Sway (24 page)

“What do you mean by that, hon?” said Mom.

“We're supposed to be home tonight. Maybe you could call and ask him about the magic.”

Mom paused so long, I felt nervous the refill minutes would expire right out from under us.

“And if you—
when
you call—be sure and ask him about his statue too,” I said.

“Okay, baby. Not tonight, but maybe sometime,” she said, in a way that told me it would indeed be
some time
before she realized she'd left
two
heroes behind.

“Bye, Mom. I love you.”

“I love you too, Cass.”

With that, I dropped the phone to my side and backed myself up, standing as far from my noodling as I could. As I took in every inch of the soapy wonder that had been my week, something suddenly occurred to me: What if the things you always thought were just the in-between junk were actually the good things themselves? Maybe there wasn't such a thing as an in-between at all. No in-between days, no in-between places, no in-between people. Maybe, just maybe, there was some Sway to be found in all of it.

And then I did the best thing I knew to do with the strange concoction of sadness and hope brewing inside me. I prayed. I prayed for the people whose initials were on those slivers. Not just for those people, but for the cave people before them and the robot people after them. For
real
orphans. For all the people who have lost shoes in the road. For kids whose parents play war. For Toodi Bleu Skies and Toodi Bleu Nordenhauer, for M. B. McClean and Douglas Nordenhauer. And all the people who need to find the magic in Make Believe. That, I figured, just about covered the whole world.

Just then, right about the same moment as my
Amen
, I felt Sway slosh over the edge of me, sending a tickle of an idea across my whole self.

A
fter a quick peek to make sure Dad was focused on the road and the road alone, I snuck the manicure kit from the rolltop desk drawer, grabbed my Toodi Bleu sliver from the pantry cabinet, and set them both on a smoothed-out work spot on my bed. The soap kept sticking to my damp cushion, so I had to find something dry to put under it. Turns out, an airbrushed tank top that's been kept safe and dry inside a plastic beauty box makes a great cushion for the delicate job of restoring a soap sliver.

I slid the nail file from the manicure kit and hovered it in the air for a moment, too scared to lower it, like one false poke would waste the last sliver to be found in all the soap mines in the world. But then I just held my breath and went for it, shaky at first, but then more steady-handed with each stroke. As I worked, I noticed that the minuscule soap scrapings that fell to the side looked like pink crumblets, reminding me of an eraser that's done some forgiving.

Once a lot of scraping and a little carving was complete, I crept out to swipe the encyclopedia volume marked
QRS
. I felt sure Dad would hear me bumping around, but he just plodded on, taking his eyes off the road only to glance at the map. Then I opened the book across my bed next to where the soap rested. Its pages were wavy and stuck together. So much so that I had to lick my pointer finger to help me flip through, leaving a flowery soapy taste on my tongue. By the time I'd lip-smacked the taste away, I'd found the listing I was after. I figured the book was ruined anyway, so I tore the whole page right out of there.

I lifted the finished soap carefully with two fingers and placed it right in the middle of the torn-out page. Then I folded the paper around it again and again, concentrating so hard on wrapping the sliver securely without crushing it, I didn't even notice that The Roast had come to a stop. Nor did I notice Dad standing right behind me with my curtain pulled open. I almost jumped out of my skin when he spoke.

“Cass, I thought you'd maybe want a bite to—
Wow
, what have you been up to?”

“It's a surprise,” I said, hiding the bundle behind my back. Then I realized he wasn't even looking at me or the torn book at all. He was staring at my wall.

“Um, it's my noodling,” I explained. “I've sort of been working on it the whole trip. See, it's a big, reaching tree. A Castanea dentata tree. And it's all full of soap slivers.”

“I see that,” Dad said, standing for a minute in silence. I didn't know whether he was just taking it all in, or brewing up a big mad.

“I know it's permanent and all, and I know people aren't supposed to write on walls, but I thought it might be okay.”

“I wouldn't call it okay,” said Dad, sending a blast of
yeeks
right through me.

“Oh, it's better than okay,” he said.

“Really?” I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

“Definitely. It's far more beautiful than that old Eiffel Tower, and it's just what this grungy RV has been missing,” he said. “Maybe you could expand it and fill the whole wall with it someday. Or who knows? Maybe even the whole Roast.”

