Sway (11 page)

H
alf of me considered never getting ready at all, and the other half wanted to break the world's fastest getting-ready record. I made it outside The Roast within minutes, to find Dad-turned–M. B. McClean already setting things up in a big gazebo at the center of a park. It was a bright, sunshiny day in Nimble Creek, Mississippi, and I noticed quickly that my limited view of the minigolf ruins had not done the rest of the town justice. The park had a playground full of shiny modern equipment with kids climbing on every inch of it. Just beyond that was an ice-cream stand with a twirling vanilla cone on top. Throughout the park, there were winding sidewalks of uncracked concrete. Not to mention a towering flagpole that put Olyn, Alabama's to shame. But despite all that, I found the newness of the town to be far less captivating than the newness of my dad. And from the looks of it, Nimble Creek felt the same way too. The park was chock-full of families who slowed their playing to stare curiously in our direction. I took comfort in remembering that today would probably be the first and last time we'd ever see these people.

Dad struggled to unroll one end of the big paper without the other end rolling right back up, so I laid the table on the grass and knelt down to hold one side under my knees. He pressed out the paper all the way, to reveal a banner that said in tall black letters:

TOTALLY FREE! TODAY ONLY!


M. B. McCLEAN AND HIS LOVELY CASSISTANT


BRING YOU SOAPERNATURAL WONDERS GALORE!


He tore a couple long pieces of masking tape from the roll on his wrist and put a piece on each of his corners, then tossed the roll to me to do the same.

“
Cass
istant?” I said.

“I wouldn't and couldn't do this without your help,” he said, but I was sorely wishing he'd at least tried to.

“Now, hold your side up,” Dad said, taping his end of the banner to one gazebo post, before helping me secure my end to another.

“Does that look even to you?” he said.

“Pretty even, I guess.…What are
soap
ernatural wonders?”

“Well, assistant, why don't you come have a look for yourself?”

On his left side, Dad set up the wobbly table and carefully placed the brown suitcase on top. When he opened the suitcase slow and easy, I saw what looked like hundreds of old bars of soap that had been used down to little slivers. Heaps of blue, white, pink, and even swirled ones. Some of them were stuck to the lid of the suitcase with thumbtacks. Tons more of them were piled in the bottom. All of the soap slivers had letters, like monograms, carved into them. It may have been just a case full of soap, but it sure had the appearance of being more than just a case full of soap.

“It's just a case full of soap,” I said.

“So it would seem,” said Dad. “To someone unacquainted with the history of these particular soaps.”

I wasn't exactly sure I wanted to be acquainted with the history of a soap, but Dad had a look like it was something way worth hearing.

“What do the letters mean?” I asked, trying to read all the ones I could lay my eyes on.

“The letters indicate who the soaps once belonged to,” he said. “Presidents, inventors, artists, explorers, and kings alike. In fact all manner of past heroes are represented in this case.”

“No way,” I said. “Those people didn't put their initials on their soaps.”

“
They
didn't,” Dad said. “But the one who first painstakingly gathered this collection did.”

“And who was that?”

“Can't say that I know,” he said. “I discovered them a while back when going through some old family stuff. This here collection represents a long-lost part of Nordenhauer history, Cass. Turns out, we have us a sudsy legacy. And that's only
half
the story.”

I reached out cautiously, but Dad stopped me just short of touching one of the soaps.

“No,” he said. “Not just yet.”

Dad took the handle of the sparkly wagon and bumped it up the steps to the fountain at the center of the gazebo. While I wondered over the pastel rainbow of soaps, he filled the wagon till it sloshed, one doublehanded dip at a time from the fountain. He then parked it a few feet away from the suitcase. It seemed like everything was right where he wanted it, so Dad tugged at his sleeves once more, gave me a
there's no turning back now
look, and slid something from under his jacket in the back.

He lifted the tambourine over his head and gave it a smack that sent out a loud
SHOOKA!
and made the ribbons whip around like crazy. Even people from the ice-cream stand across the way paused their licking to check us out.

“Here,” he said. “I brought this for you.” Dad tried to hand me the tambourine, but I resisted, resulting in a push-o-war between us.

“How can I be your assistant?” I said. “I don't even know what we're doing out here.”

“I'm not sure I know either,” he said. “But you make some music, I'll do the talking, and let's just see how the second half of the story unfolds.”

“Curious children of Nimble Creek!” Dad shouted as a few families got close enough to form a little crowd. I tried to do my part, but found it to be a lot like that patyour-head-and-rub-your-tummy thing. It's near impossible to shake a tambourine and watch your dad act a fool at the same time.

“Allow us to introduce ourselves!” he said. “My name is M. B. McClean. This here is my able assistant, Cass, and we are here to show you the wonders of the
soap
ernatural.”

I gave a slight shrug and a slighter wave to the front row.

“Be the first to witness!” he continued. “We have here in this very case a genuine and rare collection of soap slivers used by actual heroes of history!”

Dad waved his arm over the vast collection of soaps. I found myself so mesmerized by them, I forgot to even shake the tambourine. Instead, I just held it stiffly out to my side like I had me a skunk by the tail.

“Today and today only,” he said, “you can wash with one of these slick little treasures and become just as great as these men and women once were!”

A little
woo-hoo
mixed together with a lot of
no way
scattered from my belly button out to my whole body, like when you hear the
click-click-click
on the first big uphill of a roller coaster.

