she had learned that day, the beach activities, and all the thoughts she had shared with Mr. Flax, Mr. Santos, and Mrs. Martins. Breezes brought the smell of the ocean right into her room. She could hear the comforting and familiar sound of Mrs. Patel’s melodic metal chimes across the road. The moon was crystal clear, like a circle of pure ice in the sky, forming a perfect triangle with two brilliant stars. The owls were silent tonight, or perhaps it was too early? Her dad was watching TV downstairs, but all she could hear was a faint murmur.
A feeling of peace came over her for the first time in days. Her mind wasn’t racing like a bicycle going downhill without brakes anymore, but she knew this was also probably because she felt weary in a nice way. Outside, the rosebush was just a dark shape against the fence. She could also see the outlines of the little orange trees and the small pink and red flowering bushes she had planted within view of her windows to attract bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds.
PJ especially loved the idea that Mr. Splitzky’s bees might visit her flowers and keep caterpillars away. One day she would taste his honey and know that some of that nectar came from her garden.
The breezes shifted outside. Now she could hear the gentle hollow sounds of Ms. Naguri’s bamboo chimes. They mingled beautifully with Mrs. Patel’s metal chimes. What could she choose for one of her trees to harmonize with their music? Bells, perhaps?
That reminded her of Ms. Lenz and her cluster of bell-like copper curls with their sweet ring only PJ could hear. Maybe that was what composers could hear, noises and rhythms in people and nature that were silent to everyone else? Wasn’t that the sort of thing Mrs. Martins was describing about creating something out of God’s raw material?
Could composers hear the moon? People were always singing to or about the moon. So if the moon absorbed all those songs and those lovely tunes, surely it could sing back?
Thinking about the moon reminded PJ of something Ruth had said when they discussed the moonbow on their last time together in Mr. Splitzky’s barn. What was it? Nothing goes unnoticed in nature.
Which meant everything Ruth had done with the birds and animals had found an even wider response in nature.
The late spring night became chillier, so PJ climbed into bed, but since she couldn’t see the moon anymore, she pulled her candy-striped comforter and pillow off her bed and arranged them on the window seat. She could stretch full-out there and look up and see the moon looking back at her. As she drifted off she could swear she heard the flute music that Ruth loved.
Something startled her awake.
“Pssst, PJ?” Oohoo came hopping in the window and plopped right on top of her.
“Give me a break, Oohoo,” said PJ, sitting up.
“We heard buzz on the birdvine about your art show coming up at school. What are you planning?”
“Oohoo, not now,” PJ said wearily. “Can we talk about this during the weekend?”
“The guys are excited, PJ.”
“Yeah, right. But these are early days, OK? I can’t even draw anything at the moment.”
“Ooooh, PJ, that’s not good. How can we help?”
“I’ll let you know. Thanks a bunch, Oohoo.”
“OK, kiddo,” Oohoo said reluctantly, and swooped back noisily into the night.
Mrs. Picklelime came home so early for the weekend that PJ was surprised to find her mom fixing coffee and baking biscuits in the kitchen for breakfast. It was before dawn!
Overjoyed, PJ hugged her tightly. “I’ve missed you, Mom.”
Her mom kissed the top of her head. “Missed you, too, honey. More than you can imagine.” Ruffling PJ’s hair, she said, “I’m back for good now. Hey, you’re beginning to get that wild look again. When did you last brush it?”
“C’mon, Mom,” PJ giggled. “It’s my trademark!”
“Well, I guess it beats tattoos or piercings.”
They sat together and PJ shared everything she had been told since Ruth’s death.
“Time helps make sense of things that seem overwhelming right now,” said her mom. “At least it did for me.”
“I feel angry, Mom. Why is an awful person like Mr. Tweety still around but Ruth isn’t?”
“Why do you think?”
“I’d like to think it’s because he needs to wind up in jail.”
“Sounds good. At least his cruel business is ruined.”
Thanks to Ruth, Josh, the gulls, and me, PJ thought. She got up to pour orange juice for them both.
Mrs. Picklelime watched her. “How are you and Dad doing, honey?”
PJ shrugged. “We keep the place clean and water the plants. We don’t pig out on junk food, if that’s what you mean.” PJ lifted her head and listened. “I think he’s still fast asleep.”
“So, why don’t we leave him hot biscuits and coffee and take our breakfast down to the beach for some yoga together?”
“Great idea, Mom, only …” PJ looked at the clock. “Wait a minute. I’ll be right back.”
While her mom packed a picnic basket, PJ went to her room to get ready. After closing the door firmly, she changed into a fleecy orange hooded sweatsuit, opened her windows, curved her thumb and first finger against her lips, and gave several short, sharp whistles.
Within minutes, the barn owls and Oohoo—with Domino clinging to her—came flying across from Mr. Splitzky’s barn and from one tree to the next until they landed on PJ’s window ledge.
“Guys, I’d like you to meet my mom. We’re going down to the beach. Why don’t you and the gulls meet us near the waterfall?”
