Finally she shaped the surface with the forks, sprinkled the truffle with lemon peel, and let it cool while she prepared a second truffle.
Nodding at the two little lemon truffles and then at PJ and Mrs. Patel, she said, “Go ahead, ladies. Those are for you.”
“Brilliant,” said PJ as she popped one in her mouth. It dissolved faster than anything she had tasted before. The tiny lemon-peel slivers tickled her tongue.
“Goodness,” said Mrs. Patel, fanning herself. “Quite intoxicating! My, oh my, Evi. Sure you haven’t added anything stronger than lemon to the mix?”
Ms. Lenz laughed and shook her head. Her copper curls bounced around, and PJ really did hear bells ringing.
Once they’d recovered from the shock of tasting freshly made truffles, Mrs. Patel helped to squeeze the mix through the funnel, Ms. Lenz rolled the raw truffle between her palms, and PJ used the little forks to dip and shape it.
As the trio worked together in harmony, Ms. Lenz explained that people like her who came from a long line of chocolatiers took special care of the tools of their craft. “We call this cooking pot trampier,” she said. Holding up the little silver fork, she added, “And this is the trampier-gabel.”
She showed PJ how to use the fork to “pockmark” some of the truffles to look like little lemons, as a variation on those sprinkled with peel.
The fragrance of white chocolate and lemon became even more intense. PJ studied the rows of perfect truffles. The circular shapes reminded her of the stepping stones in Ms. Naguri’s garden. “Ms. Lenz,” she said suddenly, “do you meditate when you make truffles?”
Again, more laughter. “I like working calmly and consistently,” she explained. “Yes, anything you do over and over to try and achieve perfection is meditative. Today it’s different.” She began to place several truffles in a special box. “I’m taking these to Ruth’s parents. They’ve sat shiva—that’s a week of mourning when friends and family join them in daily prayer in their home. Everyone brought food. But it’s time I brought them something sweet. It’s traditional in my family.”
“You mean these truffles are sort of … blessed, Ms. Lenz?” PJ asked.
“Perhaps, yes,” she agreed. “Ruth is in my heart right now.”
“Then no ‘perhaps’ about it!” Mrs. Patel said. “The truffles are blessed.”
Tears began to prickle PJ’s eyelids. She tried to brush them away.
“It’s perfectly OK to cry, child,” Mrs. Patel said.
“We have all lost someone who is dear to us,” Ms. Lenz said. “But there are always others who need our friendship just as much.”
“And need your chocolate, too, Evi,” Mrs. Patel added, helping herself to another truffle and offering one to PJ.
PJ closed her eyes, remembering the day she took lemon truffles to Ruth and Josh. The truffle melting in her mouth right now tasted totally different. It seemed to fill her ears and her whole head and lift her feet off the ground. She couldn’t speak. It was comforting to be with two adults who didn’t expect her to say anything.
Evi Lenz touched PJ’s cheek. “Mrs. Patel says you do wonderful pastels. Bring your sketch pad here next time?” Pointing at the formal pictures of chocolates on the walls, she said, “Boring, aren’t they? I’m a rebel, PJ. I want you to draw dancing truffles, singing truffles, mountain-climbing truffles, flying truffles, truffles on bicycles. Bring them alive for me!”
PJ hesitated. What if she couldn’t deliver? “Are you serious, Ms. Lenz?” she asked.
“I am serious,” said Evi Lenz. “No rush. Think of this as your summer job.”
“Wow,” was all PJ could say.
“Not too fast with your ‘wowing,’ PJ,” said Mrs. Patel. “Your art project for school comes first, remember? Off we go now, child, or your parents will complain Evi and I have ruined your appetite with sweeties!”
PJ couldn’t wait for art class to be able to tell her teacher Mr. Santos about the Chocolate Dream and the request from Evi Lenz. Surely her block would lift by summer?
All morning she could hear him singing Spanish love songs at the top of his rich tenor voice in the studio down the hall, so it was hard for her to concentrate on earlier classes in history and English.
