The Junction of Sunshine and Lucky

by Holly Schindler

  “Is it true?” I ask him.

  “True?” he asks, looking past me, at Chuck.

  “It was time, Gus,” Chuck tells him.

  “The closet,” I say, pushing past Gus and heading up the walk. “Unlock the closet, Gus!”

  He shakes his head, but the look he gives me is one of utter defeat. He walks inside; I feel like the whole world is beating a million different drums, all to the exact same beat. And the key is in his hand. And he’s opening the closet door. And everything inside is tumbling onto the hall floor. Envelopes fall like snowflakes. A few brown paper packages fall, too. I reach down, touch the edge of an envelope. It says, “Mom,” in my writing. Every letter I’ve ever written. Every present I ever tried to send.

  “You bought me all those gifts, didn’t you?” I ask Gus, squatting down onto my knees. “Those presents on Christmas and for my birthday. They’re all from you.”

  I put my head in my hands, my tears tumbling down my cheeks as quickly and sloppily as my letters had tumbled from the closet.

  Gus wipes his eyes and speaks softly. “I didn’t mean—I just—you were stuck with me. An old man. ’Cause even your grandmother was gone at that point. It was a joy to me. It was like getting a second chance—getting another little girl, a little sister to my first. But I thought I needed to give you something else, Auggie.”

  I shake my head. A couple of tears drip down onto a brown paper package. “You didn’t,” I say, edging myself closer to him. “I just always wondered why she wouldn’t come home. I don’t need anything else other than you,” I say, hugging him so tight that his whiskers turn to sandpaper on my cheek.

  “What are we going to do now?” I wonder out loud. I finally pull my arms away from Gus’s neck. “I don’t have a single plan—not even a bad one. I really thought Mom would help us.”

  “But, Auggie,” Gus says, “you just said yourself that you didn’t need anything else other than what we’ve got here.”

  “This whole time, Auggie,” Chuck insists, “You’ve been staring down that committee. Making everyone in Serendipity Place keep going, keep working on their houses. Wanting the committee to see this neighborhood in a new way. Seems to me, you’ve been telling that committee something, too, same as your mom told that old snake.”

  • • • 52 • • •

  Gus wants to toss out the items that have fallen from the closet onto the hall floor. “Don’t know why I kept them all this time, anyway,” he mutters. “Guess maybe part of me was hoping that somehow, you’d break into the closet. Find all those things and know. Now—”

  But I stop him. “No way, Gus,” I say. “I’ve got the perfect idea.”

  When we’re done, Gus drives us back out to the cemetery—the one on the city limits. We carry our latest creation to the borderline—the line between staying and going. Because Gus has already gotten permission, the two of us pierce the ground right where Chuck says he and Gus spread Mom’s ashes. We plant a sign, made out of the metal from the trinket boxes and the compacts and the backs of mirrors and the earrings and all the other little presents I thought I’d sent Mom.

  Our sign looks like a simple stake close to the ground but turns into a bunch of stars we’ve cut out and welded together—dark, pot metal stars. The star at the top, though, is a bright, shiny silver. Brighter than any star in the sky or the ones on the silver screen. Right in the middle, Gus has welded a section with Mom’s name, along with her birthday and her last day—the two dates that say “Once upon a time,” and “The end.”

  It feels so strange, finding Mom and losing her all at once. My whole life, the idea of Mom deciding to come back has given me something to always look forward to. It makes me feel a little off balance now that I don’t have it.

  “She’d be real proud of that, Auggie,” Gus says as he stares at the marker we’ve made for her. I can tell, from the way he squeezes my hand, that he’s proud of it, too.

  We’re standing there looking at it when the Widow Hollis slowly inches her way into the cemetery, carrying a bouquet of flowers and one of those green plastic vases that can be put in the ground. She’s headed toward her husband’s old grave, I figure. But first, she comes to join us.

  “What a beautiful sculpture,” she says.

  My face brightens as her word screeches into my brain.

  “What did you call it?” I ask.