“You mean we're not going to sell it?”

“No way,” he said. “Not in a million years would I part with a
Cassterpiece
like this.”

Cassterpiece
. Hearing Dad say that word was like the noise a rainbow would make if a rainbow made noise.

“But first,” he said, “let's see how much pig meat twelve bucks will buy us.”

Moments later, inside the Top Hat BBQ in Blount Springs, Alabama, Dad and I found ourselves sitting in a C-shaped booth that had a deer head looking out over it. I held tight to my little page-wrapped bundle until the food came. Then, while Dad raved on about my noodling between gnawing ribs, I stood crinkle fries on end in my slaw and waited for the right moment. When he ripped open a moist towelette and gave his hands a thorough wipe-down, I saw my opportunity.

“Um, speaking of hand-washing,” I said, sliding the bundle to his side of the table.

Dad had all sorts of confusion across his face.

“Be careful when you unwrap it,” I said. “Delicate stuff inside there.”

He flip-flip-flipped the package until the tiny soap plopped out onto the table.

“The thing is,” I said, “I finally decided which sliver I want to use.”

Dad took a close look at the soap.

“See there…it's an
M B M
,” I showed him. “For my partner in Sway-making.”

Dad looked as stunned as if the deer head had spoken my words.

“But not just that,” I said. “Look at the other side.”

He rolled the soap over with one hand.

“Is that a
D N
?” he said.

“For Douglas Nordenhauer,” I said. “The
cheese
.”

Dad fixed his eyes on that soap like the whole rest of the room blurred out around it.

“But wait, there's something else you need to see, too,” I told him, smoothing out the damp-edged encyclopedia page and pinning it down with the salt and pepper. The section highlighted in yellow Sharpie read:

Soap is formed by mixing common oils with a strong alkaline solution. The most common form of bar soap is made by combining a measure of distilled water, olive oil, and lye.

“What's all this about?” said Dad.

“Well, since I dumped out all the soaps,” I explained, “I just figured someday we might want to use those ingredients to make our own. I mean, in case a couple of nuts need a fresh batch of slivers, you know, for fun or something.”

Dad smiled so crinkly, he got little twinkles in his eyes.

“And, Dad, there's just one last thing,” I said, tucking the sliver gently into my shorts pocket.

“What's that?” he said.

“What I mainly wanted to say—” I stood another fry in my slaw. “What I mainly want to say is that I'm real sorry for making you worry.”

“Oh come on, Cass, you know better than that,” Dad said. “You don't have a lick of wrength in you.”

“But I ran away, just like Mom did.”

“True.” He nodded. “But you also came back.”

“I didn't even realize what I was running away from,” I said.

“It takes some people longer than others to figure that out,” he said. “All is forgiven, Cass.”

Dad rose to his feet and dusted the salt from his legs.

“All?” I said. “Even Mom?”

“One step at a time, okay?” he said, reaching to offer me a hand as I slid out of the booth. Then it was on to the pay area, which was just beyond a long counter full of every kind of candy a person could want. Between the bubble gum and the peppermint sticks sat a no-neckedgallon milk jug that was half full of money, with a note taped to the side. The note simply said:
For the Weston County tornado victims.
Dad plinked our change into the jug and looked out the window at our exhausted RV, which was smoking more than a little from the tailpipe.

“The Roast is done,” he said with a grin. “Let's go home.”

“B
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight!” Dad shouted, nearly taking out our mailbox as he bumped us into the driveway. I couldn't decide if it felt like we'd been gone for ages, for a few days, or for maybe just long enough. All I knew was that seeing the familiar sites of Olyn, Alabama, through the eyes of a returning hero felt better than I had even hoped it would.

We pulled to a stop in the middle of the driveway, between our house and Syd's. It had been a few hours since lunch, and I suddenly found myself craving a potpie.

“So what do you think?” Dad said. “Should I wear the top hat and glasses for everybody?”

“I don't think so,” I said, popping open the glove box and handing him the
It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it
ball cap. “How about just this for now?”

I heard Syd's screen door slam shut, so I pinched the little Castanea dentata seed burr out of the cup holder and scrambled to the back to grab my can it! box. Then, seed in hand and can in pocket, I slid down from my side of The Roast at the same time Dad slid down from his.

