Mo Wren, Lost and Found

by Tricia Springstubb

  “Big fat foofoo.”

  As they approached the pigeon-feeders’ bench, the men lowered their binoculars. Their apple-cheeked faces creased into kindly smiles.

  “Young miss,” said one, “you look so sad. Would you like to feed a pigeon?”

  “No, thank you,” said Dottie. “My father says they’re flying rats.”

  They walked on, but after a moment Dottie ran back.

  “While you look for birds, could you keep an eye out for a lizard? He has no tail, and his head is covered with spots. He might have a bug hanging out of his mouth.”

  The men looked at each other.

  “Very concise description,” said one.

  “I’m sure we’ll recognize him if he comes by,” said the other.

  “Bring him to the Wren House,” Dottie said. “There’s a big reward.”

  A baby rode by in his stroller, kicking his heels as if to make it go faster, and every swing had a little kid on it. All around the empty wading pool, leaves shaped like butter knives poked up through the dirt. A boy with his arm around a girl inscribed their names on the wall of the bus shelter. Suddenly, Dottie skidded to a halt.

  “The Wren House!” she said. “How are they going to find the Wren House when the sign still says Corky’s?”

  With all the projects Mr. Wren had done, he’d never taken down that sign.

  The green chair was gone. A rock under the tree anchored the FREE TO A GOOD HOM notice. On the back, someone had penciled MUCHAS GRACIAS. Mo and Dottie lugged out an aluminum ladder, and Dottie held it steady as Mo clambered up. From the top she had a perfect view of the sparrow nest. It was messy, made up of bits of this and that. No eggs yet. What was that white fluff waving in the breeze? Mo leaned a little closer. Armchair stuffing! Reinvented as part of a baby bird cradle.

  The CORKY’S sign hung from a bent metal bar. The chains holding it were rusty, but when Mo tugged on the links, they held fast. Beat up as it was, that sign was not letting go.

  “Keep trying,” said Dottie.

  Mo noticed the gaps in the topmost links, where the chain hooked onto the bar, and started wiggling first one, then the other. The stubborn metal bit her fingers, turning them rusty orange. She worked the links up and down and sideways, like some monster puzzle. Her foot skidded sideways on the rung, and she grabbed the ladder to keep from falling.

  “Careful!” called Dottie. “Come on, sign! You might as well just give up!”

  Mo gave another yank. Whoosh. One corner came loose and swayed outward, then swung back to crash against the ladder. Clang! The collision of metal against metal sent shudders through Mo’s arms and legs. A moment later, the opposite corner came loose.

  “Timber!” yelled Dottie as the sign hit the sidewalk. She picked it up and marched around to the alley, where she hurled it into a trash can and dusted her hands together. “That’s that! R.I.P.!”

  Mo flexed her sore fingers. She felt a little dizzy. Maybe it was being up so high. But maybe it was realizing what she’d just done. Corky’s was dead, and she was the murderer.

  Inches from Mo’s face, the empty sign holder gave her an accusing look. “Okay, you win,” it seemed to say. “Now what?”

  No Turning Back

  After that, things really speeded up.

  Homer came nearly every day. Sometimes he left abruptly, without an explanation. Sometimes he didn’t leave but didn’t work either, instead taking a nap in a booth, or sitting with Dottie at the bar, watching TV. But nearly every afternoon, Mo discovered something newly done. The bathroom was framed out and drywalled. The lights burned steady. One night when Mo went to start the stove, she discovered a shiny knob that turned without any coaxing.

  “This is how the most important things in life happen.” Her father set a just-delivered stack of aprons and bar rags on a shelf. “Like making a friend. Or learning how to throw a curveball. It’s gradual, then all of a sudden.”

  Mr. Wren bought new knives. A new deluxe blender for the bar. He had his favorite sports posters framed, and he and Mo hung them all around the Moonglow walls.

  Mo was pretty sure her father was spending every penny they had left. And maybe some they didn’t have. Going for broke, that’s what it was called.

  She didn’t have time for the Soap Opera now. What with the science fair, she had lots of schoolwork. She had to run errands for her father and Homer and make sure there was something for dinner every night. Her father still wouldn’t let her touch the fry-o-lator, but she could flip burgers on the grill and knew where to rap the big black vent if the fan started rattling too much. One day Megan persuaded her babysitter to drive by, and Mo showed her all around. Megan promised to come to the grand opening, whenever that was.