  “A sculpture,” the widow answers, like it’s no big deal. “Just like all the other sculptures at your house.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Sculptures?”

  “Sure,” she says with a shrug. “That’s what everyone calls them.”

  “Everyone who?”

  “Everyone in Serendipity Place. What have you been calling them?”

  “Company,” I admit. “I never thought of them as sculptures.”

  “Well, they are,” she insists. “Sculptures.”

  I think about what a funny word that is to use for my company—they almost look like stick figures, some of them, especially the first few. And “stick figures” makes me think of kids’ drawings. And that makes me think of Ms. Dillbeck’s front hall. And a smiling T. Walker wandering through the maze of our figures way back at Thanksgiving.

  With no warning, a new plan comes screeching right into my brain and honks. My entire body tingles.

  “Little Sister,” Gus says. “That’s about the biggest smile you’ve ever worn.”

  “You bet it is,” I say. “Because I just figured out how to stare down our snake for good.”

  • • • 53 • • •

  Gus follows me outside when T. Walker Doyle shows up, fresh from New York, that weekend.

  “I figure we’ve got so many people out here in the yard, they’ll keep the sunlight from falling on the grass. Bet we won’t have to mow all summer long,” Gus laughs as he shakes T. Walker’s hand in greeting.

  “The newest ones are certainly something,” T. Walker says. “Actually, though, I kind of like the story this whole yard tells. It shows how the two of you have developed as artists.”

  Gus opens his mouth and out pours his chicken-fried-steak laugh. “Artists,” he repeats, shaking his head.

  “Auggie told my aunt that all of these figures were for sale,” T. Walker says, which makes Gus erupt into a new round of laughter.

  “She did?” Gus says. “That’s really the plan?” he teases me. He still doesn’t believe it, even though he’s been in on it since I first got the idea.

  “Who would want one?” he asks T. Walker. “They’re just our company.”

  T. Walker scratches his chin and fiddles with his glasses. “I do,” he says. “I’d like to include some of these in my folk art museum. I think you and Auggie have a lot of natural talent.”

  People have called Gus a lot of things over the years, but I don’t think anybody’s ever called him “talented.” They’ve sure never used that word to describe me.

  I could cry—or squeal. Talented. An artist. Not a girl with white circles on her ankles or boring mud-colored skin. Auggie Jones, artist. The word grows warm inside me. For a moment, I think the word might actually, might even—shine.

  “Do you know anyone else who might want one?” I ask. I hold my arms tight against my sides and cross my fingers. I cross my toes inside my sneakers.

  “Sure. I know of several folk art dealers who would be interested.”

  “Do you think maybe they would come over?” I ask. “If we were to, say, hold a sale right here on the lawn?”

  “Absolutely,” he says, pulling a phone from his pocket.

  Gus eyes me as he sits on the front porch.

  “You’re not upset about me wanting to sell our company, are you?” I ask, afraid that he might be a little hurt now that it’s real—and T. Walker has agreed to help us sell our figures.

  He shakes his head, draws me close to wrap an arm around my neck. “Best idea ever,” I hear him mumble.

  • • • 54 • • •

  For the nex
t week and a half, T. Walker Doyle can be seen through Ms. Dillbeck’s front window, pacing with a phone to his ear. He gives me gorgeous fliers with a giant picture of our house in the middle. Gus drives me and Weird Harold through town; every time we come upon a new telephone pole, we hop out to staple a flier to it.

  Because of our fliers and T. Walker’s calls, a few reporters come back—some with cameras and microphones, and some from the newspaper. I straighten my back and pretend that I’m staring a mean old copperhead right in its beady little eyes.

  I speak straight into the reporters’ microphones and pocket recorders, telling them, “Sure, the materials we used on our house would be in the dump right now if we hadn’t gotten hold of it all. But that doesn’t mean it’s useless. Doesn’t make it garbage. We’re recycling. Saving the landfill and using very little money to decorate all at the same time.” I use every positive word I can think of, while Gus smiles down on me, proud.

