Mo Wren, Lost and Found

by Tricia Springstubb

  “Uh-huh, sure.” He carried her upstairs, her feet knocking against his thighs. Mo darted ahead, pushing the green chair out of the way.

  “Put her in my bed,” she said.

  Mr. Wren pulled off Dottie’s socks and shoes and settled her under the covers.

  “Look how big she’s getting,” he said softly. “One of these days she’s not going to fit in your bed anymore.”

  Dottie rolled over, kicking off her covers. “The curse,” she muttered. “Corky’s curse!”

  “What’s she been watching?” Mr. Wren frowned, covering her back up. He sat down heavily and picked at a splotch of dried mustard on his knee.

  Uh-oh. Mo had read that Eskimos have over a hundred different ways to say “snow.” What about the Wrens and “uh-oh”?

  “This isn’t the best day in Wren history.” Mr. Wren kept working at the mustard. “I didn’t get the loan, Mo. Small-business loans are almost impossible to score right now, and I don’t have the credit history they want.”

  “That’s stupid! Try another bank, Daddy.”

  “Five. I tried five, Mojo.” Mr. Wren flicked his fingers. “The decision’s unanimous.”

  Mo’s room, usually too cold, felt stuffy, as if all its air was secondhand.

  “You were right,” he went on. “I need to hire help, but there is no way I can afford it now. Me and Handsome. We both lost our tails today.” Setting his hands on his knees, Mr. Wren pushed himself up so slowly, you could almost hear him creak. “I’ve got to figure out how to grow a new one, I guess.” He pulled the covers back over Dottie once again, then rumpled Mo’s hair. “You get to sleep now too.”

  When he was gone, Mo flattened her palms against the stuck window, bent her knees, and pushed upward with all her might. If nothing else, she’d open this dumb window and let some fresh air in! But it refused to budge. The stubborn, ancient caked paint held fast.

  Swimming across the Ocean

  Dottie was in a booth crayoning signs that said last lizerd, big rewad!!!!! when Shawn showed up to ask why they hadn’t been to the Soap Opera. As Mo explained about Handsome, he nodded.

  “I used to have this black cat,” he said. “He was like a mini-panther. Every morning he jumped on my bed. Hellllo? he’d say.” Shawn turned his voice into a cross between a cat’s and a human’s. “Hellllo?”

  Dottie didn’t crack a smile. She was waiting for the end of the story.

  “He was a big thug. One of his ears had this really cool notch in it, from fighting.” Shawn rubbed his eyes and turned away. “It’s awfully dusty in here.”

  “So?” Dottie asked. “Where is he?”

  “He got run over.”

  You’d think a person would run out of tears after a while. But Dottie cried so rarely, she must have stored up an endless supply. Shawn whacked himself in the forehead.

  “Hey. Yo, Dot, guess what? One of these days I’m going to go around the world, and you know why?”

  “Why?” she wept.

  “Because you can’t go through it!”

  Dottie made a snorkeling sound.

  “Look.” He reached into his backpack. “I got a new book, like you recommended.” He held it up.

  “Miseries of the Universe,” Dottie read.

  “Mysteries! For example, how stars run out of fuel and blow up and get pulverized till all that’s left is a little ball of matter so heavy, one teaspoon weighs a million tons.”

  Dottie wiped her eyes, and Shawn, encouraged, said, “I know! We can put up a lost lizard notice at Carmella’s. Everybody reads that bulletin board.”

  “You’re nice,” said Dottie.

  Mo reached for her blue sweatshirt. The weather was turning too warm for it, but still she kept on wearing it. No longer did she worry that someone else might come looking for it. It belonged to her now.

  At the Soap Opera, Homer was out front, cleaning up mushy, snow-flattened trash. Inside, Dottie marched up to Carmella, reached into her pocket, and held out her hand. Handsome’s shriveled-up tail, stuck with bits of pocket fuzz, lay on her palm like something out of a nightmare.

  Carmella pressed a hand to her heart. “Good lord.”

  “When they drop their tail, it wiggles all around like it’s still alive.” Dottie touched the inert tail. “To trick the creditor.”

  “Predator,” said Mo. “She means . . .”

  “I get it,” said Carmella. “Hold on, sugar.”