In fact, both Mr. Santos and Mr. Flax, the botany teacher, were busily preparing a large empty space in the big studio for the students’ upcoming end-of-semester art show that PJ now knew was to be titled Art in Nature and Nature in Art.
Groups of students in art or botany had been given wall and display space to do whatever they chose, new works or a collection of works completed during the semester. Themes had to link art and nature in any creative way.
After discussing the project with both Mr. Santos and Mr. Flax, PJ felt inspired to create a sort of storybook presentation of her drawings, starting off with the discovery of Lemon Pie in the yellow rosebush and ending with the tree house and the other birds. At least she could use her existing sketches and not risk being unable to draw anything new.
When she told Mr. Santos about Joshua’s camcording adventures, he suggested they work on a mixed-media presentation in Ruth’s honor.
Joshua said by phone, “In Ruth’s honor? Oh, PJ, if only she could see it and enjoy it!”
“I know,” said PJ. “But it’s also for you and your folks.”
Joshua had missed so much school because of Ruth’s death that he was still trying to catch up. He apologized to PJ since she had to do most of the preparation.
PJ shrugged this off. Perhaps it was best if she worked out her creative blocks on her own, anyway.
During class, Mr. Santos asked PJ how she would like to display her artwork. “You have a choice, PJ,” he said. “Freestanding display boards? Or a scrim?”
“Scrim?” asked PJ, puzzled.
“That huge canvas hanging over there,” he said, pointing at some scenery showing a view of a house and a brick wall, salvaged from a school play staged the year before.
“Maybe the scrim, Mr. Santos,” she said, not entirely convinced this was the best choice. She studied it and tried to see how it might be used. “Can I paint over it?” she asked.
“Of course, PJ.”
PJ wondered how she could do this. Throw pots of paint at it and step back to see the results? Take a random choice of colors and sponge over them? Or to be safe, should she simply use the leftover yellow paint from her room? She had to think about this.
When PJ cycled home later, her mind seesawed between ideas that felt great one minute and dumb the next. She was so caught up in her thoughts, she didn’t notice a sudden wind at first. It seemed to gust in from the sea. Branches swayed. Tins and bottles rolled noisily along the sidewalks. Sea spray trickled down PJ’s cheeks and she had to stop for a minute to dry her hands on her jeans.
Above, flocks of blackbirds lined up on the electric wires as far as the eye could see and then swooped down and swooped up in a bizarre U formation. PJ stopped and watched them. They were noisy and unfamiliar, and smaller than the crows she’d met on the beach.
Were they bringing some sort of message? Was there another oil spill? Or were pirate ships busily hijacking cargo boats out in the bay?
The wind became too strong for her to cycle, so she wheeled her bike the rest of the way home. She hoped her bird friends might swing by to bring news of some kind. But her lawn and window ledge were bare. No one responded to her sharp whistles. Not even Squirt was out there, swinging from one branch to the next. She just had to be patient.
PJ spent the late afternoon unpinning her drawings from the corkboard. She slipped them between the pages of a firm drawing block to keep them nice and flat to transport to school the next day.
She also finally decided to use her leftover yellow paint for the scrim, so she trotted downstairs to ask her dad for the drop cloths, rollers, and tray.
“Are you kids painting the school?” he asked, lowering his newspaper.
PJ explained the upcoming project.
&
nbsp; “Sounds interesting, but art doesn’t put beans on the table, PJ. Don’t get fancy ideas for the future from this project, will you?”
“Dad, this summer I can put beans on the table,” PJ said, and started to tell him about the request from Ms. Lenz.
“That’s great, PJ,” he cut in.
PJ could see his mind was miles away, so she left it at that.
There was nothing on the evening news about the swarms of blackbirds passing overhead. The image kept bothering PJ, so she returned to her room, hoping one of her bird friends would hop in and update her. No such luck.
The blackbirds had looked like a dark cloud announcing something, but what? Later that night, PJ found out. The wind began to howl. Lightning split the sky and lit up her room. Rain slashed down and hit her window-panes with such force that when PJ opened them and put her head out, the rain stung her cheeks. Below, the bamboo fountain filled up with water and started to snap back and forth.