  “Ms. Byron?” I ask, bright and early the very morning after Gus and I appear on the evening news. I throw my hand in the air to get her attention, as though calling out her name wasn’t enough.

  “Yes?” Ms. Byron says.

  “I have an announcement to make. Would it be okay to make it now?” My mouth is sticky inside, but I do my best to pretend I’m really not nervous at all. I want my announcement to sound fascinating—like the kind of thing that nobody would dare miss.

  The heat of Victoria’s glare hits my neck as Ms. Byron nods a yes.

  I slide out of my desk. My whole body pounds like the orchestra room when the drummers are practicing by themselves.

  “I would like to invite you all to an art show at my house,” I say.

  “Art show?” Victoria shouts. “Who are you kidding?

  “Where’d she find art?” I hear Victoria mumble at Lexie. “At the dump? Underneath a bunch of rotten food?”

  Lexie cringes, folds her arms over her chest, but doesn’t respond.

  “I’m even inviting you, Victoria,” I say, acting as though she’s the one that everyone ought to feel sorry for.

  “Girls,” Ms. Byron warns.

  “Well, when’s this art show?” Victoria asks, rolling her eyes.

  I smile politely and answer, “Friday. Friday night.”

  “Doesn’t give us much time,” she mutters at Lexie. “We all probably need to get tetanus shots before we even get close to her house.”

  Lexie doesn’t laugh, though. She looks like she needs one of Ms. Byron’s stomach pills.

  “Friday,” I repeat, and slowly walk to the back of the room. I take extra care to square my shoulders as I make my way back to my seat.

  • • • 55 • • •

  The night of the big show, I put on a yellow dress that’s the color of the excitement in my belly. I pace the front hall, down the path where our old throw rug has been worn threadbare.

  I stick my head in the front window and wait for everyone to start arriving. I pray, Please, please, please . . .

  All my prayers bring are a couple of grown-ups who act like they’re only out for an evening stroll, no big deal. But they hang onto our sidewalk and stare at the front of our house a little too long for that to really be true.

  Still, they won’t step through our gate. They linger, pretending that they’re talking about the clouds. Pretending that it’s perfectly normal to retie their shoelaces four times in a row. I know that in a couple of minutes, if nobody else comes, this couple will shrug and leave, too. Please, please let someone else show up, I start to think. And from the way Gus’s lips are wiggling, I’m pretty sure he’s praying for the same thing.

  Finally, one of T. Walker’s friends drives up. He parks his new car on the street, and comes right through our front gate, like T. Walker did when I met him. A few more of T. Walker’s friends show up soon after—I recognize them by their church slacks—and they all start to wander through our front yard like they’re really in a big department store, looking at the things on the racks that are for sale.

  That makes the original two curiosity-seekers brave. They quit pretending they’re just wandering by. They come through our gate, too.

  Before long, it’s a whole stampede of feet and cars. Lexie shows up with the Coles—Victoria and her father—who are wearing identical scowls. The rest of the suits that have been at our City Hall meetings show up, too. I recognize the faces of the entire House Beautification Committee.

  Our yard swarms with suits and worn-out T-shirts alike. Ms. Dillbeck and the Widow Hollis and Mrs. Pike and Irma Jean and Chuck Taylor and Mr. Gutz-Chong and Weird Harold and his dad all start to wander through. Ms. Byron even comes. So does Mick from McGunn’s, his hairy arms exposed by his white T-shirt. He eyes our sculptures an extra-long time, smiling and pointing at what we’ve done with some of the things we used to bring to his junkyard.

  Our front yard is so full, people can hardly find a place to stand. I think Gus will have to tie me down, I’m so happy.

  “Just a minute now, Little Sister,” Gus says. “Hang on just a little longer.”

  Gus and I fidget in the front window. Waiting for the perfect moment to finally make an appearance.

  A reporter from a news station arrives with her camera crew, followed by a second reporter from another station. The crowd continues to swell, spilling onto the sidewalk and into the street, as the two reporters hold their mics beneath their mouths, speaking as they look straight into their cameras.

