Leo’s papa stood in the doorway, gazing down at him. “Leo, you make gold from pebbles,” and the way he said it, Leo could tell that this was a good thing, though he did not know exactly what Papa meant. It seemed to Leo that he—Leo—was only doing what Papa did every day, taking little moments and dressing them up so that they were more pleasing to your eye, your ear, your mind. And once you had dressed them up like that, they took root in your mind, replacing the other, more drab or hurtful ones.
Walking home with Ruby, Leo asks if her parents seem the same now as they did when she was little.
She doesn’t hesitate. “No way!” she says.
“They were happier then—when you were little?”
“Sure.”
“What do you mean, ‘sure’?”
Ruby stares straight ahead. “I mean, of course they were happier then. That’s when everything was fine. That was before my brother got sick.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Were your parents happier when you were younger?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“So did something happen? Something that changed everything?”
Leo stops. “I was going to say that us kids got older, and we weren’t so cute anymore, and we were probably a pain, but—”
“What?”
“Things started to change when my father had his heart attack.”
“He had a heart attack? That’s a big thing, Leo. He probably got scared. He’s probably afraid.”
“My father? Afraid?”
“Yeah. It’s possible.”
“Huh.”
Leo had always thought being a grown-up was the greatest thing in the world. All that freedom to do whatever you want! You don’t have a bunch of teachers telling you what to do, and you don’t have to follow everyone else’s rules, and you can stay up late and eat as many doughnuts as you want, and you can be whatever you want. Why would his papa be afraid or unhappy when he has all that freedom? And if you have all that freedom to do whatever you want, then why isn’t everyone a brilliant scientist or a rock star or a millionaire or a beach bum?
Leo wonders if his father regrets being a father.
GOALS
Leo is not home alone. Everyone is home, taking up all the spaces. Leo snares his father’s Autobiography, Age of Thirteen, along with his coat and hat and gloves and an old blanket, and now he is on top of the garage. Two squirrels skitter up the pear tree and leap onto the roof. Seeing Leo, they freeze and then flip their tails at him and scamper back down the tree.
Leo reads the chapter titled “Interests,” in which his father says:
I like baseball (batting especially) and gymnastics because I feel strong when I do these sports. When I’m not doing sports, I sometimes write poems (but I would not admit it to very many people) and I like to sing, especially with Rosaria and sometimes at church.
Huh? Leo thinks. This is my father? Poems? Singing? Church? Who is this person?
At the end of the chapter, Papa makes a list of his goals, in two categories. The first one is:
A. High School
1. To be on the honor roll.
2. To be captain of the gymnastics team.
3. To write for the school paper or the yearbook.
4. To be in the choir.
Beside each of those numbers is a check mark in blue ink. It looks to Leo as if these marks were added later, so he assumes that his papa accomplished each of these goals. The check marks are solid and bold, as if he is proud of these achievements.
The second category follows:
B. Life
1. To be a singer.
2. To be a dancer.
3. To be a writer.
4. To be an athlete.
This is all news to Leo. There are no check marks next to any of these. Leo notices that “to be a father” or “to be an accountant” is not on Papa’s list. This bothers Leo, and so, there on the garage, he improvises a different life for his father. He sings, he dances, he scribbles poems in the air, and he attempts a cartwheel, which, he realizes too late, is not something you should do on a frozen, slippery garage roof.
Then Leo tries to make his own lists.
A. High School
1. To get the lead in a play and not glurt.
There’s only one thing on the list, and that one thing took Leo a half hour to come up with. It seems to show a lack of initiative. He keeps thinking of things that are more immediate or have nothing to do with school:
1. To get through the play, Rumpopo’s Porch, without glurting.
2. To find out about Rosaria and why no one talks about her.
3. To be Leo, not the sardine, not fog boy.
4. To find out what I am good at.
5. For my father to be happy again, for everything to be okay.
And when Leo writes the last one, he feels unsettled and edgy, as if it is such an urgent mission, and such an impossible one.
Leo forces himself to think of abandoned children, like the ones in Rumpopo’s Porch, children who have nothing, but still they don’t complain, and they imagine the most wonderful things, and they make other people happy when they do this.
Leo rips up his lists.
He tries a “Life” list, and suddenly he is full of high ideals:
1. To save the sick and starving children.
2. To stop war.
3. To save the environment.
Leo stops. He thinks of all the amazing things a person could try to do, but they seem too big, all those things, and so he scratches them out and writes:
1. To be a father.
And again he feels uneasy, because he isn’t sure he means it. To be a father seems unimaginable, and at the same time, it does not look as important as the other things he listed, and he is ashamed because he knows it should be extremely important.
CHORES
Today, when Leo’s mother says (for the nine millionth time) “Aye yie yie! My life is slave and errand girl!” Leo thinks about that. He knows she always has a lot to do, but none of it seemed too hard until his father had his heart attack. Leo would find her crying in the kitchen, only she’d pretend she hadn’t been crying. She’d start to wash a pot and would just stare out the window, her shoulders sagging, as if she were carrying an elephant on her back.