  A few nights later, the Wrens and Homer sat in a booth eating supper. The ball game was on TV. The front door stood propped open, letting in the breeze. Traffic honked and hummed. Dottie was musing aloud. Maybe Handsome had met a wife. Maybe when he came back, he’d bring a whole lizard family with him.

  Mr. Wren slid an arm around her shoulders. He cleared his throat. “I’ve got an important announcement to make,” he said.

  They stopped eating and looked at him.

  “Thanks to all your help, the time has come. We open a week from tonight.”

  Mo laid down her fork. Of course she’d known they’d open, someday. But hearing it for sure and definite was a jolt. Meanwhile, Dottie leaped up to perform the dance of joy.

  “Can I be the waitress?” she wanted to know.

  “You can be the hostess,” he said. “You’ll stand at the door and greet people as only you can.” He looked at Homer. “It means serious butt busting. But I’ve got to start taking in money, or else. What do you think?”

  Homer flexed his fingers as if he couldn’t wait to get going. Right then, you could see the other Homer, the one Carmella described. The man who loved a challenge.

  “I’m in. Now about the water pressure . . .”

  While the men talked plumbing, Dottie practiced her hostessing.

  “Welcome to the Wren House!” she said, sweeping her hand through the air and swishing an imaginary skirt. No one paid any attention to Mo as she stacked the dishes and carried them into the kitchen. Or when, instead of coming back to the table, she pushed open the PRIVATE door and went upstairs.

  It was really going to happen. There was no turning back now. That old lump rose in her throat, and her eyes stung. Once the Wren House opened, this was where they lived. This was their home, for good.

  Mo was still lying on her bed when Dottie came up. Going straight to the window, she cupped her hands around her lips, the way she did every night.

  “Handsome!” she called, as if her voice could carry through the glass and out into the night. “It’s almost the grand opening. You’re going to miss it! Handsome Wren, can you hear me?” She waited a moment, ear to the glass, then toppled down beside Mo and pulled the covers over her head.

  “K.C. says he won’t come back,” she said.

  “K.C. gets a lot of things wrong,” Mo said.

  “Mommy didn’t come back.” The lump of covers grew motionless. “At first I thought she would,” the lump said. “But nope.”

  “Dottie?” Mo tried to peel back a corner of the blanket, but her sister wouldn’t let her. “How come you miss Handsome so much? You only had him a little while.”

  The lump grew still again.

  “I really want to know,” Mo said. “Remember your bottles? They’re still all wrapped up like mummies. And Fox Street? Where you lived your whole life? You never seem to miss it at all.”

  The lump wriggled.

  “You want me to be sad all the time?” came Dottie’s muffled voice.

  “No! I don’t want you to be sad ever. I’m just trying to understand how you do it, that’s all.”

  Her sister dragged the blanket off her head. Squiggles of hair stuck to her cheeks.

  “From you,” she said.

  “No.
That’s not how I am. Not at all.”

  “Because I still got you.”

  Dottie knuckled her cheek, and Mo knew exactly what she was going to ask. Will you always be my sister? No matter what?

  But instead, Dottie held up two fingers.

  “I figured it out.” She wiggled one finger. “I’ll never quit being your sister.” She wiggled the other one. “So no matter what, you have to be mine.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you getting smart or something?”

  “I’m way smarter than K.C.” Dottie punched Mo’s pillow.

  Mo made her little sister go wash and brush her teeth. While she was in the bathroom, Mo looked out the window. The full moon was rising, just above the rooftops. How different it was from the sun or the stars. The moon was the one thing in the sky you felt looked back at you.

  Mo listened to Dottie read aloud, and then she switched off the light. By now the moon had risen higher, shrinking to a small, bright circle. A pearl button, stitched to the sky.

  Or Else

  Mr. Wren hired a waitress named Daisy. Her arms were tattooed with them, as well as roses and lilies. During her interview, Daisy demonstrated how she could carry three plates at once, ranged along her muscly arms. She taught Dottie how to pour water from the side of the plastic pitcher and how to twist aluminum foil into the shape of a swan.

