Jingle Jangle: The Invention of Jeronicus Jangle

by Lyn Sisson-Talbert

  Finally, after drifting helter-skelter, Buddy hovered evenly in place.

  A whimsical wind blew through the workshop, and Journey’s cracked red boots lifted from the peeling floor. She began to rise high into the air. She was flying! She was actually flying! Buddy orbited around her like a satellite while Edison anxiously gazed up at them through the rungs of the ladder. Buddy swam expertly through the air, and Journey glided gracefully after.

  Edison stepped out from under the loft bed, and the magic swept him off his feet. He grabbed hold of the ladder to prevent himself from floating, too, but his boots continued skyward. “What’s happening?!” His fingers lost purchase then grasped on to the headboard.

  “Edison, just let go! It’ll be all right!” Journey vowed.

  “It’s not gonna be all right!” Edison’s grip slipped. “Mom!” He grabbed a wooden beam jutting from the wall. Then he took a breath and let go, suspended in midair. He gawked then eyed his hands and body before starting to paddle his arms and kick his legs. Meanwhile, Journey and Buddy flitted around playfully, somersaulting and pirouetting with elegance.

  What unexpected enjoyment they’d uncovered!

  “Who’s there in my workshop?!” came a voice.

  Buddy instantly powered down and lowered shakily to the ground, going dark. His cube dislodged in the process, poking from his chest. Journey’s boots alighted. Edison thumped face-first onto the bed, sending up a thick cloud of dust. The doors parted, and in stepped Jeronicus.

  In his pajamas and threadbare dressing gown, he was in no mood for hijinks. Consternation shone in his eyes at the sight of Buddy, fully assembled with his glass cube and all. “What are you doing up here?” He strode past Journey toward the robot. “What have you done?!”

  Edison vaulted from the bed. “I told her not to touch it, but she’s not a very good listener.”

  Jeronicus wheeled on her. “The contract clearly stated you were not to touch, move, bust, break, or take anything from this shop! Do you remember?” He took deep breaths.

  “I-I didn’t move it,” Journey said, searching for the optimal words.

  “You expect me to believe that it just got up and walked over here?” Jeronicus asked incredulously.

  “Well, actually, he flew,” Edison piped in from where he now stood at her side.

  “That’s not possible,” Jeronicus scolded.

  “It is, Grandpa J.” Journey peeled Buddy’s page of designs off the floor and handed it to her grandfather. “It works.” While he perused it, she noticed doubt cloud her grandfather’s features. He didn’t believe them. In fact, she realized with a heavy heart, he didn’t believe at all.

  “Watch! I’ll show you.” Edison snapped the glass cube back into Buddy’s chest.

  Nothing happened.

  Jeronicus gulped. “You see? You see? I told you. It doesn’t work.”

  “It does,” Journey implored. “You just have to believe!”

  “Professor,” Edison said, “you really are the greatest inventor of all!”

  “I’m not an inventor,” Jeronicus inserted. “And you’re not an inventor, either.”

  Edison’s brow furrowed, and he shot Journey a devastated glance. He’d never seen Jeronicus this upset. Crushed and quivering, he hung his head and scurried from the workshop.

  Journey gaped at Jeronicus. “But Grandpa—”

  “Enough already, okay?” he cut in despondently. “Enough. Nothing would make me happier than if this worked.”

  She woefully shook her head. “He does! You have to believe me! I’m telling you the truth! I would not lie to you, Grandpa. Please—”

  “I need you to go to bed,” Jeronicus butted in as he stalked with a shaky gait to the door.

  “I don’t want to go to bed. I want to stay up here and fix this. Please!” she pleaded. Her voice gave way to soft sobs. “Please, Grandpa! All you have to do is believe!”

  “Will you listen to me?!” he growled, wheeling on her.

  Journey was taken aback. Her lip trembled.

  “Go!” he roared, gesturing sharply to the doorway. “Go!”

  Shaking her head, eyes gleaming with hurt, Journey rushed past him.

