Genuine Sweet (4 page)

3

O
N MY WAY HOME, DILLY BARKER FLAGGED ME
down and handed me a sack of flour for Gram.

Dilly, who was only a year or two older than my ma would have been, was the sort of neighbor who always lent a hand when troubles set in.

“Tell her somebody canceled their order, so I had extra,” she said.

I told her I would and spent the rest of my walk trying to figure out a comfortable way to carry a ten-pound lumpy rectangle. Over the shoulder, under the arm—I was switching it from the crook of one elbow to the other when I came upon my own dirt road.

“Gram!” I hollered from the gate. Pa was off on a bender, so I wasn't worried about waking him. “Dilly Barker sent some flour!”

The front door swung open. Gram was dressed and made up for the day. You'd have thought she was expecting company, if it weren't for the mangy-looking fuzzy slippers on her feet. At the sight of the flour, her eyes lit up—and dimmed just as quick.

“Charity? Have we really come to that?” She clicked her tongue.

“She had a canceled order, she said.”

“Hmm,” Gram said skeptically, but she took the flour all the same. “Well, what do you say to dumplings and broth for lunch?”

After muffins for breakfast, it sounded sort of like a miracle, but I didn't say so.

It took a while for Gram to coax enough ingredients from our pantry to assemble a respectable meal, so while she worked, I told her about Jura and Jura's wish, and also about Greg Mittler's swollen face.

Gram frowned. “Poor boy. You hate to see something like that happen to a newcomer. He'll presume we're all bad luck.”

I gave an amused shake of my head. Truth to tell, Greg had lived in Sass for at least three years, but anyone who isn't actually born here will always be “new in town.”

“I think he knows us pretty well by now, Gram.”

“This Jura—you say she's Trish Spencer's kin?” She wiped a smudge of flour from her nose.

I said she was.

“And you mentioned your wish fetching to her?” A look of concern crossed Gram's face.

“You didn't say it was a secret,” I said.

“No, not a secret, exactly.”

“Then what?”

Gram pressed her lips tight against each other. “It's just that . . . some things ain't exactly fit for public consumption, is all.”

“Public consumption?” What on earth was she getting at?

Gram wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the salt shaker. She joggled it twice before she realized it was empty.

“You never know what a person might think. Or do. That's all I'm saying.” She set a bowl of soup before me. “A wish fetcher has a lot of responsibility. It can be a burden for anyone—but for a young'un, especially. I kept it from your ma until she was sixteen. I probably should have waited to tell you, too.” Her nostrils flared. “You ain't the only one worried about practical things, I s'pose.”

I took to my soup with such vigor, broth dribbled down my chin. Gram wiped it away with her thumb.

“You know,” she went on, “you might find that wish fetching is . . . specialer when the wishes come more infrequent. And without anybody knowing. Some fetchers do feel that way. Fewer wishes to pack a bigger . . . quieter wallop.”

“There are other wish fetchers?” I asked, hopeful that someone might give us a leg up after all.

She looked a little disappointed. I knew why. All that stuff she'd just said, she thought I'd only heard the smallest part of it. But it wasn't true. It's just that I was homing in on the piece that mattered most. The piece that could feed us and such.

Even so, she did answer me. “So your great-gram used to tell me, though I've never met any that wasn't kin, as far as I know.”

So much for that notion of a leg up.

“What kind of a wish fetcher was Ma?” I asked. “Lots of wishes or hardly any?”

“Your ma?” Gram set a soup bowl at her place and made an
ooph
noise as she sat. “She did things different. Preferred to grant the wishes of strangers. Looks like you and she might have that in common.