  “I live on the other side of town,” she told them. “But I want to work here. I ain’t never met a boss so nice as you. And this place . . .” She cocked her head. “It reminds me of that fairy tale. The ugly duckling that became a peacock?”

  Their new bartender showed up with Shawn. His name was Kelvin, and he’d been doing his wash at the Soap Opera when Carmella told him about the Wren House. Carmella had told Shawn to walk Kelvin over and introduce him.

  “You’re a friend of Carmella’s?” Mr. Wren asked.

  “Who isn’t?” Kelvin had a gold earring and a good smile. “She knows I’ve been out of work for a while, and she told me all about your place and your great kids and . . .”

  Hired.

  “Shawn,” called Homer from the back hall. “Give me a hand here?”

  Shawn steadied the plank Homer was sawing and swept up the sawdust afterward. Homer asked if he knew how to use the claw end of a hammer and showed him a pile of boards that needed the old nails pried out. Shawn worked without stopping, as if the concentration spell had trailed him here from the Soap Opera. The next afternoon, instead of going to the Laundromat, he walked home with Mo. No sooner had he stepped inside than Homer handed him a piece of sandpaper.

  WREN HOUSE GRAND OPENING. Mr. Wren put in a rush job for a real, professional sign. But before he hung it, Dottie drew a little bird inside each of the O’s.

  By now Mr. Wren was hardly sleeping at all. He rose at dawn, worked all day, drove Homer back to the Soap Opera or the shelter, and worked some more. His dark eyes grew more deep set. He forgot to change his clothes till Mo reminded him. Yet by some magic, he was handsomer than ever. When he left the room, a kind of phosphorescence lingered, as if he were a human glow stick.

  The day before the opening, the mirror over the bar shone clear as a silver lake. Not a sticky note in sight. Her father handed Mo a sheaf of flyers and a big roll of tape.

  “Plaster the neighborhood,” he said. “We need to pack them in tomorrow night. Build a buzz, as they say. We’re out of time, Motown. We can’t even hit the ground running—we have to hit it at warp speed.”

  He held the door for a beer keg delivery. The guy had to dig in his heels to keep his grip on his heavy dolly.

  “Wow,” he said. “Is it just me, or does this place have its own field of gravity?”

  “All part of the charm,” said Mr. Wren.

  He let the door swing closed—then turned back to Mo. For the first time in days, or maybe weeks, he slowed down enough to truly look at her. His face got a funny expression. “Where’s your hair?”

  “It’s called a ponytail, Daddy.”

  “It looks pretty. You look . . .” He fumbled for the word. “You look grown-up.”

  He hardly ever said things like that. Mo hugged the flyers to her chest.

  “I’m not,” she said. “I’m just the same.”

  Still he studied her, like she was a map that needed figuring out.

  “You’ve been changing behind my back,” he said.

  “No,” she said, clutching the flyers. “I’m still—”

  “Hey,” he interrupted, smiling. “That’s all right. It’s how life’s supposed to work. Aw, Mojo! I’m sorry things have been rough. But it’s all going to be worth it, I promise. Once we open, and the business takes off, you’ll see. It’s going to be just like I dreamed for you and Dot.”

  He stood back, gazing around at the yellow walls. “You were right about this paint. I keep feeling like she’s here with us. But . . . not like back in the old place.” His gaze rested on Mo. “Thinking of her here, I don’t feel sad. I just keep remembering all the good things.”

  The phone rang then, and he hustled to answer.

  The Truth about Corky

  Mo’s first stop was Al’s. He sat behind his counter, reading the newspaper.

  “Tomorrow’s our grand opening,” she said, handing him a flyer.

  He scanned the paper, then handed it back to her. Rude as ever!

  “Put it on my door,” he said. “I’ll point it out to my customers.”

  “Really? I mean, thanks. That’s nice of you.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” he said. “I haven’t been particularly neighborly. You get sick and tired of fly-by-night people.” He stroked his whiskery cheek. “I was sure you’d be gone by now. Wait’ll I tell Corky.”

  “Corky?” Mo, taping up the flyer, spun around. “You know where Corky is?”