“Hooo. Way to go, PJ!” Oohoo said. Tyto and Monkey Face preened themselves and used one another’s eyes as mirrors to tidy their feathers with their wing tips.
At that point, Squirt came leaping in from the pecan tree, determined to be included. PJ thought for a moment and then went to get the water-bottle carrier she used for cycling in the hot summer months. Its long cylindrical shape was perfect for transporting Squirt.
She waved goodbye to the owls and closed the window. “OK, Squirt. Here goes,” she said. She picked him up, lowered him slowly into the carrier, and slung it over her shoulder.
When Mrs. Picklelime saw him, she chuckled and said, “Well at least you’re not trying to hide him from me anymore!”
“You knew?” PJ said in surprise. Squirt popped his head out over the rim of the carrier and started his brrrkbrrrkbrrrk.
“Come on, PJ. Don’t you think I did the same thing at your age?”
“Oh, Mom, why didn’t you say something?”
Her mom laughed. “Oh no. That spoils the fun.”
They packed the car with blankets, cushions, the picnic basket, and a thermos and drove out toward the clifftop as dawn began to break. Winds bit their cheeks and swayed the sea oats.
PJ and her mom hauled the pic
nic things down to the beach by Mrs. Patel’s favorite waterfall. The tide was pulling out forcefully. It left long stretches of seaweed scattered across the wet sand. Sandpipers scurried about pecking furiously at tiny crabs.
They spread a blanket out, kicked off their sandals, and started the sun salutation. As if on cue, a tiny curve of the sun’s golden orb peeked over the horizon. With a flurry of beating wings, gulls swooped down from their nests in the cliffs. PJ raised a finger to her lips, as if to tell them that this was a silent exercise.
The birds encircled mother and daughter and bowed down in unison to repeat the sun salutation. Then others swooped down, including Oohoo, Domino, Monkey Face, Tyto, Big Gull, and Little Gull. Squirt jumped out of the water carrier and arched his back.
PJ had never seen the group like this. She then realized they would be different and more formal around her mother, of course, and not act out and talk over one another or goof about as they did with her.
Her mom didn’t seem at all surprised to be surrounded by birds doing yoga exercises. Mrs. Patel had taught both PJ and her mom a few asanas in the garden, so maybe critters and bugs had been mimicking them then, too?
The birds and Squirt followed PJ’s every move. They ended with the tree pose, standing on one leg with the other bent inward, wings or paws pressed together above their heads.
Suddenly one of the gulls toppled over and knocked the next one, who knocked the next. Gull giggling and squawking and caw-cawing and funny owl sounds broke the silence. They all tumbled over one another and rolled around PJ until she wheeled right along with them.
Mrs. Picklelime cupped a hand over her mouth and said, “PJ, you’re all making me seasick. I’ve never seen birds and squirrels behave like this anywhere!”
“Oh, come on, Mom! You told me you used to prowl around at night watching raccoons and so on. Didn’t they goof about for you?”
“Well, not like this.” She laughed. “Birds frolic in time like fools in sand, wind, and brine, but only for you, PJ, my little Sunshine Picklelime.”
“Oh, Mom, stop. You embarrass me.” PJ blushed. “Do they teach you poetry along with counseling?”
Her mom smiled and reached into the basket for their breakfast. Realizing she was surrounded by many pairs of hungry eyes, Mrs. Picklelime opened a bag of birdseed and began tossing the seeds around the circle.
As if from nowhere, dozens of birds materialized and swooped down to share the feast, grabbing seeds from under the beaks of others. Mrs. Picklelime rose, but PJ touched her arm. “It’s OK, Mom. I packed plenty, just move back a little.” She sat next to her mom on the blanket and they shared fruit salad and warm biscuits and blackberry jam. Mrs. Picklelime poured herself a steaming cup of coffee, and orange juice for PJ.
PJ threw chunks of biscuit in the air. Gulls rose, snapping bits in midflight. Squirt jumped up to catch pieces they dropped.
Mrs. Picklelime got up after a while and said she felt like stretching her legs, so PJ packed away the breakfast things in the basket. As soon as her mom was out of earshot, she turned to her friends.
“You guys were magnificent,” she said as they clustered around her.
“I could have done without them,” snorted Big Gull, nodding his head toward two large black crows. “Sooooo noisy! And look at those cruel hard beaks jutting out between those beady little crow eyes!”
“Big Gull, you surprise me,” said PJ. “Everyone’s welcome here!”
“Yeah, c’mon, BG, where’s your community spirit, you old buzzard?” Little Gull piped up.
PJ lifted her head and glanced over at the big crows. “Crow friends? Come and meet the gang.”
The crows looked at one another and back at PJ. “You mean us?” one asked, his large beak snapping open and shut like a trapdoor.
“Sure. Come and join us!”
They walked over slowly, one foot planted warily in the sand after the other. “Charles Crow the Third. Just call me Chuck,” said the bigger one, extending a black wing tip to PJ.
“Cathy Crow the First. Just call me Cathy,” chortled the other crow.