  She hurried to the lost and found and returned with a big plaid handkerchief. Looking solemn, she wrapped the tail, then set it inside an empty dryer-sheet box.

  “Now the ground’s thawing, you can give it a proper burial,” she told Dottie.

  As Shawn helped Dottie pin up the LOST notice, Carmella put her hands on her hips and turned to Mo.

  “Does your daddy know she’s carrying that thing around in her pocket?”

  “He’s been sort of distracted lately,” Mo said.

  “Hmm.” Disapproving was too mild a word for the look on Carmella’s face. “Too distracted to mind his baby girl?”

  “We’re in big trouble. The banks turned us down. Five banks! He was counting on a loan.”

  There it was, the truth blurted out in one big, ugly blob. Mo hadn’t meant to tell a soul. But she couldn’t have Carmella getting the wrong idea about her father.

  “I don’t know what happened to all the rest of the money.” Mo swallowed. “But if things don’t turn around soon, I don’t know. I don’t know if we’re going to make it.”

  “This reminds me of the woman who tried to swim across the ocean.” Carmella folded her arms on her chest. “She got halfway, then decided she was too tired and swam on back.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Exactly.” Carmella tapped her foot. “You Wrens can’t turn back now.”

  Homer came inside. Wiping his hands on a towel, he read Dottie’s notice.

  “What the big rewad?” he asked.

  “A lifetime of free meals at the Wren House,” Dottie told him.

  “The Wren House? Never heard of it.”

  “The sign still says Corky’s.”

  “Oh,” said Homer. “That place.”

  Carmella stopped tapping her foot and drew Mo over to Number Three. “Remember the day we fixed this?” She patted the machine, running smooth as could be. “Who was helping me when you got here?”

  “Homer.”

  Carmella nodded, that light in her eyes growing brighter.

  “He knows how to do some of everything, from plumbing to electrical. Once he had his own big dream. He meant to run a contracting business. Homes by Homer. But then he hit a skid of rotten luck. He got sick, he lost his job, his girl ditched him, and somehow he never got back on his feet.”

  Homer had settled into his customary seat by the door. It was difficult to imagine the man Carmella described, bustling with plans and ambition.

  “He’s one of those folk who got done in and never got back out. I’m glad he feels at home here. And on his good days, he’s no end of help to me. But I’ve been trying to think how to help ease him out into the world.”

  By now her eyes were practically twin lighthouses.

  “How’d you like a helper?”

  “What?” said Mo.

  “Believe me, he’d be a huge help. And your father could just pay him minimum wage, for now. And some of that cooking you keep bragging on. Good home cooking, that’s one thing I can’t give Homer.” She laughed, showing her crooked teeth. “What do you say, sugar? Think your distracted daddy will consider it?”

  It wasn’t really a question. Or at least, with those eyes on you, there was only one answer.

  Free to a Good Home

  Late Sunday morning, the last day of vacation, Carmella and Homer came to the Wren House. She wore her church clothes, a swirly pink dress and high heels, topped off with a little purple hat that fitted close to her head. Definitely not a lost and found outfit.

  Mr. Wren was in
the middle of knocking out the wall between the two bathrooms. Wiping his gritty palm on his jeans, he shook Homer’s hand.

  “And you’re Carmella.” Mr. Wren wiped his hand again, making extra sure it was clean before he took Carmella’s.

  Mr. Wren showed Homer the pile of rubble that was supposed to turn into a bathroom. Instead of two small rooms, he explained, they needed one big handicapped-accessible one. Homer listened, tapping walls, bending to examine the exposed pipes.

  “Galvanized steel plumbing,” he said. “Long time since I saw that.”

  “Look how rusted out the fittings are,” said Mr. Wren.

  “You got a socket wrench?”

  Carmella gave Mo the thumbs-up. “I think this is going to work.” She hurried away to open the Soap Opera.

  When suppertime rolled around, Homer and Mr. Wren were still working. Mo got out the biscuit mix and stirred up a batch. After she’d popped the tray in the oven, she took the pot of leftover pea soup from the refrigerator and set it on a burner. Squaring her shoulders, ordering herself, Stay calm!, she grasped the stove’s finicky knob. By now she’d memorized just how far her father pushed it in before giving it a quick flick to the right. The gas flames leaped up! But when she pressed and twisted the knob, they obediently sank low.