  “Nah. He still keeps that a secret. But I know one thing nobody else does.” He crooked his hairy knuckle, beckoning her close. “He hit the Stellar Four. For years he bought those scratch-off lottery tickets and didn’t win a nickel, then boom. Thirty-five K overnight.”

  It was all Mo could do not to fling the flyers like confetti.

  “So Corky was lucky? He wasn’t cursed after all?”

  Al waggled his bushy eyebrows.

  “Depends how you look at it. He owed so many people money, and he had so many friends he knew would pester him for loans, he skipped town in the middle of the night. Afterward he called me, because he had to tell someone about his big trip to Vegas.” Al cracked a craggy smile. “Corky was lazy as the day is long, but he didn’t waste any time gambling away all that money.”

  Uh-oh.

  “He’s as broke as ever by now. He still buys lottery tickets, though. And whenever we talk, he asks about the old place. He’s still got a soft spot for it. He’ll be glad to hear someone else is giving it a try.”

  The door opened for a woman carrying a boot split up the back. As Mo stepped outside, she heard Al telling the customer she should try the nice new restaurant opening next door.

  Corky! A winner and a loser all in one. Wait till she told Shawn!

  Mo taped the flyers to telephone poles and the backs of stop signs. She handed them to people on the street and slid them beneath doors. It was another beautiful day, the clouds like meringue cookies on a sky-blue baking sheet. The pigeon men were both wearing Hawaiian shirts.

  A pickup truck full of furniture shot by. A bright- green armchair rode on top. Mo broke into a run, trying to see—could it be? But the truck accelerated to make the light and sped from view.

  Far overhead, a plane buzzed like a silver bee. At her feet, old leaves lifted on the breeze. The whole world was in motion today. The bus shelter was empty as usual, and she watched the number eighteen zip by without stopping. For a moment Mo felt like she herself might lift off the ground and be swept away. Her father’s words, You’ve been changing behind my back, echoed inside her. Sitting on the shelter bench, she leaned her head against MILO LOVES OTIS. It was peaceful
in here, like always, and so warm she pulled off the blue sweatshirt and laid it on the bench beside her. By now, Mo had washed it, and the last trace of the elusive lost and found perfume was gone. By now, if the shirt smelled like anything, it was Mo herself.

  Across the street, yet another sign hollered COMING SOON! Mo looked down at the single flyer left in her hand. Carmella. She wasn’t coming and she wasn’t going, not soon, not later. She was dependable as a bus shelter, rooted as a tree. Getting to her feet, Mo could already feel Carmella’s hug, the way you can taste your favorite food just by thinking of it.

  But when she got to the Soap Opera, the door was locked.

  Lost and Never Found

  The normally steamed-up windows were dry. Sunshine illuminated Dottie’s name, hovering on the glass as if written by a ghost finger. Peering in, Mo saw that the place was empty. Something had to be very wrong. Carmella never closed.

  Was she in her apartment? Mo gathered a handful of pebbles and threw them one after the other at an upstairs window. Nothing. Going back to the front door, she was just in time to see Carmella come out of her office, carrying a big book. When Mo knocked, she glanced over with a frown. But seeing who it was, Carmella crossed the room and unlocked the door. Her eyes were shadowed with a weariness that reminded Mo of her father.

  “Are you sick?” asked Mo.

  “No. I just need a little R & R. Or maybe some TLC.” She smiled, but only with her mouth. “That sister of yours has got me talking in initials now.”

  “You never close,” Mo insisted. “Something has to be wrong.”

  “Never you mind.” Carmella sighed. “What’s that in your hand?”

  “A flyer for our grand opening tomorrow.”

  “Give it here.” Blocking the doorway, Carmella held out her hand. “I’ll hang it up.”

  “But who’s going to see it if you’re closed?”

  “I’ll open later, soon as I feel up to it.” When Mo didn’t budge, Carmella reluctantly stepped back.

  Inside, the quiet was eerie. No hum of machines or chatter of customers. Even the TV was off. Mo crossed the room to the bulletin board, where Dottie’s BIG REWAD notice was looking bedraggled. Mo pushed a thumbtack into her flyer, then turned to find Carmella sitting on the van seat, the book in her lap.