Within moments, Squirt came hurtling onto the ledge. He hopped inside, cold and bedraggled. His tail was so wet and skinny, it made him look like a big rat. PJ dried him and tried to fluff his fur, but all he wanted to do was jump into his tartan-lined box and curl up in a ball.
PJ continued to listen to the storm. Rain rushed along the gutters. It made her feel so restless, she swung her legs out the window and slid down the trellis to the sodden flower bed below. She landed with a squelch.
PJ jumped around in the mud, imagining herself in a batch of chocolate truffle mix. Rain flattened her pajamas against her body and soaked her to the skin in seconds.
She ran onto the lawn and began spinning in circles. The movement reminded her of the way she spun around in Ruth’s tree house for the first time.
She started to cry. Everything that had been bottled up inside her for days came bursting out. She lay facedown on the lawn and covered her head with her arms. The long, wet grass felt soft and sweet against her face.
“PJ, what are you doing?”
She rolled over to find her mom kneeling beside her in a slicker.
“Come on, honey,” Mrs. Picklelime said, taking her daughter in her arms.
“Mom, I’m OK,” PJ sobbed.
“I know what this is about. Come inside. You’ll catch pneumonia if you stay out here.” She lifted PJ off the grass and walked her through the front door, straight into the kitchen. She wrapped her in a huge beach towel and dried her vigorously.
After tossing the towel in the wash, she cocooned PJ in a soft wool blanket and heated up some milk for them both.
“I couldn’t seem to cry before now,” PJ said, stirring the froth on top of her milk.
“Don’t worry, baby, that’s normal. You’ll go through all sorts of highs and lows over the next weeks. It’s important to talk about this.”
“I don’t feel good talking to you or Dad,” PJ admitted. “You have your own problems. I don’t even like being in the house when you’re here at the same time.”
“I know, PJ. I’m so sorry. We’re working on a solution for all our sakes. This won’t take long, I promise you.” Mrs. Picklelime reached out and held her daughter’s hands for a long time.
Comforted by her mother’s warmth, PJ had no need to say anything more. She leaned across the table, kissed and hugged her mom good night, and went upstairs to her room.
Still wrapped in the soft wool blanket, she sat on her window seat, reached for her pad and pastels, and sketched. And sketched. Her hand could hardly keep up with the images that tumbled out of her imagination. She nodded off just before dawn, listening to the dripping trees and the plink-plonk of the bamboo fountain below.
During art class the next day, PJ—well prepared in her now totally paint-crusted jeans and T-shirt—spread out the drop cloths carefully and arranged her tray and rollers so no one would trip over them.
The other kids busied themselves with their own personal displays of art and sculpture. Mr. Santos left them to their creativity, only giving a helping hand when asked.
Using long sweeping movements, PJ began to transform the scrim into the yellow backdrop she wanted for her artwork. The roller went swish, swish, and she needed a ladder to reach the top. The final yellow wasn’t exactly the same as her room color. But it was a bright sunny spot that caught her eye wherever she stood in the large studio.
PJ took a step back when the scrim was finished and studied it carefully. Something was missing. She took another step back, hands on hips.
“What is it, PJ?” Mr. Santos asked.
PJ touched the surface. “It’s just not enough to hang my pictures here.”
“Ah, PJ, sketch whatever is running around in your mind on paper to give you a sense of scale. Then draw vertical and horizontal lines around the images for a grid,” Mr. Santos advised, tapping one hand at right angles to the other to show her. “Later, apply that to the scrim.”
“I want to be freer, Mr. Santos. Not tied to a grid!” said PJ.
“Claro, PJ! But the grid will free you.” “How? It sounds so stiff.”
“PJ, come on. Give it form, life. A house could be a grid. So could a wooden fence. So could a tall tree.”
“A tree? YES!” PJ shouted out loud. “Ruth’s live oak. Of course!”
Classmates all over the studio turned and looked at her in surprise.
“Muy bien!” Mr. Santos said. “You’ll find extra brown and green paint in the storeroom, PJ. Help yourself.”