  A black-and-white police car rolls to a stop, and an officer emerges, raising a bullhorn and barking at the crowd that he’s there to control them. To remind them they’re on private property.

  When even the mayor shows up, flashing his smile at everyone in the yard, I ask, “Now, Gus? Can we go now?”

  “Now, Little Sister,” Gus agrees, and we bolt for the door.

  “Where’s the big art show?” Victoria shouts as soon as she sees us. “You promised art!”

  “It’s right here,” T. Walker says, pointing at our metal figures.

  “This isn’t art,” Victoria says. “It’s trash.” Her father and some of the suits they’re with snicker and nod in agreement.

  “It most certainly is art,” T. Walker argues. “And I’m not the only one who thinks so.” He points at the rest of his friends. “These are also art dealers. Folk art dealers, to be exact. They agree that this is the greatest example of folk art any of us have seen in a long time.”

  “But they’re ugly!” Victoria shouts.

  “I happen to think they’re really quite beautiful,” T. Walker says. “These sculptures are extremely imaginative and magnificently made.”

  T. Walker points to five sculptures right off and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. He hands me a fat wad of money.

  “I’ll take these four,” another dealer says as he hands me a stack of bills.

  All of T. Walker’s friends buy our sculptures. Some take one or two; some point to the roof and say, “I’d like that sunflower up there.” Or, “Is the butterfly up for grabs?” Another shouts, “Don’t break the bouquet apart—I want the whole thing!”

  A frenzy of buying starts in, with dealers carefully lifting our sculptures and carrying them off to their cars.

  “Wait—you can’t be serious!” Victoria tries, but no one listens.

  I have so much money, I have to use my yellow dress as a kind of basket to hold it all. Mixed in with the green bills, I’ve also got checks written out to Gus. I’ve never seen so much money all piled up in the same place in my life—the sight of it makes my heels bob up and down and Gus explode with that hearty chicken-fried-steak laugh of his.

  “Here,” I say, walking up to Mr. Cole. “This is surely enough to take care of our fines. I bet that’ll also take care of the fines for Mrs. Pike’s swing set, the Bradshaws’ and the Widow Hollis’s roofs, Ms. Dillbeck’s porch, and Mrs. Shoemacker’s screens.”

  Mr. Cole starts counting the money furiously.

  “Is it really eno
ugh, sir?” the police officer asks.

  Mr. Cole’s face tumbles a bit as he mutters, “It—it is.”

  Gus cheers behind me. So do T. Walker and a couple of his art friends.

  Those cheers get inside me, fill me with bravery.

  “I’m telling you, once and for all, Victoria,” I start, in a way that makes the real, live breathing crowd grow just as quiet as the metal one. “You might want to do something important, but you can’t bulldoze people’s houses because they’re in your way.”

  Victoria crosses her arms over her chest and juts her chin out, putting on the kind of pout that finds poor losers after a game.

  I realize one of the reporters has put a microphone under my mouth. I lean closer to it to say, “You want to know what this committee’s really about? This committee wants to get our homes for next to nothing. But it’s not right to toss an entire neighborhood out to turn their homes into a community center.

  “It won’t happen, Victoria. Not as long as Gus and I have anything to do with it. You can go on and slap your unfair fines on us. Go ahead and slap them on everyone else in the neighborhood, too. We’ll just sell some more sculptures to pay them off.”

  Victoria backs away from me as her dad pushes his way toward the microphone, trying to calm the growling crowd with words like “friends,” and “reevaluation,” and “miscommunication.”

  But it seems a little too late for words like that. Because other words—art and beautiful—have suddenly made everyone in our yard tilt their heads and look at our house in a new way. And my words—bulldoze and fines and unfair—have made one man behind me mutter, “Seems to me, the House Beautification Committee has stepped way out of bounds.”

  Other heads bob in agreement. “This committee’s working against the people in this town, not for them,” another says.

  The mayor pushes his way up toward the TV news teams. As he walks, the crowd gets noisier and noisier, shouting protests.