The Seventh Most Important Thing (19 page)

T
here were five people in the group—two women and three men. They came on a Saturday in two taxis. Arthur wished Squeak could have been there, but one of his cousins was getting married, so Arthur was on his own.

He didn't like being on his own. He liked it even less when he saw the group. They looked as if they had come straight from a country club. Even though it was a warm June day, the men were wearing suit coats and bow ties. The two women had on stylish dresses and high heels. They didn't seem very happy about having to walk through the trash-strewn gravel to the garage in their good shoes either.

Arthur tried to be polite—holding the door open and saying hello to everyone. But it didn't seem to matter much. Once the five people got through the doorway, they ignored him completely and headed straight for Mr. Hampton's creation.

They gathered in a tight knot in front of it, talking among themselves. Arthur couldn't tell if they liked it or not because he couldn't hear much of what was being said. But he was kind of shocked when one of the women walked up to a silver table in the display and pulled it forward without even asking for permission.

Then she started tapping a couple of the foil-covered lightbulbs with her painted fingernails and running her hands along the decorated sides. She even kneeled down to look underneath the table.

“It's a discarded bedside table from the twenties or thirties,” she said to the rest of the group. “Decorated with cardboard scraps, lightbulbs, and maybe some foil-covered Ping-Pong balls here and there. Looks like everything is held together with strips of metal cans, straight pins, and glue.”

Ping-Pong balls?

Arthur shook his head. None of the Seven Most Important Things were
Ping-Pong balls.
They were crumpled balls of foil. If anybody had bothered to ask him, he could have told the group exactly what they were. He'd made some of them himself.

“But is it art?” one of the men asked. He was an older guy with thick white hair who kind of looked like Albert Einstein. “I'm having a hard time seeing the artistic value in this piece—other than the fact that it is an elaborate example of how discarded odds and ends can be transformed into a religious display.”

Arthur finally spoke up, because the museum people clearly had no clue what they were looking at and he couldn't stand listening to them any longer.

“It's called the Throne of the Third Heaven,” he announced from the garage doorway. “That's what it's supposed to be.”

All eyes turned toward Arthur, as if noticing him for the first time.

Arthur Owens didn't really want to go on. But he decided to show off the piece Hampton had made in the war, since it was one of his favorites. He picked up the fragile box created of broken things and tried to remember all of the details about it. The island. The war. Hampton's visions. The number 3.

“Mr. Hampton said this is supposed to be Death and War turned into something beautiful,” he explained.

“I like that idea,” said the second woman in the group. She took off her fancy rhinestone eyeglasses and leaned closer to study the elaborate box. “Death and War turned into something beautiful.”

Arthur walked around and pointed out some of the other symbols on the tables and pedestals—the angel wings, the stars, the crowns, the “lights in the darkness” lightbulbs.

The same woman who had liked the box said she thought it was interesting that Mr. Hampton covered every object in his collection with foil.

“Reflects the viewer,” someone else replied.

“So what the artist could have been saying is that heaven is supposed to reflect us, the viewers,” another voice added.

This bizarre idea had never occurred to Arthur. Had Mr. Hampton really wanted his masterpiece to reflect the people looking at it? Was that why everything had to shine? He glanced at the group behind him with more interest. Maybe they did know something after all.

“Mr. Hampton called the foil and some of the other things he used the Seven Most Important Things,” he added, in case that might help to explain more.

For some reason, the group found this funny.

“I have no clue why he used seven for everything, but that's what he did,” Arthur finished quickly, embarrassed by the laughter.

“I can tell you why,” the man with the Einstein hair said. The rest of the group nodded as if they knew the reason too. “Traditionally, seven is the number of completeness and perfection—seven days of the week, seven days of creation in the Bible, and so on.”

Seven—the number of completeness and perfection.

That was when the puzzle pieces finally started to fall into place for Arthur. Mr. Hampton had wanted him to find seven things to complete the project. The building blocks, he'd called them. But Arthur had also suspected they were the building blocks of his redemption too. The seven things he needed to find for himself, for his life…

“Is that all?” the woman with the rhinestone glasses asked Arthur.