  Watching her flee reminded him of the only other time he’d watched someone he’d cared for leave. Only once her footfalls faded did Jeronicus realize he’d seen something in her that was reminiscent of what Joanne and Jessica also possessed. Another J word: joy. A fat tear rolled down his cheek as he thought about what his life might’ve been. He scanned his workshop, a place where his wife and daughter once cheered him on. He’d been stuck for so long. He wished he could somehow believe again. How he longed to rediscover that same magic within himself.

  But, he concluded, it was too late for him.

  He lifted a sheet, draped it over the lifeless robot, and retired to bed.

  Journey realized that, like Buddy,

  her grandfather was also missing a part.

  Maybe she could fix that, too.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gustafson had no trouble tracking down Journey that night, in spite of the late hour.

  He could practically hear her sniffling from his factory. She sat dabbing her eyes on a stoop in a dark, chilly alley opening onto the empty square, Jeronicus’s shop on the far side.

  Better yet, she was alone.

  His footsteps sounded along with the quiet taps of his bejeweled staff, which doubled as his cane, giving him away. “Hello, young lady,” his smooth voice said from the shadows behind her.

  Journey looked up from Gustafson’s pair of shiny shoes and cloak to his top hat as he sat down. He leaned up his cane, removed his hat to reveal his bald noggin, and cleared his throat.

  “Oh! Pardon my rudeness,” he said. “I’m—”

  “Gustafson,” they said in unison. Journey knew who he was—the aspiring inventor in her mother’s tales who stole from the Jangles in order to build his own toy factory and empire.

  He grinned, taken aback. Then again, who didn’t know his famous name? “Oh. Well done!” He gave a lighthearted chuckle. “And you must be . . . Jeronicus Jangle’s granddaughter.”

  Journey stayed silent. In the same way she could see invisible formulas and missing parts, she could also tell when someone’s heart was coated in a slimy, slippery layer of sleet.

  “If I know anything about your grandfather, Jangles and Things is stirring with something sensational.” He flashed an obsequious smile, hoping to get her to talk. “Something spectacular.”

  She could tell he was obviously fishing for information. It was almost as if somehow he knew about Buddy. “It’s just a pawnshop,” she stated unflappably with a shake of her head.

  He leaned close. “You and I both know there’s something in there. You can tell me. Perhaps I can market it or mass-produce it. For him.” His insincerity was as clear as black ice.

  Journey stared up from her boots at him. “I’ve got items to mark down.” She leaned closer. “In the pawnshop,” she added, for good measure, then stood. She was a tour de force.

  Gustafson seized her by the wrist. She spun to him, frozen in fear, willing him to unhand her. Then, as quickly as he’d grabbed her, he let go. He smirked. He would find another way.

  She took off across the square, the arctic chill of his bony fingers still lingering.

  Sunrise welcomed the day before Christmas, marking the last chance for people to find the perfect present.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cobbleton rang out with an excited cacophony of holiday-inspired sounds.

  Honking cars and whinnying horses. Clanging bells and shouting vendors. Everyone tipping their hats to each other. Though not everyone was in the holiday spirit.

  A sign had been taped to the door of Pawnbroker:

  GOING OUT OF BUSINESS

 
BUY ONE, GET TWO FREE

  (BUT ONLY IF YOU BUY THREE MORE!)

  Inside, among stacks of moving crates, Edison fitted a lid over one. He had donned an orange coat and hat, rainbow trousers, a velvet waistcoat over a yellow shirt, and a coral-colored bow tie.

  Journey appeared from upstairs, looking beautiful in a fitted leather jacket with a white faux-fur trim, royal-blue skirt, and yellow bow tie—though her expression looked anything but jolly.

  “Did you hear? The professor’s franchising!” Edison excitedly relayed to her as he continued to pack. Apparently, he thought Jeronicus was moving into a bigger and better store in order to sell his inventions—maybe even into a factory of his own.

  “Edison, he’s not franchising. He’s closing the shop,” she corrected him with a sad edge to her voice. “But not if I can help it!” She knew the shop was something special—and much, much more than just a pawnshop. Maybe she could convince Jeronicus that it was truly a magical place, too. Ducking, she took off in search of her grandfather.