“Anyhow, what she'd do was put an ad in the Ardenville paper, the big one, you know?
Wishes granted,
it would say,
in exchange for good deeds.
People would write her all sorts of letters—young'uns and old folks and all in between, telling Cristabel their stories, their fears and dreams and whatnot. I still have those letters. And Cristabel would whistle to the stars for 'em and send back a little gold card she'd make with her own hands. Always said the same thing.
Your wish is granted. Please pay one good deed to a neighbor or a stranger at your earliest possible convenience.
” Gram shook her head fondly. “‘At your earliest possible convenience.' She loved to talk like that, like she worked in an office. Do you know she wanted to be a secretary? Only there wasn't no call for one in town.”

Hearing Gram talk about Ma that way, I couldn't help feeling proud. Wish fetching wasn't just real—it was powerful enough to touch people's hearts and change their lives. What if Jura had been right and I really could fix the world with wishes? Up till that day, I'd only ever been homely Genuine Sweet, Dangerous Dale's daughter. But what if I could be something more? What if, once I got the family fed and warm, I set about to do something really big, something only a wish fetcher could do?

Suddenly I was itching to fetch my first wish.

“So you'll come out with me tonight? Help me call down the magic from the stars?” I asked.

Gram waved a hand. “You don't need me standing over you. Better if you find your own way. Besides, I need my rest. I am an old woman, you know.” She winked, but I couldn't help thinking she did look awfully tired.

I was collecting my starlight-catching cup from the cabinet when Gram mused, “Hard to say what'll upset folk. Probably best to start small and quiet, don't you think? Just because we can whistle to the stars don't mean we should try to outshine them!” Gram tucked a napkin into her collar, picked up her spoon, and set it down again. “It's a lot for a girl your age, having to carry the family legacy on your own. I am sorry about that.”

“Well, not just me. There's you, too,” I reminded her.

“Course, you're right. But . . . your mama . . . oh, she was a one! I do miss her.”

Though I'd never met her, I missed her, too.

“When she died,” I said slowly, “weren't you even a little tempted to wish her back?”

Gram's face turned dour. “Not even once. Eat your soup.”

 

It was rainy that night, so I put on my long coat and snuck one of our precious few candles from the closet to light my way through the trees. As I walked, I shielded the flame with one hand. Though it was only partway through autumn, the warmth on my skin felt delicious.

The leafy earth sloshed a little under my feet. I must've scared a family of foxes out of the clearing; a few shadowy cat-dog shapes darted off as I approached.

It was cloudy, so I couldn't see much in the way of stars. Would that yap things up, or would my whistle carry just the same, clear sky or no?

I blew out my candle, set it aside, and held my cup up high. In the darkness, against the backdrop of the sky, I could see my hands shaking. I had to try three times to get my lips to form a whistle. When I finally did produce a sound, it was a pitiful little crooning. A sleepy bird warbled back. I'd have to do better than that.

The coach at school had told me more than once that a bad basketball player—like myself—could get better by picturing herself, in her mind's eye, shooting perfect baskets. To be honest, hoops weren't that important to me, so I never tried it, but I thought this might be just the occasion to apply Coach Tyler's wisdom.

I closed my eyes and imagined myself making a sharp, clear whistle. I imagined the starlight pouring down into my cup, a silver liquid with the smell of carnations. I built a perfect picture in my mind until I was barely one percent shy of believing I'd already done it—and then I whistled into the night for real.

You wouldn't believe the sound that came out of me! Even a champion pig caller would have tipped his hat to me that night.

Time stretched like gum, and it seemed like a long wait before anything happened. Looking back, maybe only seconds passed. All at once, a patch of clouds appeared to thin some and turn a little brighter, thinner and brighter, thinner and brighter, until a hole appeared, and in that space I could see the clear sky and a single star shimmering a little red, a little blue.

It was bigger than any star should be, and I knew it was
my
star, the star I'd been born under, the star that watched over me, and would until I took my very last breath. But you know what else? It was more than a star, too. It was the face of someone who cared about me more than anyone else ever could or had. A face, even though I can't say I saw eyes or nose or anything like that. Right then, I found myself thinking of what Gram had said about wish fetchers being the underlings of angels.