  “Yes!” She was master of the stove. Mo added a little broth to the soup, and some bits of leftover ham. Back in the dining room, she set a booth with four places and poured glasses of milk.

  “Come and get it!” she called.

  Mr. Wren stared at the steaming bowls of soup and the basket of hot biscuits.

  “Where’d all this come from?”

  “Who cares?” said Homer, sitting down. He spooned up soup, giving a contented grunt between bites. “Sit down.”

  Her father picked up his spoon and laid it back down. Mo decided to get a jump on his lecture.

  “You were here, so it’s not disobeying. Go on, taste it.”

  He did. “Too salty, as usual. I got a lead foot with that saltshaker.”

  “I know how to fix that,” Mo said. “You put a potato in. It absorbs the salt. I saw it at Carmella’s on the cooking channel.”

  Homer was already wiping out his bowl with a biscuit. By the time Mo brought him back seconds, he was telling Mr. Wren what a difference a new breaker box would make. The furnace, though—he was worried about that knocking sound it made. Mr. Wren kept laying down his spoon to make notes.

  “That’s what Daddy needed,” Dottie said later. Their father had left to drive Homer back to the shelter. “He needed a friend.” She climbed the stairs in slow motion, eyes on the ground, on perpetual lookout for Handsome. “I wish it wasn’t school tomorrow.”

  “But you love school. You haven’t seen K.C. or anybody the whole vacation.”

  “What if he comes looking for me and I’m not here? What if he thinks I don’t care about him anymore?” Head down, Dottie bumped into the green chair. “Ow,” she said in a small voice.

  Suddenly Mo had had enough of that chair.

  “Let’s surprise Daddy,” she heard herself say. “Let’s haul it out of here before he gets back.”

  You could always count on Dottie to love a surprise.

  It was like moving a boulder. Halfway down the stairs they lost their grip, and the poor thing bump-bump-bumped the rest of the way. Their father still hadn’t shown up, thank goodness, as they wrangled it through the front door, or as Dottie made a sign that said FREE TO A GOOD HOM. He wasn’t back yet when they each took one last turn sitting in it, out there on the sidewalk, or when they bade it a final good-bye and went inside.

  By the time they heard him climbing the stairs, they were already in their pajamas. They crouched in the doorway of Mo’s room, spying. He was singing, for the first time in weeks. They watched him step into the hallway, then rear back, crying out as if he’d stubbed his toe after all.

  “Surprise!” they yelled, jumping up.

  “What? Where’s my favorite instrument of torture?”

  In the morning, Mo watched a sparrow perch on the curved arm of the chair and turn its head from side to side in astonishment at the big green shrub, sprung up overnight. Hopping onto the cushion, the bird pecked at the hole, then flew into the sidewalk tree, a bit of stuffing trailing from its beak.

  A moment later, Homer rounded the corner, wearing a freshly washed pair of overalls.

  Mo Wren, Murderer

  Your hair looks cute in a ponytail.

  The note slid onto Mo’s desk, startling her. She’d been afraid it was all over between her and Megan.

  Thanks, Mo wrote back. How was your vacation?

  But before Megan could write back, Mr. Grimm did his clapping routine, and it was all eyes up front.

  “It’s spring,” he said. “That means mud and baseball and cute new outfits, but best of all it means science fair! This year, we’re going to mix things up. To encourage both exploration and collaboration, you’ll work in teams. Before anyone asks, yes, you can pick your partners. But!” He tapped his forehead. “I want you to think! Don’t automatically choose your friends. This is your chance to work with someone new. It’s an opportunity to discover . . .”

  Poor Mr. Grimm. Didn’t he notice nobody heard a word after “You can pick your partners”? Mary and Asha were already signaling each other. Mo kept her own eyes on her desk. In his seat, Shawn began humming in that terrible monotone way.

  “We’ll sign up partners after lunch,” said Mr. Grimm.

  Megan slipped into line behind Mo. “I hate science. I wish it was still vacation.” She bit her glossy lip. “Even though mine turned out to be a disaster.”

  “Me too. My sister’s lizard escaped.”

