Sunshine Picklelime (20 page)

When the art studio opened its doors to parents and members of the public on the great day, it was wall-to-wall people. During the first hour, in Ruth’s honor, Josh and his parents, PJ, her mom, Mrs. Patel, Ms. Naguri, Ms. Lenz, Mr. Splitzky, Mrs. Martins, Mr. Santos, Mr. Flax, other neighbors, and all Ruth’s closest buddies stood in silence in front of PJ’s splashy yellow canvas with
the massive live oak, tree house, and collection of birds and animals. Ruth’s image also faced them in a frozen frame on Josh’s laptop, perched on a high stool by the wall. Mr. Santos announced that the canvas would continue to hang in the front entrance to the school after the exhibition closed, as a permanent tribute to Ruth.

There were hugs and tears and neighborly words of appreciation all around. PJ watched sadly as Ruth’s parents started to go, after telling her Mr. Splitzky planned to dismantle the tree house and bring it to her garden the next day.

“Are you sure?” PJ asked.

“It’s time,” they said, and Joshua nodded in agreement.

He remained behind after they left and said he felt really close to Ruth, standing next to her image on the canvas. He adjusted the laptop to show a continuous loop of his clips of the birds—and the escape.

Everyone stood and gaped in disbelief, eyes darting between PJ’s collage and the moving images as dozens of birds dumped all over Mr. Tweety on the sidewalk beside his poop-smeared store windows. “Hey, didn’t we see that on the TV news?” someone exclaimed. “Wow, talk about timing, Josh! Were you just passing by?”

“Something like that.” He shrugged, shaking his shaggy honey-blond hair so it tumbled over his face and masked his expression.

When people asked more questions, PJ stood there trying to look innocent in her flowing turquoise linen skirt and shirt with a ladybug motif, chosen to add to the nature-and-art project. Beside her, Joshua looked like some rare tropical bird in his deep crimson T-shirt and jeans.

Out of respect for the family, music only started after Ruth’s parents left. Teachers from the music and electronics departments had set up a sound system, not so loud that people couldn’t hear themselves speak. All those kids exhibiting their art got to pick a piece of music. PJ and Josh chose Ruth’s favorite jazz flute music, and it blended in smoothly with classical, pop, and heavy metal.

Proud parents and guests drifted from exhibit to exhibit, quizzing the students about their choices and congratulating them on their creativity. The art included pen-and-ink botanical drawings, exotic wood carvings, and time-lapse photographs of butterflies emerging from cocoons. After the recent cleanup days on the beach, some students created great works of sculpture shaped
out of shells and salvaged objects like plastic sandals and weathered bits of old crab traps.

Some of the younger kids dressed up in animal or flower costumes. One was even dressed as a mushroom. They wandered around with platters of halved pineapples filled with fresh papaya, melon, kiwifruit, and grapes.

PJ couldn’t wait any longer to spring her surprise as a final tribute to Ruth. Mr. Santos didn’t know about it. Nor did Mr. Flax.

The gulls, owls, and cardinals danced about and flapped wildly with excitement at an upper window, awaiting her cue.

While the place was still packed, PJ reached up for the cord and yanked open the window. Down swooped the birds. Folks ducked, fearing a replay of what they had just seen in Joshua’s video clips. PJ held her breath.

Big Gull couldn’t resist flying so close he tweaked PJ’s hair. He started to
caw-caw
, and that set the owls off, too, with their assortment of hissing and hooting. Then the Cardies started their lovely
chirruping
. The birds began to twirl and dip in formation and make figures-of-eight like an air force display. Then they started doing yoga poses in flight.

Suddenly people weren’t diving for cover anymore,
but watched, enchanted, and clapped and cheered. Everyone thought this was an organized part of the art show.

“Phenomenal,” someone said to Mr. Flax and Mr. Santos.

PJ made a quick thumbs-up sign no one noticed except Josh. The birds rose in unison, dipped, frolicked, tumbled, spun around, flew back to their perch above, and then out the window. The crowd roared.

Though PJ tried to keep a cool expression throughout, her mom, Josh, Mrs. Patel, and Ms. Lenz smiled and winked at her. People buzzed around the floor talking about the display and asking, “Who trained the birds?” and “Have you ever seen owls and a magpie flying with seagulls and cardinals before?” Even little Domino had separated himself from Oohoo to twirl about solo.

After everything had simmered down, guests began to make their way to the dessert table. Parents had baked delicious cakes and pies for the occasion. Ms. Lenz had made a huge chocolate slab cake decorated with owls. Ms. Naguri had made a pecan cake. Mr. Splitzky had baked a honey cake shaped like a beehive.

At the end of the show, Mr. Santos and Mr. Flax helped PJ and Josh move the canvas to its permanent place at the front
of the school. When PJ got home, exhausted, she wasn’t surprised to find the birds and Squirt waiting for her.

“Guys, you were
awesome,”
she said. PJ felt something tighten around her heart and could hardly breathe for a moment. Tears seemed to spiral up from a hidden place inside she didn’t even know she had. The birds drew close, opened their wings, and formed a tight circle around her. PJ had always been so supportive of them, Oohoo murmured, maybe they had lost sight of her feelings?