Looking up, Arthur realized he'd completely lost track of what he'd been saying. The whole group was staring at him, wondering what the heck was going on. Wondering why the kid had suddenly lost it and stopped talking.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, still feeling kind of dazed, still thinking of the seven things. “I think that's all I know.”

“So, have we seen enough?” the white-haired guy asked the other four people, who nodded.

“We'll let you know what we've decided once we've had time to talk it over with the board,” the man continued.

Arthur had no idea what board the museum guy meant, but he nodded anyhow, as if the plan was fine with him. He wasn't really sure if he was allowed to agree with anything. Hampton's Throne didn't even belong to him.

The entire visit only lasted about thirty minutes. Then everybody made their way across the uneven gravel again. As Arthur watched the taxis back up and leave, he hoped he'd said the right things. He hoped Mr. Hampton would have approved.

A
rthur's fourteenth birthday was June 26. A Friday. He told his mom all he wanted was a chocolate cake and a couple of
Mad
magazines. Nothing special.

He thought about adding that he wanted just his mom and Barbara to be there—the three of them for dinner without Roger—but he knew his mom would probably take it the wrong way. She wouldn't understand that it wasn't really about Roger being there; it was about Arthur's dad
not
being there.

So he decided to keep his mouth shut.

On Friday, Barbara woke him up. “Happy birthday! I made a birthday picture for you, wanna see?” she said, hiding the picture behind her back.

“No,” Arthur said. “Go away. I want to sleep.”

“Look!” She waved it in front of his face. “There's you.”

She pointed at a stick figure holding a baseball bat and glove with a big
14
in purple clouds over his head.

“That's nice.” Arthur tried to be patient. “Thanks. Now go away, okay? It's my birthday. I want to sleep in.” He turned to face the wall.

“Do you know why you have a baseball hat and glove?”

Arthur shoved his face into the pillow. “No,” he said into it. “I don't.”

“Well, it's a surprise. Mom and Roger said I can't tell you,” his sister replied in a loud whisper. “You'll find out soon. You can go back to sleep now. Bye.”

She left the picture lying on his pillow and shuffled out of the room in her slippers.

Arthur wasn't sure how chocolate cake and
Mad
magazines got turned into a Washington Senators baseball game, but they did.

Roger took all of them to a game at D.C. Stadium that night.

Actually, it was a lot more fun than Arthur thought it would be. At first he kept thinking about his dad listening to games on the radio and felt guilty his dad wasn't there and he was. But then the Senators got a couple of hits—and they were one of the worst teams in baseball, so that was a big deal, even if they ended up losing to the Orioles.

Barbara was so excited about everything, she stood up to catch foul balls that weren't anywhere close to their seats. Whenever a ball was hit, she'd leap up and put out her hands, as if the ball would somehow drop out of the sky and land in them.

Roger finally ended up buying her a souvenir baseball. “Even though it's not your birthday,” he said. “I know Arthur won't mind.”

They ate hot dogs and popcorn and drank Cokes. Arthur's mom laughed a lot. Probably too much, he thought. It was kind of embarrassing. Roger wasn't
that
funny, he wanted to point out.

Then they came back and had his birthday cake around midnight. Which was cool, until Barbara stayed up and chattered for half the night because she couldn't sleep. And then had to pee the rest of the night.

Arthur saved his ticket from the game. It had been a good birthday, and he wanted to remember it.

O
fficer Billie was the one who called Arthur to tell him the news about Hampton's masterpiece. It was right before the Fourth of July holiday weekend. Roger was over for dinner, as usual. Arthur had been cutting lawns all day to earn money for the August garage rent, so he was wiped out. He didn't even move to answer the phone when it rang. His mom jumped up to get it.

Holding her hand over the receiver, she told Arthur the call was for him. “It's Officer Billie,” she whispered loudly. “Tell her you'll call her back later because we're eating supper now. The casserole will get cold.”

