Maybe Jonah didn’t believe in a curse, but I could tell he was interested. Just as he started to answer, we heard Toast bellow from somewhere in the house:
“Pickett! Okay if I play your piano?”
“Sure,” Jonah yelled back. His yell must have woke up the storm, because suddenly the clouds split apart and the rain fell, hard and heavy against the roof.
Deluge
Waterwall
Silver, stormy, star curtain
I wrote down the words dripping down the windows of Jonah’s kitchen.
“Let’s focus on you doing the Duel,” Jonah said. “But maybe we could look at the riddle, too, if that makes you feel better.”
“Yes! I made you a copy.” I ripped the page I’d written for Jonah out of my book. He just sighed and shook his head. “Have you written any poems yet?”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “But Florentine says she’ll help me.”
As Jonah popped open the container of Dr. Zook’s Mean Gene’s Mocha Coconut, the sound of soft piano music drifted through the house. As I listened, I wondered if there was any story in the world better than music, a wordless and weightless lullaby wind, prone to fly right off pages and strings. No wonder people in Midnight Gulch could put their problems aside back when the Brothers Threadbare were around. No wonder it was the happiest town in the world.
Truly, when Toast said he wanted to play the piano, I thought he’d pound out something like “Jingle Bells.” I didn’t know he was a bona fide baby Mozart. “He can play the daylights out of that piano, can’t he?”
“He can play anything. It’s like he makes an instrument say everything he’s afraid to say for real.” Then Jonah grinned at me in his secret-keeping way. “I call this tune ‘The Storm Song.’ Watch the windows, Flea. You’re gonna love this….”
As the thunder growled louder, Toast pounded the piano keys harder, and the song changed from something lonesome and haunted to a peppy tune that belonged on a Broadway stage. The song sounded bright, and happy. It reminded me of sunlight and wildflowers, leaps and kicks.
Suddenly, the thunder stopped rumbling.
The rain squiggling down the windows paused midway.
The shy September sun peeped its bald head through the clouds and shone through the kitchen windows.
My heart kicked in rhythm with the plucky piano music:
Yes and
Yes and
Yes, yes, yes!
By the time the music died down, the storm was over.
“Guess I better head out.” Toast trudged back into the kitchen and shoved his books into his backpack. “Later, Pickle. Later, Pickett.” He saluted us both from the doorway.
I said good-bye but I don’t think Toast heard me over the kitchen door banging shut.
“Jonah. Did he just make the storm stop?”
Jonah grinned. “Have I told you about the Terry family magic?”
Jonah pushed a carton of Blackberry Sunrise across the table. I pushed it far away from me and reached for the Mocha Coconut instead. Jonah didn’t miss the movement of my hand. He scrunched his eyebrows, but didn’t ask any questions.
“Nope,” I said. “But I heard Oliver say something about them yesterday.”
“They were storm catchers,” Jonah said. “Whenever the drought came and the corn bowed down and the leaves dried up, farmers called on Maude Terry. She’d go stand in the field and sing and the clouds would come rolling in, peaceful easy. The rain lasted for days if Maude Terry called it up. The only problem is that, after she sang up the rain, Maude Terry would lose her voice for a long time. And people called on her so often that she never had a chance to say much. So whenever she was out in the fields, she sang as loud as she could. She sang clear and strong and she tried to make the song even more beautiful than it was the time before.”
“Couldn’t her family help out?” I asked. “You said it was Terry magic. Why’d Maude always have to lose her voice over it?”
“The rest of the Terrys only had a snicker of Maude’s gift,” Jonah said. “Her girls could call up an hour or two of rain, but they moved out of town as soon as they could. And poor old Jester Terry” — Jonah shook his head — “he just sang up swarms of bees. And Maude’s older sister, Hester Terry, sang so screechy-loud that every dog in Midnight Gulch started hollering.”
That made me laugh.
“Nobody had the knack like Maude did,” Jonah said. He inclined his head toward the door. “But I think Toast has a snicker. Maude was his grandmother. Good magic runs in families, too.”