She made lists, endless lists: of groceries to buy, bills to be paid, things to fix, doctors’ appointments, dentist appointments, little lists everywhere you turned. As soon as some items would be checked off a list, new ones would be scribbled in. She marked off the days on the calendar that was posted by the phone: black slashes when each day was done, and when the month was done, rippp, she’d tear the page off the calendar and smash it into a ball and toss it in the trash.
One day Leo’s father found her crying while she was cleaning the toilet. He called everyone together. “How many people are in this house?” he asked.
Contento said, “Gosh, Papa, you know that. Six.”
“And how many people use this toilet?”
Pietro made a gagging sound, followed by “Geez. Yuk.”
Nunzio clapped his hands, as if this were a game. “All of uth! All of uth uthe it!”
Papa said, “What I want to know is this: if there are six people in this house, and if six people use this toilet, why is there only one person—your mother—who cleans it?”
“Uh-oh,” Leo said.
Contento flapped her arms, as if dismissing the subject. “We don’t know how. She cleans the best.”
Pietro agreed. “I don’t know the first thing about it.”
“Well, guess what?” Papa said. “Everybody’s going to learn. Now. Everybody’s going to take a turn. Even me.”
Pietro said, “Barf.”
This started a snowball of scenes which always began with Papa saying, “How many people are in this house?” And that would be followed by, on one day, “And how many people wear clothes? And how many of those clothes get dirty? And need washing?” On another day, “Ho
w many people are in this house? And how many people eat? And how many dishes get dirty?”
Maybe that makes it better for Leo’s mother. Sometimes, Leo hears her on the phone with one of her old friends, and she will be laughing, and her voice will sound girlish and happy, and he sees her feet tapping on the floor, a little dance as she sits in the chair.
Leo is holding a press conference. He is explaining his revolutionary discoveries. The first is a fully automated house-cleaner robot.
“It’s amazing,” one reporter says. “It cleans toilets, washes clothes, does dishes, prepares meals! Who or what inspired this astounding invention?”
Leo looks thoughtful, places one hand to his chin. “My mother,” he said. “I owe it all to my mother.”
The audience says, “Awww.”
“And this second discovery,” another reporter says, “a cure for heart attacks. No one will ever have another heart attack?”
The reporters are in a frenzy.
“It’s a miracle!”
“Astounding!”
Leo looks out at the audience, and there in the back, he sees his parents, smiling and holding hands. His father looks the picture of health.
A man hands Leo a cell phone. “It’s urgent,” the man whispers.
“Yes?” Leo says. “The Nobel Prize? Why, thank you. What inspired me to pursue this research? Hmm. I did it for my parents. Yes, that’s right. I did it for my parents.” And Leo looks out across the crowd and sees his father and mother beaming.
DISCUSSIONS
Ruby and Leo leave rehearsal while Rumpopo/Orlando and Lucia/Melanie are still arguing. Rumpopo was insisting that his character was responsible for all the magical happenings, while Lucia insisted it was her character.
“So who do you agree with?” Ruby asks. “Rumpopo or Lucia?”
“Rumpopo. I think. Yeah, definitely Rumpopo, because he tells the stories, right?”
“But the children act them out,” Ruby says.
“But they couldn’t act them out if they didn’t have his stories.”
Ruby stops, puts her face up close to Leo’s. “So why doesn’t anything magical happen when he’s all alone, like at the beginning?”
“You smell like oranges,” Leo says. “Why is that?”
She sniffs her wrist. “I dunno. Maybe it’s my lotion.”
“It’s a good smell.”
“Thanks. So what do you think?” Ruby says. “If Rumpopo makes the magic, how come nothing magical happens when he’s alone?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, here’s what I think,” Ruby says. “I think he needs the children, that there’s something about them—”
“Well, maybe. But they need him, too, right?”
“Yeah,” Ruby says. “I guess you’re right.”
“Me? Right?”
Mr. Beeber assembles the cast for a discussion of the play. He feels that they need a chance “to air concerns and questions about various elements.” Leo hopes they will discuss what the play is really about. Instead:
LUCIA:
Will we be using a real dog? If so, can we use mine?
RUMPOPO:
Why would we use your dog? We should use my dog. It’s a golden—
LUCIA:
No way, that dog’s too big.
MR. BEEBER:
Cast! Please! I have already chosen the dog—
LUCIA:
Which one? Whose is it? It’s not a pit bull, is it?
MR. BEEBER:
Cast! Please! I was hoping this would be a chance to discuss elements of the play. Does anyone have any questions about—
RUMPOPO:
Yeah. I have one. Why is the dog in the play anyway? I mean really.
LUCIA:
Exactly. Maybe we don’t have to mess with the dog.