Before PJ tackled the grid, she cycled over to Ruth’s home and sketched the tree house in its huge live oak host. Soon, Mr. Splitzky would transport it to the Picklelimes’ own garden.
In the morning, she went to school very early to get started. She placed her sketch on an easel for quick reference and began to paint the “grid” of the huge live oak to fill the entire canvas. The lowest branches almost touched the ground. She painted the largest branches across to the edge of the canvas like some curvy mythical sea creature destined to keep growing on and on. She also painted clusters of small, dark green leaves. Finally she painted the tree house resting on two branches and nestled against the mighty trunk.
PJ squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and painted an image of Ruth in her purple T-shirt leaning over the lower half of the door, thick, honey-blond pigtail dangling. PJ’s heart began to beat triple-time. Powerful noises surrounded her as other kids began to fill up the studio to complete their own projects. As an afterthought, she painted Squirt encircling Ruth’s neck, his long bushy tail in full bloom. Of all the rescue pets, Squirt was the closest to Ruth. PJ painted his fur to match Ruth’s eyes.
The effect was beautiful. PJ reached for her other sketches to attach to the branches. She used double-sided tape to avoid hurting the canvas and her artwork. First she attached Lemon Pie on the far left. She stood and stared at him for a long time. Then she took him down and reached for the pot of yellow paint. It didn’t seem right somehow just to hang him there and remove him later. She had an urge to paint him on a branch, peeking out of the dark green leaves. She wanted Lemon Pie and Ruth to be a permanent part of the canvas.
As she daubed splashes of yellow and cream to bring her dear bird buddy alive, head back, beak open, and singing his funny little tune, PJ knew in that instant she would never see him again. There was no reason, no logical reason. She just knew.
Ruth was right. At some point PJ had to let go, to stop hankering, hoping. She just had to keep him alive in her imagination.
Since Lemon Pie was the first bird in her rescue story, PJ painted a much bigger version of him to be sure everyone noticed the warbler. Then, in sequence, she began attaching her other pictures. Sometimes she paused to paint an image directly on the canvas of something she had almost forgotten, such as the gulls flying off like musical notes into the distant sky. Cardy and Mrs. Cardy made beautiful splashes of red on a dark branch above the tree house against the yellow backdrop.
PJ added her images of Big Gull, Little Gull, the Gull Gang, and Messenger
Gull as they dipped, swirled, and swooped in from some far-off cliffside.
Then came the owls. PJ studied her various drawings and decided she needed fresher images, so she put the owl drawings to one side and reached for assorted pots of brown, white, and gray paints. She clustered the owls together on the twisting branch that supported the left side of the tree house. Tyto and Monkey Face contrasted with mottled Oohoo and funny little black-and-white Domino.
PJ folded her arms, stepped back, and assessed her work. The yellow backdrop made the collage of the huge live oak, the tree house, and the collection of pictures vibrate with life.
A quick-action replay of images kept jumping into her imagination, like the magical moonbow. She lined up all the colors and dabbed them in arcs in sequence from memory. Finally, with the help of a ladder, she added a shimmering moon to the top right-hand corner.
“Aaaaaaah, bravo!” Mr. Santos said. “You have made the live oak sing, PJ, sing!” He cupped one hand behind his ear. “Listen how the wind whispers through the branches!”
PJ listened, but still, she felt something was missing. Then it hit her. Of course! She reached for cream and gold paints. Blossom!
She painted the retriever standing upright with his paws against the trunk, head back, barking happily up at Ruth. His caramel color almost matched Squirt’s belly and the flecks in Ruth’s eyes.
Now all they needed was Josh’s video. PJ went off to look for a high stool for his laptop so everything would be ready for him when he arrived.
the art show
PJ was doing laundry when her father came home from work.
“Is Mom here?” he asked.
“No. Not yet.” PJ removed clothes from the dryer and began folding and separating them in piles.
“I’m moving out soon,” he said shortly.
PJ wasn’t surprised. In fact, it was something of a relief. “I know you’re not happy here,” she said. “Why pretend everything’s OK? Where will you go?”
“I’m looking at apartments closer to work,” he told her. “We’ll plan regular visits. I’m not going to disappear!”
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