“Lady and gentlemen of the Nordenhauer persuasion!” Dad called out as he made his way onto the little porch next door. I was about to circle around the rear of the RV to join him, when I was suddenly stopped in my tracks by a figure lunging at me from a hiding place underneath the bumper.
Syd.
Soon as I caught my breath and swallowed my heart back down, I realized how very much I had missed my cousin.

“Syd Nordenhauer! You scared the wits out of me!”

“I couldn't resist,” he said. “I heard The Roast as soon as you guys hit the driveway.”

I was relieved he didn't say a word about my big zeeyut, probably because he had a humongous red bump on his own forehead that made mine look like a speck.

“So?” he said. “Was it as wackadoo as you thought?”

“More than you could ever imagine,” I said. “But it was the
best
kind of wackadoo.”

I heard the screen door open as Aunt Jo greeted Dad and called for Uncle Clay to wheel himself out. All the things I wanted to tell Syd swirled around my brain.

“Well then, spill it,” said Syd. “I want to hear details.”

He leaned in to give me little push on the shoulder. When he did, I caught a glimpse of something behind him across the way, something that made me so mad I couldn't hold back. There was Mom's cloud piñata still dangling, all weather-beaten and frail, expectedly so. But it also had a big ugly gaping hole in the top of it, like somebody's cousin had hit it with a stick.

“Good grief, Syd!” I said. “You just had to go and bust it, didn't you?”

Syd's eyes got wide. “Huh? What'd I do?”

“The piñata. You smacked it open. I know you did, and you did it as soon as I left. Look at that hole!”

Syd looked back over his shoulder. “Shut up dot com! I did not!”

I gave him a nasty look.

“No really,” he insisted. “Come here.”

Syd pulled me by the arm to the spot right under the cloud and ran to grab a step stool from their porch.

“I didn't bust that hole, I swear it.” He placed the stool under the piñata. “Somebody else did.”

All scattered around his feet and mine were what looked like tufts of cotton strewn about.

“Now climb up there and have a look,” he said.

When I climbed the two steps and took a peek inside the hole, it was lots more of the same. Cotton balls, Q-tips, gauze pads.
Rescue supplies
. So that's what Uncle Clay had filled it with for Mom's party.

But the discovery didn't end there, for in the middle of all that stuff, I saw and heard a rustling around that inspired me to poke my face closer for a better look. When I did, I was delighted to find that in a fluffed-up wad of cotton, there sat three little birds. Three baby birds, just barely feathered, bobbing their heads in near-perfect rhythm with the racing of my heart.

I backed my head away from the hole, to find Syd doing an impatient foot shuffle. Aunt Jo, Uncle Clay, and Dad gave us three hearty waves from the porch.

“There's birds living in here,” I said.

“Duhyees,” said Syd. “That's what I wanted you to see.”

“You mean
they
busted the hole?”

“The mama bird did,” he said.

I turned back for another peek. It was amazing how content the little family looked in their custom arrangement of dingy, matted fluff.

“Don't linger all day up there,” warned Syd. “The mama bird comes around every once in a while. And you sure don't want to have your head in that cloud when she does. That's how I got this poke on the forehead.”

Despite the warning, I stood there watching the tiny birds, marveling at their comfort until my cousin chopped me hard in the back of the left knee.

“Enough already,” he said. “I want to see inside The Roast while it's still light out.”

“Okay,” I said, rolling the concealed seed burr around in my fist. “But there's something I want to do first.”

“What?” he said.

“It's kind of a private thing,” I said, worried that Syd would make fun of my plan.

“Oh, come on,” said Syd.

“All right,” I said. “You can watch. That is, if you promise not to laugh.”

“Omise-pray,” said Syd.

Just a few steps over into our yard, I knelt down where the old dead Castanea dentata tree used to be, noticing that someone had kindly propped the little wire fence back up. Syd squatted close to me as I opened my hand to take a good look at the prickly seed casing inside it. The burr looked like a fuzzy baby alien resting on my palm. Soon as he saw it, Syd started to make his
Twilight Zone
noise, but then stopped short and changed it into a throat-clearing.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Seeds,” I said, prying open the prickly burr to reveal the shiny brown chestnuts inside. “They're Castanea dentata seeds. I'm going to grow the tallest and reachingest Castanea dentata tree in the state of Alabama. Maybe in the whole country.”