“How do you know so much about so many people?”
“My dad told me her story. After he told me, he always asked me what I’d say if I knew I’d lose my voice — for a year, for a day, for forever.”
Now it was Jonah pushing the Blackberry Sunrise away. “My dad said he heard Maude sing once, back when he was a boy. He said she walked out in the middle of the field and lifted up her arms toward the silver skies. He said the cold wind came first, and rippled against her dress and blew her gray hair away from her face. She sang until the rain fell on her face. She sang until her voice ran out. That was my dad’s favorite story to tell. He says that’s why the weather’s so crazy in Midnight Gulch now, because Maude’s not here to sing to the sky.”
“Tell me more about your dad?” I asked.
I didn’t look at Jonah. I looked at my blue book instead. When he didn’t answer my question right off, I was afraid I’d hurt his feelings or drudged up bad memories.
“You’re stalling, Flea.” Jonah’s lip quirked in a half smile. “You need to get some poems down or we won’t have time to practice before the Duel.”
“Practice won’t help,” I assured him.
“Oliver’s bird won’t write a poem for you,” Jonah said. “It just gives you courage.”
“I wasn’t talking about the bird.” I pushed my bangs down over my eyes. “It won’t matter because I’ll still find a way to mess things up.”
“You don’t mess up when you talk to me.”
“Talking to you is different than talking to a big room full of people.”
Jonah picked up the ice-cream container and squinted his eyes toward the trash can. He arched his arm and tossed the carton toward it. THUNK. Perfect shot. Of course it was. Jonah never missed. “Why’s it different?”
“Because I know my words are safe with you,” I said. And my face got hot and tingly. I wiped the side of my face like I could wipe the tingly feeling away. Then I stared down at the blue book.
I heard the whir of Jonah’s wheelchair backing away from the table. He reached for a tall jar on the counter, then settled it gently on the table, right in front of me. I saw little curls of paper tangled up inside.
“My dad’s name is Arly Pickett,” Jonah said. His eyes looked extra-neon green right then. I had a feeling he was about to give me something way more important than a hope tattoo or a carton of ice cream. “He gave me this jar before he got deployed. He filled it up with 365 strips of paper. He told me to pull one piece of paper every single day — but only one. And he said when I got to the last slip of paper … that’s when I would know he was about to come home.”
“He’s coming home soon, then.” There were only a few curls of paper left in Jonah’s jar.
“I hope so,” Jonah whispered.
“What did he write on the papers?” I could only see scribbles on the paper scraps, but full-blown words were floating around in Jonah’s jar:
Hockey puck
Guitar pick
Fishing lure
River run
“He wrote down the things we’ll do together when he gets home again.”
“How do you play hockey?” I asked.
“I play my own way,” Jonah said. “I can’t stand up to hit the puck, obviously, but I can —”
“I didn’t mean that,” I said. “I mean that it’s too hot here. There’s no lake frozen enough to skate on.”
“Street hockey.
” Jonah smiled. And then he countered, “More like garage hockey, actually.”
“Chicken Bristle hockey?” I grinned.
“Exactly!”
“Tell me something else about him,” I said softly.
“He met my mom when they were both in mechanic school. They drove off to their honeymoon in a car they fixed up together.” Jonah reached deep into his pocket. He dropped a small, thin piece of red metal onto the table. “Before Dad got deployed, he gave my mom half of a red heart that he’d made out of a piece of sheet metal. He gave me the other half and told us both that, no matter where he was, no matter how much of the world was sitting between us, his heart was right here.”
Jonah picked up the metal scrap and twirled it between his fingers. “I keep my half in my pocket during the day. At night, I keep it beside my alarm clock. But whenever I wake up in the morning, I’m always holding it tight in my fist. Always. I wish I’d given him something, too, to help him remember me when he’s over there.”
“He doesn’t need any help remembering you,” I said. “Forgetting people you love is impossible. It’d be like forgetting how to breathe.”