“And it's all free!” Dad went on, chanting louder and louder above the heads of the first rows of perplexed onlookers until even more people were drawn from their seesawing and jungle-gyming. When bikes, skateboards, and roller skates began to appear in the distance, Dad cleared his throat and shouted into the air, “Gather, small ones! Don't be duds! We've got us some magical suds!”

He looked at me as if to ask if the rhyme was decent enough.

Decent enough
, I nodded back.

“No more swinging! No more sliding!” he said to the kids on the playground. “Wouldn't you rather lather?”

Dad shot me a doubtful look, and without him even having to ask, I said, “That one was a little better.”

And I clearly wasn't the only one who thought so. Kids came from all directions, pulling moms and dads and uncles and babysitters by the arms.

“Forget your
troubles
! Try these
bubbles
! You can't say
nope
to extraordinary
soap
!”

In a matter of minutes, dozens of noisy children stood in a bunch all around me with their hands in the air, and being a Cassistant felt a tad less embarrassing.

“Do us a good solid smack on that tambourine if you would, Cass,” he said. So I gave it my best effort, and the noise immediately silenced the crowd. Everyone, including me, and maybe even including Dad, waited to hear what this M. B. McClean would say next.

I felt a gurgle in my belly and a fluster in my face. Dad must have noticed.

“You up for some more assisting, or would you rather watch and learn this first time around?” he whispered. The crowd made a hushy hum behind me.

“Um…watch and learn,” I said.

“No worries,” he said. “How about a bird's-eye view, then?”

While the fidgety, impatient crowd looked on, my dad, in all his stripy shininess, gave me a boost up the little ladder attached to the back of The Roast, where I found myself a spot to sit crisscross-legged and catch the whole scene.

“Now, let's get down to business!” Dad turned back to the people. “Remember, any trusting soul can experience the magic himself! So who's going to be our first volunteer?”

Dad scanned the small show of hands.

“You there!” he said to a boy who had brightly colored chalk crammed into his overalls pocket. Dad waved him up the steps, and the boy carefully inspected the soap-filled suitcase. His mom hovered close behind, watching every move.

“I see you are an aspiring artist,” Dad said. “Perhaps I can make a suggestion.” He pulled out a pink swirly sliver with the initials
V V G
scraped into it.

“This was Vincent van Gogh's actual bar of soap.” Dad held the soap up so everyone could get a look. I strained to see the details of the soap, as if I had a clue what the real thing would look like. Then I studied Dad's face, as if I had a clue what him lying to a crowd would look like.

He continued. “Vincent van Gogh's adventurous use of wild colors turned the world of art on its ear, if you will. His painting of a nighttime sky in bright swooshes and blazing stars is his most famous work ever. And not only that, but he painted unbelievably fast, finishing nine hundred paintings in ten years' time.”

Dad put the soap in his palm and reached it out to the boy.

“One wash with this sliver, young man, and you yourself can be one of the finest ar-teests in Nimble Creek.”

The boy looked ready to snatch it right up, until his mom caught him by the shoulder.

“I don't know, son,” she said. “Maybe next time.”

“Oh
pllllease
, Mom,” the boy said. “Let me try it.”

“There might not be a next time,” Dad said. “And if nothing else, he'll come away with clean hands, right?”

“All right,” the mom said. “Go ahead.”

Dad guided the boy to the wagon to wash his hands in the water. While the boy scrubbed and splashed, I watched carefully to see what would happen, half expecting from Dad's buildup for there to be paint shooting out of the kid's fingers or something. When the boy was done with his wash, Dad searched all around the gazebo for some semblance of a paper towel before turning around and offering his long coattails for the kid to dry his hands on. The boy looked a little starstruck at the notion of getting to touch the green-and-yellow jacket, like it could be magical too. But despite washing with some so-called Vincent van Gogh soap, he seemed to be just the same kid with the same chalk and the same nervous mom. And besides, I was old enough to know better about this kind of thing anyway.

“Now then, go do your starry thing!” Dad said, nudging the boy down the steps and giving me a wink through his giant green glasses. And that's when something amazing happened. While Dad scanned the group for his next pick, I kept my eyes on the boy, who kneeled right next to The Roast and began the most handsome picture of a brilliant night sky, all vivid and inspired, like he was some kind of born noodler. And a fast noodler he was too, making his way across a universe of chalk within minutes. From directly above the picture, if I squinted, it was like The Roast was sailing through space. Others gathered around and gave their
oohs
and
ahhs
, making the boy's mom puff up with pride. When Dad looked up my way and smiled, I felt a tad bit starstruck myself.

“Cassistant,” he called out to me, with a shrug. “Who do you think I should pick next?” That prompted twenty kids to turn and flail their arms in my direction. In the midst of their commotion, I spotted a miserable black-haired girl who seemed to be about my age. She stood next to a kid who looked like the boy version of her. He was ruthlessly and repeatedly poking her in the ribs with an action figure.

“That one,” I said, pointing her out to Dad, who then invited the girl to step up to the open suitcase, which suddenly seemed to have a treasure-chest-like appeal, drawing people closer to it.

“Uh, a pink one, please,” was her simple request.

“No prob,” said Dad. “This one should do the trick.” He handed her a pink sliver with
A O
scraped on it in curvy letters. “Annie Oakley's soap,” said McClean. “You know who Annie Oakley was, little lady?”

“No, sir…” the girl began.

“She don't know diddly!” interrupted her brother.

Dad motioned the girl over and stooped close to her.

“Annie Oakley was the toughest gal in the Old West, and a real sharpshooter,” he said. “And you know what? You seem to me like you could be pretty tough, too.”