RUMPOPO:
If we’re going to take out the dog, we should take out the donkey, too.
DONKEY:
Ex-cuse me?
LUCIA:
Well, really, what does the donkey add?
RUMPOPO:
The villagers and the old crone are just extras anyway—
OLD CRONE:
Extras? Extras?
RUMPOPO:
I’ll tell you who is an extra—that donkey—
MR. BEEBER:
Cast! Cast! Please!
Leo lies on the floor, the play script over his face. Mr. Beeber makes an announcement. He is getting rid of Rumpopo and Lucia, and the new play revolves around the old crone, the donkey, and the villagers. News of this play travels far and wide. The phone rings. It’s Broadway calling.
“Leo? We’re taking this play to Broadway. You’re the only one who can do the part of the old crone.”
“Well—”
“We need you, Leo.”
“Well—”
“Please, Leo—”
“Well, okay. I’ll do it.”
On the morning after opening night, the headlines read: “Revolutionary New Play!” and “Leo Transfixes the Audience!” and “The Old Crone Rules!”
The phone rings. It’s a reporter.
“Leo, how were you able to transform yourself so completely into an old crone?”
“I’m not sure. I just tried to imagine what she might feel like.”
“Remarkable!”
“That’s all for today, cast. Leo? You awake over there?”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” Leo watches Mr. Beeber gather his papers. “Mr. Beeber? Why’d you write this play?”
Mr. Beeber turns to Leo. “I just wanted to. It was fun to do.”
“But why this play?”
“How do you mean?”
“Why this particular play, about Rumpopo and the children and the stories? Did some of this happen to you? Are you like Rumpopo?”
Mr. Beeber stacks his papers on a side table. “Hmm.” He studies Leo’s face. “Interesting question, that. Hard to answer. None of it happened to me exactly, not the way it is in the play, no.”
“But then why did you think of it?”
“I guess I was thinking of my father. He’s old, like Rumpopo, and he was a sad, old grouchy man.”
“And did something happen—did some abandoned kids come to stay with him?”
Mr. Beeber smiles and scratches his neck. “No, not that exactly. He came to live with us—with me and my wife and our two children.”
“And does he tell them stories, like Rumpopo does?”
“Yes, he does.”
“And do they make him feel young again?”
Mr. Beeber looks thoughtful, his eyes focused on something in the distance. “Yes, they do.”
“So who’s the old crone?”
“Pardon?”
“The old crone in the play—is she like anyone you know?”
“Ha! Good question. I don’t know. Maybe a little like me?”
“Huh.”
THE MICROSCOPE
Leo walks all the way home with Ruby in order to help her carry her science project. Leo doesn’t know why she’s lugging it home, why she didn’t just toss it in the rubbish at school. It’s an ungainly mess of plastic cups with half-dead plants, part of a photosynthesis display.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Ruby says. “You’re wondering why I’m keeping all this junk, right?”
“Well—”
“Admit it, it’s a miserable-looking muddle.” Ruby frowns at her plants.
“But your report was great, Ruby.”
Ruby shifts the bundle in her arms. “I grew sort of attached to these straggly plants.”
Ruby’s mother is waiting at the door. “Hey there, Ruby babe! Hey there, Leonardo da Vinci! Want some cake?”
Ruby’s mother sits at the table with them and asks Leo about his science project.
“I’m not the world’s best scientist,” Leo says.
“You might be!” she says. “Maybe you just don’t know it yet.”
“I hate science projects,” Leo admits.
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Ruby’s mother leans toward Leo. “Know what? So did I, when I was your age. I was so glad Ruby came up with this idea on her own. So what’d you do?”
Ruby smiles. “Go on, tell her.”
“The solar system.”
“No!” Ruby’s mother says. “Not really? That’s what I did, too!”
“That’s what every kid does,” Leo says, “who hates science projects.”
Ruby’s mother laughs. She thinks it’s hilarious.
Later, while Ruby is watering her droopy plants, Leo says, “You’re lucky to be the only kid in your family.”
She sucks in her breath.
“No wait, sorry, I didn’t mean—that must sound really stupid and awful. I wasn’t thinking about your brother—I mean—”
“What did you mean, Leo?”
“I meant that your mother notices you’re there. You’re not just one of a band of goats.”
“Goats?”
“She appreciates you.”
“Oh. Well, yeah. But listen, Leo, sometimes it’s hard being the only kid. It’s like I’m under a microscope. They notice every little thing I do. Sometimes I’d like to be anonymous. Not always, but sometimes.”
“Huh.” It had never before occurred to Leo that there might be some advantages to feeling anonymous.
Ruby touches the stem of one of her plants. “It’s okay,” she says to the plant, “you’ll be fine.” As she rearranges the plants on the windowsill, she says, “Who’s the gardener in your family? Who grows all those flowers and vegetables in your backyard?”
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