I paused a moment for Syd to slip in some kind of joke, but instead, real quiet, he just said, “Awes.”

Then, together, Syd and I scratched out a shallow hole. The ground felt cool and crumbly between my fingers, and as we dug, I noticed a few loose, frail rootlets from the old Castanea dentata tree mixed into the dirt. It made me wonder if the ragged root pieces might somehow actually help the new tree to grow even bigger. While Syd waited, I pinched up the plumpest of the chestnuts and carefully dropped it at the very center of the hole. As I covered the seed with the dug-out dirt, I first made a wish for its safety and strength, and then said a prayer that the wish would come true.

Sappy Castanea Dentata, I thought.

Thankfully, no part of my ritual inspired Syd to do the usual cuckoo-clock doors with his hands. Instead, he just sat there patient and still until my business was done.

“Hey,” said Syd, “maybe after this we can wash our hands with some, oh, I don't know,
magic
soap?”

“How do you know about the soaps?” I asked. “Did Uncle Clay tell you?”

“Yeah, he told me,” said Syd. “Which is more than I can say for you, holding out on me for like fifteen minutes now.” He looked me square in the eyes and said, “All I know is, you need to let me into that RV now. I want to see that stuff.”

Syd so had the look of a believer, it made me wonder what exactly Uncle Clay had told him.

“Sorry, we're a little low on inventory right now,” I said. “But Dad and I plan to fix that.”

“Fair enough,” said Syd. “But shoot straight with me, cousin to cousin. Do the soaps really work?”

“Better than you could even imagine,” I said.

“Well, you better get me one soon,” said Syd, leaning in close to inspect my planting.

“Hold up,” he added, scooping some extra dirt from outside the tiny fenced area. “Part of the seed is still showing there.”

Syd patted an extra layer of dirt gently onto the mound. “You sure don't want a critter to come dig it all up.”

“Thank you,” I said, partly for the advice, but mainly for his being such a good permanent.

“Hey, and thanks for the going-away present too,” I said. “It came in real handy.”

I pulled the can it! box from my pocket to find the one thing I'd left in there—the worn label from our old Castanea dentata tree. I picked out the little paper and pressed it word-side-up into the dirt, right next to the seed mound.

“You plan on that tag staying there forever?” asked Syd.

“Historical marker,” I corrected him. “And only until the tree gets huge enough to have a plaque under it. Like someday when my great-grandkids come to see it.”

I was imagining mine and Syd's descendants washing with soaps carved with our own initials, when Aunt Jo called us over to the porch for some welcome-home snacks. Maybe a nice big bowl of Funyuns, I hoped, as Syd and I rose to our feet and dusted the loose dirt from our knees.

“So just how high do we expect this thing to grow?” Dad said from behind me and Syd, startling the both of us. He'd walked up so quietly, and now just stood there staring at the clear expanse of the Alabama sky, the pride in his face brightening him like no green-and-yellow suit could ever do.

“That high,” I said, pointing sharp and straight into the forever blue above. Soon as I did, I noticed a fat robin flying across the yard in our direction, so low it seemed that if I kept my finger in the air, she might scrape her belly on it.

“That's her!” yelled Syd, covering his face with his hands. “That's the mama! Take cover!”

Dad scooted up close behind and clasped both arms around me tight. Tight like he was telling the world,
This one belongs to me, and don't you even think about messing with her
. Syd bent down to avoid a beak to the noggin, but it didn't even cross my mind to do the same. Instead, I stood firm against my dad as that bird soared right on past, rising and falling on a breeze all the way back to her babies' cloudy, cushy home.

“Come on, Cass,” Dad said. “You've got some seriously muddy planter's hands, there. Let's go wash up for the party.”

With the coast clear of birds, Syd took off for his porch, and I turned to follow Dad to our back door. As we climbed the steps, I reached into my pocket to make sure my last little sliver was still there. I squeezed it tight in my palm, and as soon as I locked my fingers around the soap, something happened that caught me by surprise. For the first time ever, I felt it. A
zingle
. And not just any zingle, but the kind that comes from the inside out. The kind that starts at your heart and travels through you with every beat. Like the warm, unmistakable feeling of it being well with your soul.