  It wasn’t long before she found Jeronicus in the wintry square, and they walked side by side in silence. There was a frigidness in the air that had little to do with the inclement weather.

  “Journey, I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he said. “Now, please come along. I need to find Mrs. Johnston.” They turned down a bustling side street lined with shops, each with lines out the door, and trolleys loaded with wares. Children frolicked past them through the crowds. Everything smelled like gingerbread and vanilla with the musk of pine and the scent of fresh snow.

  “Happy holidays!” a pleasant voice cheered. It was undeniably Ms. Johnston.

  Jeronicus handed Journey his basket full of packing supplies. Then he walked to Ms. Johnston, who helped the greengrocer carry a heap of parcels into her nice, warm establishment.

  Ms. Johnston looked radiant in an ocean-blue dress, waistcoat, and jacket, her flat-brimmed hat bedecking her head. She approached the open back of a cherry-red mail truck, which boasted stacks of packages. When she noticed Jeronicus heading toward her, she froze up, thrilled.

  “Mrs. Johnston!” he called out. “Mrs. Johnston! I’ve been looking for you all day. You always come by the shop. Is something wrong?” he asked. “Is everything all right?”

  “Jerry. What a surprise!” She slowed her steps toward the back of the mail truck.

  “What’s the problem?” Jeronicus pressed. “Are you all right?”

  She moved behind one of the truck’s open doors and composed herself, then stepped out and ran her gloved fingers coolly along the edge of the door. “It’s new. Do you like it?”

  He regarded the mail truck. “Nice truck,” he confessed.

  “Isn’t it?” She nervously yanked a cluster of mistletoe from inside, sticking it out over her hat. Glancing up at it, she feigned shock then tittered. “How did that get there?”

  “Mrs. Johnston, I . . . I don’t have time for this,” he said with a little laugh and shake of his head. “I just need you to collect my boxes—”

  “I know. I know!” She dropped the mistletoe back into the truck, deflated. “You have boxes that need collecting.” She picked up mail. “Everyone in Cobbleton has boxes that need collecting!” she said, dumping parcels and envelopes into his hands. “Only they’ve all gone for the holidays to be with their families. And loved ones . . .” she added longingly.

  “Focus, Mrs. Johnston,” he said gently. “Focus.”

  She snatched back his mail. “You know, Jerry, a little fun wouldn’t kill you!” she snarled. Then she hurled the parcels and letters into the back of her truck. She went to slam the doors, but they jammed, so she irritably fussed to shut them until finally she managed to fumble the latch shut, nervous under Jeronicus’s serene, watchful gaze. Maybe she’d overreacted a touch.

  “Good job,” he complimented her once she’d done it.

  She brushed off her skirts and took a cleansing breath, wishing it’d be different. She yearned for him to see her for who she was. And, even more importantly, to see his brilliant self.

  “Mrs. Johnston,” he said, trying to get her attention as she moved around to the front of her truck. “Mrs. Johnston, I need this taken care of today.”

  “Happy holidays, Jerry.” She sidled into the driver’s seat.

  “I’m closing the shop in a few days,” he added solemnly.

  “It’s snowing!” she exclaimed with a hearty chuckle, in denial about the news. As he opened his mouth again to say more, she cut him off, maintaining her upbeat demeanor. “I hear your granddaughter’s here.” She slammed her hands on the steering wheel exaltedly. “Oh! Grandchildren are like children! Only you can give them back,” she said.

  “If you could just give me the time of day,” Jeronicus tried again.

  She laughed and kicked on the truck’s engine, which sputtered.

  Jeronicus reached in to help her.

  She swatted his hand away. “It’s fine, Jerry! I’ve got it!” She gripped the wheel with aplomb and straightened in her seat. It was clear she was still getting accustomed to her new vehicle.

  He reached back in and released the emergency brake. “Here we go,” he said.

  “Thank you, Jerry!” she said.

  “You’ll come by, though. You’ll come by, right?” He sounded desperate.

