Sun & Spoon (8 page)

It meant something to him, something beyond words. He curled both of his hands into tight fists. His thoughts were racing.

“What are you doing?” Joanie asked, shifting from foot to foot. “Is this a trick? I can't keep my eyes closed much longer.”

“Okay, okay,” said Spoon, rechecking his hands and hers to make sure he had seen what he thought he had. He had.

Quickly Spoon took the knitting bag out of the paper sack and hooked the wooden handles onto Joanie's fingers. “This is from Pa,” he told her. “For your bones.”

“Yippee!” Joanie shouted when she opened her eyes.

Spoon's heart tensed with secret glee. And then he had a glad lifting feeling. The feeling was so strong, it wouldn't have surprised him if he suddenly began to rise toward the ceiling, buoyant with the knowledge that his search was truly over.

I
N
THE DREAM,
he was running through a large grassy field. It was raining. Far in the distance, the horizon line was curved. Gradually the rain stopped and the clouds dissipated to expose a luminous, blue-domed sky onto which portraits of everyone he loved had been painted. Joanie with her suitcase. Charlie and Evie by crashing waves. His parents knee-deep in a flowering garden. Pa beside a gravestone. And Gram, alone, and off to the side, engulfed by the blue sky and nothing else. They all looked too real to have been painted. But none spoke. None moved. And then Gram reached down. Spoon ran faster and faster toward her. He extended his hand. As their fingers touched, he woke up. The morning sun flooded his room, warmed his face. Spoon lay in bed, feeling as if he had just returned home from a good, long trip.

For two days, Spoon lived with his secret, his sign. He had examined his hands so many times that the
M
s seemed so obvious and clear now. It puzzled him that he had never noticed them before.

Directly after he had discovered the
M
s on his and Joanie's hands, Spoon had gone out to the garden to his parents. “Slap me five,” he had said to his father, “Gimme some skin,” he had said to his mother, not looking at their eyes, but at the network of lines on their palms as they held them out for reciprocal slaps. He had to tip his head to see them, but they were there. M is always for Martha, he thought.

He hadn't shared his secret with anyone. Having it all to himself made him feel strangely smart and confident in a way he had never known before. He guessed that Charlie felt something similar all the time just by virtue of being oldest. But this was more important.

Spoon decided that Pa should know. It was simply a matter of time before he told him. Sometimes he worried that it wouldn't mean as much to Pa as the reappearance of Gram's cards had. But this was real.

And mysterious.

And magical.

In his notebook, Spoon traced his hand and dated it, disregarding the column of numbers. Then he skipped ahead to number fifty-two:

On Thursday, Pa stopped by. Spoon happened to be on the porch, reading, sipping water from a glass.

“Pa,” said Spoon, lifting his head.

“I was hoping you'd be here,” said Pa, shielding his eyes from the glare.

Spoon closed his book and shoved it aside.

Before Pa sat down, he took something from his shirt pocket. It was the deck of cards.

“It means a lot to me to know how badly you wanted these,” Pa told Spoon. His knees cracked as he lowered himself onto the steps beside Spoon. He held the deck of cards in one hand and extended it toward Spoon. “Here. Yours.”

Spoon's face became taut. He reached for the deck of cards. The cards covered much of Pa's hand, but the parts that showed were crisscrossed with deep lines and creases. More lines and creases than Spoon had ever seen on a hand. He imagined the
M
beneath the cards. He imagined telling Pa all about his discovery.

A light breeze roused the leaves overhead and kept them fluttering. Patches of sunshine speckled Pa's hand, Spoon's fingers, the cards.

“You should keep the cards,” Spoon said firmly, drawing his hand back, his face loosening. “Remember, I've got my photograph.”

Without hesitation, Pa closed his fingers tightly around the cards. “I love you.”

“Me, too . . . I mean . . . you know.”

“I know.”

Everything was quiet and still for a minute. And then, at the same time, both spoke.

Pa said, “Why don't we play—”

Spoon said, “Pa, would you play—”

“Sorry,” said Spoon. “Go on.”

“No,” said Pa. “What were you saying?”

Spoon shook his head.

“Did it have something to do with these?” Pa asked, rotating the cards in his hand.

They exchanged looks. They laughed.

“Will you?” asked Pa.

“If you will,” Spoon replied.

“We'll need another deck of cards for double solitaire,” Pa reminded Spoon.

“We've got lots.”

“We can take turns using these,” said Pa, rotating the cards again.

“Do you want to play inside or out?” Spoon asked.

“Oh, inside,” Pa answered, squinting. “It's pretty darn bright out here. Almost too bright.” He smiled, rose, and walked to the front door.

Spoon grabbed his book and glass of water. He knew he would tell Pa about the sign before Pa went home. After all, what good was a secret if you didn't share it with someone?