“I still wish it, though,” Jonah said. “I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him for a year and I still didn’t give him anything to keep.”
“He keeps all this.” I tapped my fingernail against the jar. “You know how Oliver keeps all those pictures on his bookshelves? I’ll bet your dad keeps all those memories propped up on the walls of his heart. When he gets lonely, he takes one down and thinks about you and remembers.”
Jonah flicked at the tip of the red metal heart. “When he left, and when I talk to him on the phone, I tell him that I love him. That’s all.”
“That’s everything,” I said.
Jonah’s smile faded as he twirled the jagged metal heart between his fingers. He flicked the heart against the table, spun it like a top. “I need to be honest with you about something. I’m not as good as you think I am. Sometimes the best thing about doing Beedle stuff is that it keeps my mind occupied, so I don’t think about what might happen to …”
Dad.
Jonah didn’t say the word. Instead, he flicked the heart so hard it nearly spun off the table. I caught it in my hands and pressed it flat in front of him. I knew the weight of that word. I knew how hard it was to say.
“I still think you’re good. You might as well save your breath from convincing me otherwise.”
Jonah leaned over and tapped the bird on my wrist. “Hope’s a good thing to hold on to, isn’t it? I hope he comes home soon. And I hope we make a million more memories together.”
“I hope for that, too,” I told him.
Jonah glanced up and smiled at me. I smiled back at him.
And no more words passed between us. That day Jonah became more than just a friend who kept my words safe. I realized he was the kind of friend who didn’t mind the silent places. The quiet fell between us like a comfortable old quilt and we both settled into it. Jonah scanned the paper for do-goods. I listened to a bird chirping outside, taking its rare opportunity to sing up at the sunlight. No wonder the storms are so loud and mean in Midnight Gulch, I thought. I’ll bet the sky missed Maude Terry’s sweet lullabies.
“I ain’t dancing!” Cleo hollered. “If I start stomping and jumping, everybody in this building will think there’s an earthquake.”
“Have it your way, then!” Boone shot up off Cleo’s couch and tightened the banjo pegs. His left hand curled around the banjo’s neck. Next he stretched out his right hand. Boone’s banjo picks weren’t flat like guitar picks. Instead, they were pointy and silver and curved like little crowns over the tips of his fingers.
“Holly?” Boone asked. “I know you wanna dance. We got lots to celebrate!”
“What I know is that I haven’t danced in years or painted in so long that I’ll probably make a mess of that Gallery….”
“No more talk like that!” Cleo gave Mama such a hard push, she nearly fell out of her chair. “Cut loose, Holly!”
Boone started picking the banjo so fast I thought sparks might flick off the strings. First, Boone shook his hips back and forth. And then he started shuffling around the floor in his mismatched socks. Biscuit was sniffing out the cowboy boots Boone had kicked off by the couch. This night was definitely a celebration; Boone didn’t kick off his boots for anything.
“Get up, Holly!” Boone hollered.
Mama shook her head no but her foot was already tapping yes, yes, yes. I guess some people love music so much it gets caught up inside them.
Suddenly, Mama shot up out of the chair and twirled around so fast that her hair came loose from its elastic. “You gotta dance, too, Frannie!”
Cleo started clapping a loud rhythm to Boone’s music and so did I. Frannie squealed as Mama spun her around.
“You, too, Felicity.” Mama pulled me up out of my seat. I tried to dance the same as Mama; I let the music tell my feet what to do. I closed my eyes and shuffled back and forth. Then I kicked and I jumped and I spun around so fast that the locket flung up and whopped me in the forehead.
“I love this more than Friday!” Frannie Jo yelled. “I love this more than fireflies! I love this more than cake icing!”
I spun around once more and plopped down in the floor, spindiddly dizzy with happiness.
Until I noticed the brochures sticking out of Mama’s purse.
Seattle. Silver city skylines and squiggly roads on a map. I wondered if the miles would feel even longer now that they’d be separating me from so many people I loved. I thought about Jonah and his dad, how they still talked to each other weekly on the phone, thank goodness. But Jonah missed the physical presence of his dad, too.