  “Of course, Jerry!” She faced forward. “And off we go!” She honked her horn. “Get out the way!” she screamed to those strolling peacefully through the snowy lane.

  Jeronicus called after her as the truck jostled away. “My name is Jeronicus!”

  “It’s Jerry!” she called back, followed by a few jolly honks of the horn.

  Shaking his head, he spun around—only to get hit square in the face with a snowball!

  “Hey!” He surveyed the busy street for his assailant.

  Wham!

  Another snowball hit him dead in the chest.

  “Okay! Okay. Whoever that is, you’re in for it,” he challenged.

  An old lady sipping tea in a window arched her brow with a tilt of her head toward the lane. He followed her quiet tip-off, and his sights landed on Journey peering out at him behind sacks of flour piled up on the street outside the bakery, hand full of fresh and sparkling snow.

  “Journey?” he asked incredulously.

  His granddaughter took a step out into the lane and chucked a snowball, which exploded against him upon impact. She let out a cheer and dodged back behind the tall stack of flour bags.

  “You asked for it.” Jeronicus strode to a shop window and began writing a formula into the frost on the pane with his finger. Children spied on him from inside another shop across the lane, watching him finish his equation, take snow from the sill, and pack it into his gloved hands.

  Journey watched, too. Her eyes went wide. What did her grandfather have up his sleeve?

  As if in answer, Jeronicus arched back his arm and let the snowball rip through the air. It sailed down the lane, with Journey and the other children watching it move as if by remote control, maneuvering past shoppers, vendors, and a horse until it vanished into the pale, distant sky.

  Journey faced her grandfather, cackled gleefully, and waggled her fingers at him as if they were taunting moose antlers. “You missed me!” she teased, realizing it wasn’t a fair match.

  But then, the snowball came sailing back around like a boomerang and—

  Wham!

  Hit her right in the face!

  She looked at Jeronicus, bewildered.

  Jeronicus waggled his fingers back at her. “Oh! Somebody got hit with a snowball!” He beckoned for the onlooking children to join him. “I need some help,” he said as they neared.

  Journey nodded, impressed. So she had herself some fierce competition after all. She ducked back behind the flour bags and wrote out a formula in the air. Tw
o could play at this game. As she kept devising a winning equation for the oncoming duel, she recruited two girls her age to join her in her efforts. “Hey, you want to come play with me? Give me some snowballs!”

  The girls scrounged up snow, unable to see what Journey was seeing as she continued to write in the air. Jeronicus, however, could see the faint glow of her letters and symbols. A boy handed him a snowball. When he looked back up, he could no longer see the flicker of magic.

  In moments, Journey’s formula was complete, and the teams had been formed: girls with Journey and boys with Jeronicus. She let her snowball fly. Midair, it split into four snowballs, which hit Jeronicus and the three boys. Journey and her friends whooped and danced in triumph.

  Jeronicus gaped. Then he and his team fired away. Their snowballs fell short. Still, he joined his teammates in a merry little dance, and gave them high fives as they circled him. He broke out into a smile, which seemed to be contagious. The old lady in the window laughed raucously, entertained by the old man’s spirits. Then a giggle slipped from his mouth, as if on ice. More townspeople stopped to stare. They hadn’t seen him laugh like this in many years.

  The children continued to pack snowballs and let them soar. It was a snowball fight for the ages—pure, good, old-fashioned fun without any more formulas. A few passing townspeople got caught up in it, joining in. At one point, the whole lane partook in the lively, snowy reverie.

  Journey emerged through the melee. “Grandpa J! This is so much fun!”

  Jeronicus flung a snowball right at her, grinning mischievously.

  But his snowball hit the constable instead, who’d stepped in the middle of the fight.

  More snowballs hit him from every direction.

  Jeronicus’s expression fell as he watched the constable wipe snow from his face.

  He locked eyes with Jeronicus, who held out his arms as if ready for the handcuffs.

  * * *

  After Journey smooth-talked their way out of the situation, they returned to Pawnbroker.