  “Really?” Megan’s pale face flushed pink and spotty, as if she’d come down with a sudden rash. “My goldfish died. I had Cutie for three years, practically since I was a baby! I wasn’t going to tell anyone, because every time I talk about it . . .”

  Her eyes widened, and a hiccup flew out of her mouth. Not just any hiccup, but the loudest, most violent hiccup Mo had ever witnessed. Followed by another, and then another.

  “Megan, are you all right?” asked Mr. Grimm from the head of the line.

  Megan shuddered as if she’d swallowed an earthquake. Some kids started giggling. Asha rolled her eyes.

  “Megan?” said Mr. Grimm. “Do you need to see the nurse?”

  Megan, her face brilliant red, shook her head.

  “I’ll make sure she’s okay,” said Mo.

  “You’re a good citizen, Mo Wren,” said their teacher.

  Megan could hardly eat. By recess she was still hiccupping, and Mo was getting worried. Just when it seemed as if she might be over it, Megan couldn’t resist telling one more remarkable thing about Cutie. Cutie used to ripple his tail like a golden scarf whenever he saw her. Hiccup. Cutie adored romaine lettuce. Hic! Cup!

  Outside, they huddled by the fence, Mo rubbing her back.

  “No big deal,” Shawn informed them, pointing to his watch. “You’ve only been hiccupping for about forty minutes. The world record is sixty-eight years.”

  Megan ducked behind Mo. “Please make him go away.”

  “Her fish died,” Mo whispered to Shawn. “She’s really sad.”

  “Whoa.” He balled his hands into fists and knocked them together. “I’m sorry, Megan,” he said. “That stinks. That stinks on a cosmic scale.”

  “I know. Thank you.” Megan put her hands over her eyes. Hiccup!

  A moment later, a roar like a lion crossed with a locomotive shattered the air. Megan shrieked and threw herself at Mo. Here it came again, louder yet.

  “Stop!” Megan waved her arms at Shawn. “Now I have hiccups plus a heart attack!”

  Shawn noted the time. Megan collapsed on a bench, her head in her hands. Mo kept rubbing her back, even though her hand was getting very tired. A hiccup-free moment passed. Then another.

  “Two minutes and seven seconds,” croaked Shawn, h
is voice hoarse from roaring.

  At last Megan lifted her head. She looked at Mo and whispered, “I think it worked.”

  “Please, hold your applause.” Shawn bowed.

  “You’re so weird, it’s like a talent.” Megan picked at her chapped lip. “Mary and Asha will think I’m super-terminal weird, hiccupping my head off like that.”

  “Probably,” said Shawn. “But the science of hiccups would be an excellent project. Or else I was thinking black holes. You know, the devouring monsters of the universe?”

  Megan’s head drooped. She twirled a strand of pale hair. “You two are going to be partners, right?”

  Shawn craned his neck and hummed. Mo massaged her sore hand.

  “You should,” Megan told her. “I take back the bad stuff I said about him.”

  “Mr. Grimm didn’t say it could only be two people,” Mo said.

  “Cool!” Shawn went for the invisible dunk. “I have my tutor today—I’ll ask her can I start researching right away. Tomorrow the three of us can have a conference.”

  Megan blinked her blue eyes. Little coins of pink prettied up her pale cheeks. As they lined up to go back in, Mr. Grimm asked her if she was all right now.

  “I’m good,” she said.

  “Thanks to a certain someone’s talent,” said Shawn.

  “A really humble someone,” said Mo.

  For once Mo was grateful Dottie had an after-school invitation. What with Megan and Cutie, she couldn’t really handle any more pet sadness today. And after a week of no hot rock and no crickets, it was hard to keep reassuring Dottie that Handsome was all right.

  But when school let out, Mo found her sister waiting for her.

  “K.C. and I are in a fight,” she said.

  “What happened?”

  “She said it’s my fault Handsome got away. She said it was dumb to try to teach him a trick. I said no, it wasn’t. She said lizards can’t learn things. I said maybe some can’t, but Handsome can. She said I’m not new anymore, so why do I think I’m so special? I said—”

  “Okay, okay. I get the idea.”

  “She says she’s not my BFF anymore. What’s a BFF?”