I would have started feeling silly for thinking that sort of tootle, but there it came! Silver light started pouring from the sky. It was just as I'd seen it in my head, but a thousand times brighter. It was a silver like no one had ever imagined before, as pure as a baby's first breath, and as sweet. By the time the first drop hit the bottom of my cup, the smell of carnations was so strong my eyes began to tear up, but in a nice way.

When I'd caught the last of the starlight, the hole in the clouds closed over, and you never would have thought a scrap of light could have pierced that blanket-covered sky. I lowered the cup gingerly so as not to spill the precious stuff.

Now what?
I wondered.

I realized with a jolt that I didn't have any pockets, so I didn't have any lint! How would I make a wish seed, the way Gram had done? After two full minutes of worry, I remembered what Gram had said about me finding my own way, and about how her ma used to drink the starlight, while Gram poured it as if she was watering a plant. What would my way be? What should it be?

I looked at that cup and thought of all the things a person could do with something that pours. You could fill a pot and boil something in it. You could put it in a bottle and spray it. You might even wash your feet in it. I wondered and pondered, and kept coming back to the idea of cooking something with it. (I don't believe that will come as much of a surprise to you, since food had been on my mind a lot those last few months.) All right, then, some type of
wish snack,
but what?

Just then I remembered that big bag of flour sitting in our kitchen. Gram hadn't used but a smidge of it making those dumplings, so there was plenty left.

What if . . . ?

What if I mixed up the starlight with flour and made biscuits?

Wish biscuits!

Careful, so careful, I carried my cup home and managed not to spill a drop. When I got there, Pa was away and Gram's light still shone beneath her door, so I didn't have to trouble myself too much with being quiet. I took out the flour, a big bowl, and a baking sheet. We didn't have much lard left, so I let that be, hoping the sort of magic one would find in pure starlight would keep it from sticking to the pan too badly.

I poured and stirred until I had a mixture that looked something like the glitter paste my art teacher made. With a big spoon, I heaped four dollops of dough onto the baking sheet.

There was one little hitch, and I didn't realize it until I was sliding the biscuits into the oven: ovens run on electricity, and electricity costs money. It was one thing to fetch wishes for the good of others, but it was another to fetch wishes to your own detriment. I was already using some of our precious flour. Should I run up an electric bill that we couldn't pay, too?

But, you know, sometimes the little voice inside you whispers, and even though it may not make a lot of sense at first, it hits you all of the sudden—
There might be something to that!
Just such an idea came to me then.

I took my finger and ran it along the inside of the cup, catching the dregs of the starlight. Then I touched my finger to the oven's heating element. It turned red and hot so fast I hardly had time to pull my hand away! Quickly, I slid the pan in and shut the door.

About fifteen minutes later, the smell of wish biscuits lured Gram from her room.

“What are you cooking at this hour?” she asked.

I beamed. “Wish biscuits.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I never would have thought of that.” I think she was impressed.

“Hope it's all right, I used some of the flour.” I nodded toward the bag.

Gram looked at the flour and cocked her head. “This flour? Dilly's flour?”

“That all right?”

“Fine, honey, except that there's not one handful less than there was after lunch.” She gave the bag a squeeze. “It was this bag you used?”

I nodded. “What other flour do we have?”

She conceded my point with a bob of her head. “Well, ain't that something. Miracle flour. Seventy-nine years in this town and Sass still has the power to surprise me.”

Gram hovered over me as I eased the biscuits from the oven. They were as perfect as any bread you ever saw. Golden brown on top, fluffy white down below, and perfectly round.

“Bee-u-ti-ful!” Gram gushed.

It would have been one of life's perfect moments, had my stomach not grumbled right then.

“Why are you frowning?” Gram set a hand on my shoulder. “We've got miracle flour! I don't know about you, but I'm having fry bread.”

 

Seeing as how Gram and I were up late snacking on fry bread, I didn't get as much sleep as I might have. I was late rising and late leaving, so I had to rush to the library to meet Jura, like we'd planned.