“Are you guys together?” PJ asked.
“We are,” they chorused.
PJ introduced them all around and invited them to join their next beach-yoga session. The crows thanked her but said they were “just passing through” and needed to continue on their journey, miles up the coast, to a forest of spruce and maple where several of their grown-up chicks lived. Then, black wings spread out, they said goodbye and lifted off heavily from the beach, leaving huge claw prints in the sand.
“Guess I misjudged them,” said Big Gull, head tilted back as he watched the crows fly higher and higher.
“I’m sorry they’ve gone,” Domino piped up suddenly. Everyone looked at the baby magpie in surprise. “I’m the only little black-and-white guy around and I liked looking at them,” he said as the crows shrank to tiny dots in the sky.
Oohoo wrapped Domino in her wings and held him close to her chest. “Hey, ink spot. I’m every color of brown, won’t I do?”
“I guess so,” Domino said, his funny little voice all muffled against Oohoo’s soft feathers.
“Get real, kiddo!” added Big Gull. “We’re also half
and half,” he said. He twitched his polka-dot tail.
Squirt began cartwheeling around the circle to show off his gray fur. He jumped onto PJ’s shoulder and draped himself around her neck like a scarf.
PJ spotted her mother wandering toward them, trailing a length of seaweed behind her. “OK, gang,” said PJ, “what’s this I hear about a bunch of gulls chasing Helicopter Pete out of town?”
Big Gull and Little Gull made a great show of looking from left to right and cawing over one another, “What?” “Who?” and “What’s this neighborhood coming to?”
PJ chucked them playfully under their beaks. “You guys. Don’t get too reckless,” she said, mimicking Mrs. Patel’s advice to her. Then she said, “Let’s keep this short. You wanted to talk about the art show?”
They all ooohed and cawed in agreement.
“You’ve given me great ideas today,” she said, and shared some suggestions they all liked. “But keep it a secret. Off you go, then, gang. Let’s see what you can do.”
Her bird friends hopped and bounced off along the beach and into the sky, where they dipped and swirled above mischievously, practicing some yoga twists in midair. Mrs. Picklelime stopped in her tracks and framed them with her hands as though capturing a private snapshot.
“PJ, your drawings are beginning to make more sense to me,” she said.
PJ held her breath, reluctant to say anything about her creative block after such a perfect morning. She rose and began shaking sand off the blanket while her mom collected the rest of their things.
“What about Squirt?” Mrs. Picklelime eyed the squirrel, still draped around her daughter’s neck. “Is he going home with us like that?”
“Of course!” said PJ, tugging his tail. “Aren’t I nicer than the water-bottle carrier?”
blackbirds
Mrs. Patel found PJ in the back garden, frantically spinning the compost bins around and around. “Child, stop. You’re making the earthworms dizzy,” she said, tilting her head from side to side.
“I need to do crazy things, Mrs. Patel.”
“How so?”
PJ took a step back. The bin continued to swing to and fro for a few minutes. “I still can’t seem to sketch anymore.”
“PJ, that’s enough. Go and change and wash your face and hands. Evi Lenz has invited us to watch her make a new batch of Lemon Nectar truffles. I have slivers of lemon peel for her right here,” she said, holding up a bag.
“But I’m—”
“No buts, PJ. I’ll wait for you at the front gate.”
Ten minutes later, PJ appeared in ripped jeans, a huge T-shirt fashioned out of recycled sugar sacks, and sandals shaped out of old car tires. Expecting Mrs. Patel to say something like, What will you wear ne
xt, child? she was surprised when Mrs. Patel nodded her approval and said, “Aha, much better.”
Off they went on foot to the Dream. They arrived just as Ms. Lenz lifted the cover off a large pot of melted white chocolate on a hot plate at the back of the shop. A sweeter-than-usual fragrance filled the air.
“Oh, perfect timing, Shanti and PJ. Come over here and watch me,” she said. She thanked them for the lemon slivers and emptied the bag into a special shaker. She placed the slivers next to her other tools—a funnel, corn flour, and little silver forks—all lined up on wax paper covering a large silver tray beside the hot plate.
She explained that handmade truffles had to be crafted very carefully according to temperature, to make sure the semisoft truffle filling mix of chocolate and lemon nectar did not fall apart when dipped in melted chocolate.
“Before we dip balls of chocolate-and-lemon-nectar mix in here,” she said, stirring the pot of warm white chocolate, “I have to make sure the consistency is just right.”
They watched wide-eyed as Ms. Lenz brought a slab of the mix from a cool spot in her shop and placed it on the wax paper. To PJ, it looked like a block of white fudge. Ms. Lenz scooped out a generous tablespoonful and squeezed it through the funnel to create the perfect size for the first truffle.
“My hands have to be dry and not too warm,” she said. So she patted corn flour on her hands before rolling the young truffle into a smooth ball between her palms. She then stuck the tiny silver forks into either end of the truffle, dipped it in the pot of thick liquid chocolate, and placed it on the wax paper.
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