Arthur ignored his mom and the casserole. He hadn't heard from Officer Billie in weeks. And she was calling before a holiday weekend. He knew it had to be something important.

He took the phone. “It's Arthur Owens,” he said, trying not to sound nervous.

“Mr. Owens, I have some news I think you will be pleased to hear.”

Right then, all Arthur could hear was his heart—which sounded like it was about to fly out of his chest.

“The National Collection of Fine Arts here in Washington has decided they would like to acquire Mr. Hampton's work.”

“What?” Arthur asked, not quite sure what she meant. “Acquire?”

“The museum would like to have…to keep the work of art.”

“What?” Arthur said again, feeling dizzy.

He'd been to the national art museum only once, on a school field trip in elementary school. All he could remember was the huge gold picture frames and the marble steps. It had been like a palace. He couldn't believe Hampton's collection of foil-covered art would be in a place like that.

“They're going to put Mr. Hampton's work in the museum downtown? For everybody to see?” Arthur repeated slowly.

There was a long pause before Officer Billie said, “Well, no. Not right now.”

Arthur was confused. “What do you mean, not right now?”

“For the moment, the museum is acquiring it for their storage collection.”

“Storage?”

“They'll put it away until they have a place for it someday.”

“Oh.” Arthur pictured all of the beautiful pieces being packed away in cardboard boxes in a musty attic somewhere. Like their Christmas tree.

“How long will it be there? In storage?” he managed to ask, trying not to sound as disappointed as he was.

There was a loud, exasperated sigh from Officer Billie. “I don't know. But I thought you would be happy to hear that Mr. Hampton's work is going to one of the top museums in the country.”

“But—”

“
Stop!
Are you happy the project was saved or not, Mr. Owens?”

Arthur could tell Officer Billie probably had her traffic-cop hand up.

“I guess I'm happy,” he mumbled.

And actually, he was glad Mr. Hampton's work was going somewhere, so he wouldn't have to lie awake nights worrying about it any longer—and mowing lawns to pay the rent. He only wished it was going to a place where people could see it. He didn't think Mr. Hampton would want heaven packed up and left in storage. He hoped he hadn't let him down.

“Nothing in this world is perfect, right?” Officer Billie said more patiently.

“Right,” Arthur agreed. He managed to resist adding—except the number seven.

“Well, that's all the information I have right now. When I hear more, I'll let you know.”

“Thanks.” Arthur did his best to sound grateful. He didn't want another lecture.

“You're welcome,” she said. “Have a good evening.”

Arthur turned back to the table to see everyone staring at him. The casserole was untouched. Nobody had moved.

“What was that all about?” Arthur's mom asked.

Arthur took a deep breath and forced himself to smile. “It was Officer Billie calling to tell me that Mr. Hampton's masterpiece is going to a museum.”

“
M
r. Hampton's art is going to a museum?”
Squeak practically launched out of his chair in Arthur's kitchen when he told him. He'd come over for lunch after being away for the Fourth of July weekend. Of course, he'd brought his own foil-wrapped food with him.

“Yeah, I guess. That's what Officer Billie told me.” Arthur shrugged, as if it were no big deal, and kept eating his ham sandwich.

“Which museum?” Squeak asked, still talking extra loudly.

“National Collection of Fine Arts.”

“One of the Smithsonians?”
Squeak shrieked. He was so loud Barbara came running from the living room to see what was going on.

“Hampton's work is going to a Smithsonian?”
Squeak shrieked again.

“Seriously, Squeak, tone it down a little.” Arthur waved his sister away. “They're just putting it in storage, not in the museum.”

“Well, it's better than sitting in an old garage in an alley, isn't it?” Squeak still couldn't contain his excitement. He pushed his entire packet of vanilla cremes toward Arthur. “Here. You can have all of my cookies to celebrate,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. “Congratulations!”

Smiling, Arthur shook his head.

Sometimes Squeak could be such a pinhead.