I pushed back my sleeve and traced my ink bird. Hope’s coming down for all of us, I reminded myself. Hope was coming down for me at the Duel … once I figured out how to break the curse.
But I had a sudden and fantastical idea for sending hope out to someone else. Someone who needed it even more than me.
Once all the Pickles and Harnesses were snoozing, I snuck down the hall, around Uncle Boone’s sleeping bag, over to the window of Aunt Cleo’s apartment and pushed it open.
SQUEEEEEEEAK.
I cringed at the sound and waited for Cleo to run out of her room, flinging her broom, looking for an intruder. That’s what happened the other night when Boone got up to get a drink of water. Apparently, Cleo forgot he was here and ran in the kitchen and whacked him so hard with the broom that she nearly knocked him into next week.
Nobody got up this time, though. I waited until I heard Boone snoring again. Then I took one of the table chairs and pushed it up close to the window.
Something cold clutched around my ankle and I nearly screamed. Luckily, I glanced down in time to realize it was Frannie Jo and not some mean old shadow. Isabella Thistle’s magic didn’t sound very creepy in the daylight, but it was sure bothering me tonight.
“Go back to bed,” I whispered to Frannie.
“What are you doing?” She climbed up on the chair beside me. “You can’t fly!”
“Why would I try to fly?” I whisper-yelled. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
Frannie Jo didn’t answer.
I sighed. “Stay here if you want but stay quiet. I got work to do.”
“You’ll get in trouble for drawing on yourself.”
“You’ll get in trouble for being out of bed.” I pushed my sleeve up to my elbow and looked at my hope tattoo.
You could win the duel with that, said the selfish half of my brain.
But you don’t need more hope, said the do-good half. You’ve got enough inside you and all around you. You’ve got it in your friends. You’ve got it in your family. You’ve had it all along.
I touched the fine tip of the pen to my wrist, right along the upturned feathers of the dove. The ink was so cold I felt every letter as I wrote the words on my skin. Sweet as cotton candy:
And then I threaded the rest of
the letters underneath it:
Next I pressed my lips against my wrist. “I know you’re not a carrier pigeon,” I whispered. “And I don’t know if you fly long distances….”
“Why are you talking to it?” Frannie asked.
“Shhh,” I told her, returning my full attention to the bird. “I don’t know exactly what you do, but I’d be grateful if you’d deliver that message to Arly Pickett … for Jonah.”
“Jooonah,” Frannie Jo said. She made kissy noises with her mouth.
“Hush,” I said.
“You hu —” Frannie gasped. “Felicity … your ink bird … it’s fluttering.”
Sure enough, the bird on my wrist shook out its feathers until it was puffed up proud and strong. Then it stretched its wings open wide and flew off my wrist, taking my words along with it. I saw one last flicker of Oliver’s bird before it sailed out the window and blended into the night.
“The bird was my only good luck charm.” I gulped. The Duel was coming. Mama was leaving. And I just sent all my courage out the window. “Guess I’m on my own now.”
Frannie Jo slipped her hand inside mine. “You’re not on your own. You still got me.”
“Tell me the truth, Florentine. Don’t hold back. I can handle constructive criticism.” I wrung my hands together, round and around, while she scanned my first poem. Showing Florentine my words made me so nervous that I couldn’t shut up talking. Florentine read silently. I figured she was trying to think of a nice way to tell me the poems stunk. I sighed. “They’re horrible, aren’t they? I can write a new batch. I still have a few days.”
“They ain’t horrible.” Florentine turned the page, her dark eyes scanning my next set of lines. “These words are marvelous.”
I felt light-headed. “… Really?”
Florentine nodded. “These are fine words you got here. And Jonah says you got Oliver’s dove to keep you calm and steady on stage. I’d say you’re about to have a fine dueling day.” She winked at me and handed the blue book back.
A Snicker of Magic Page 15