Spoon took a sip of water. It was tepid now. Before he entered the shadowy house, he tossed the water that remained in his glass out over the porch railing onto the lawn. The water made a perfect arc. And for an instant, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a faint rainbow reaching up, up toward the sun.

It was the first day of second grade and Billy Miller was worried. He was worried that he wouldn't be smart enough for school this year.

There was a reason he was worried. Two weeks earlier on their drive home from visiting Mount Rushmore and the Black Hills of South Dakota, Billy Miller and his family stopped in Blue Earth, Minnesota, to see the statue of the Jolly Green Giant. Billy instantly recognized the Giant from the labels of canned and frozen vegetables. The statue was spectacular—so tall, and the greenest green Billy had ever seen.

Billy was wearing his new baseball cap that said
BLACK HILLS
in glossy silver embroidery. It was a blustery day. The flag on the nearby pole snapped in the wind. Billy raced ahead of his family—up the steps to the lookout platform. As he stood between the Giant's enormous feet, a sudden gust lifted his cap from his head. His cap sailed away. Without thinking, Billy stepped onto the middle rung of the guardrail, leaned over, and reached as far as he could. He fell to the pavement below.

The next thing Billy remembered was waking up in a hospital. His parents, whom he called Mama and Papa, were with him, as was his three-year-old sister, Sally, whom everyone called Sal.

After tests were done, the doctor proclaimed Billy miraculously unharmed, except for a lump on his head. “You fell exactly the right way to protect yourself,” the doctor told him. “You're a lucky young man.”

“And Papa got your hat back!” said Sal.

When they returned home, Billy proudly showed his lump—and his cap—to his best friend, Ned. He called his grandmother on the phone and told her about the incident, too. Everything seemed all right until a few nights later when Billy overheard his parents talking in the kitchen.

“I'm worried about him,” said Mama.

“He's fine,” said Papa. “Everyone said he's fine. And he seems fine. He
is
fine.”

“You're probably right,” said Mama. “But I worry that down the line something will show up. He'll start forgetting things.”

“He already forgets things,” said Papa. “He's a seven-year-old boy.”

“You know what I mean,” said Mama. She paused. “Or he'll be confused at school. Or . . .”

That's all Billy heard. He snuck up to his room and closed the door. And that's when he started to worry.

Billy didn't tell anyone that he was worried. Sometimes, he didn't know how to say what he was thinking. He had words in his head, but they didn't always make it to his mouth. This happened often, even before the fall.

“Happy first day of school,” said Mama.

“Happy first day of school,” said Papa.

Billy had noticed long ago that one of his parents often repeated what the other said.

Without taking the time to sit at the table, Mama rushed about the kitchen, stealing a few bites of Papa's toast and a gulp of his coffee. She hoisted her big canvas bag onto the counter and reorganized its contents.

It was Mama's first day of school, too. She taught English at the high school down the street.

While Billy was eating his pancakes, Papa reread aloud the letter that Ms. Silver, the second grade teacher, had sent during the summer.

In the letter Ms. Silver greeted the students and said she was looking forward to the new school year. She said that she and her husband had a baby boy at home. And two dogs. She said that second grade would be “a safe, happy year of growth” and “a wonderful, joyful, exciting challenge.”

Billy stopped chewing when he heard the word
challenge.
He put down his fork and touched the lump on his head. He didn't want a challenge.

Papa continued. “Ms. Silver says you'll be studying colors and habitats and the world of names.”

“That sounds like fun,” said Mama.
“My
students will be studying
Beowulf
and
Paradise Lost.”

“I'd rather be in second grade,” said Papa, smiling.

Unlike the other fathers Billy knew, Papa stayed home and took care of Sal and the house. Papa was an artist. He was waiting for a breakthrough. That's what he always said. He was currently working on big sculptures made of found objects. Pieces of old machines, tree limbs, and broken furniture filled the garage and spilled out onto the driveway. They were scattered across the yard, too. Billy loved watching Papa work. There was always something lying around that was fun to play with.

“Gotta go,” said Mama. She kissed Papa on his bushy orange beard. She kissed Billy on his lump. “Have a fantastic day,” she said. “And kiss Sal for me when she wakes up.”

Just like that, Mama was gone, the smell of her lemony shampoo hanging in the air for a moment.

Papa cleared his throat and shook Ms. Silver's letter with a flourish. Billy could tell he was trying to be funny In a deep, rumbly voice he said, “This utterly fascinating letter concludes by stating that currently this is, in fact, according to the Chinese, the Year of the Rabbit.” Papa used his regular voice again. “That's pretty great, don't you think? The Year of the Rabbit.”

Billy shrugged. Normally this would have interested him, but he was preoccupied.