“PJ, we all love you,” sniffed Big Gull, salty tears flowing down his beak. “We’re your family.”

She nodded but found it impossible to speak. Part of her wanted to freeze this moment in time and never grow up. Part of her never wanted the birds and Squirt to leave, but she knew that was impossible. Part of her wanted to speed through these days.

“Tomorrow,” said PJ, “the tree house moves here and I expect you guys to start scouting around for injured birds and animals to fill those empty cages.”

“You got it, PJ!” everyone chorused.

The circle of wings tightened around her and then released as the birds lifted off the ledge one by one and returned to the folds of the inky night sky.

pj’s tree house

PJ awoke very early
the next morning to hear her mother dragging furniture around the front room. She got dressed in apple green shorts and a T-shirt and ran downstairs to find out what was going on.

“Hi, honey,” said Mrs. Picklelime. “What do you think? I’m converting this room into my office. Soon I’ll start seeing patients here.” Then, stretching her arms and legs, she added, “As poet Audre Lorde said,
‘If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.’
”

“Oh, Mom, you’re uncrunchable. Room looks great. Anyway, we spend most of our time in the kitchen.”

“It’s cozier there, sure. We won’t miss being in here. I’ll move a desk and filing cabinets in soon, too.”

She had arranged a ring of chairs to face the large window, circled by bookshelves crammed full of her favorite writers and poets. The window gave a wonderful view of the garden and their own smaller version of a twisty live oak that would soon hold the tree house.

“The garden’s growing lovelier by the day, PJ,” she said. “But make sure you keep the front lawn free of bird poop. Oh, and PJ?”

“Mom?”

“I do not want to see birds and squirrels flying around inside the house, especially when I’m seeing patients. Confine them to the tree house or your window ledge. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mom.” PJ grinned, kissed her on the cheek, and ran outside just as Mrs. Patel opened the front gate.

“Come, child,” she said. “Mr. Splitzky will be at Ruth’s place within the hour to take the tree house apart and truck it here to you. Let’s go there and wait for him.”

As they walked together, Mrs. Patel congratulated PJ again on the art exhibit. “PJ, when you said ‘mixed media,’ you didn’t tell me this included an overhead show!”

“That just happened, Mrs. Patel,” PJ said.

“Oh, right. You know, child, your birds will pass on whatever they learn from you to their offspring. Never forget that. But birds need to be birds. Don’t baby them too much.”

“I’ll try not to.” PJ laughed.

“I wanted to share something with you,” Mrs. Patel went on as they turned the corner. “Mozart sometimes spent his summer vacations in a house just outside Prague. That’s where—so they say—he started to compose one of his operas, out in the garden. You know how I love gardens? Years ago I sat in that garden at a stone table and listened to the birds, oh wonderful birds, PJ, you cannot imagine how beautiful. And I thought to myself, these are the great-great-great-great a hundred times over grandchildren of the birds that sang right here in this same spot for Mozart!”

“Did they sound like Mozart?”

Mrs. Patel nodded. “I think we’re told one of his works was inspired by songbirds he heard outside his window.”

PJ loved the idea and told Mrs. Patel about the gulls flying off into the distance looking like musical notes.

When they got to Ruth’s, they crossed the lawn, now full of white rain lilies after the recent storm. All they could hear was the sound of the stone fountain with a girl
holding a pot. They stood in silence for several long moments, staring at the huge, winding live oak and the tree house, until Joshua poked his head out the door and said, “Yo! Just in time to help. Catch these?” He lowered the empty animal cages down, all carefully roped together. PJ and Mrs. Patel carried them over to the gate as Mr. Splitzky drove up in his truck with three beefy-looking workmen.

Josh tossed down one puffy blue cushion after another. Mrs. Patel and Mr. Splitzky loaded all the items behind the driver’s seat in the truck while PJ swung up the ladder for a few words with Joshua. Together they put some of Ruth’s books and pictures into a box he wanted to keep for himself. “PJ, don’t look so worried,” he said. “I’m OK with this. I’m working through things. Yesterday’s show helped a lot.”

“It did?” PJ asked.

“Sure. I felt Ruth was there with us.”

“I don’t feel she’s ever left,” said PJ.

Since Mr. Splitzky was waiting below, they quickly emptied the tree house and lowered the rest of the items so he could begin the dismantling process. First he unhinged the door and lowered it to their upturned hands. Then he removed the windows. He’d built the tree house in
practical sections, so he took those apart and slid each one down, helped by his trio of workmen.

Mrs. Picklelime soon came over to help. As a team, they started to load the sections into the back of Mr. Splitzky’s truck, taking extra care to pack the windows between protective sheets of foam.

As soon as the tree house was down, PJ called Ms. Naguri, who walked over to hang up the bamboo wood chimes. A breeze caught them immediately and twirled them to and fro in a dance of sound. Everyone could hear them
clickclacking
as the team finished loading and ambled back to the Picklelimes’ garden.

Other neighbors were waiting there with picnic baskets all prepared. They made the off-loading easier. Many pairs of hands helped Mr. Splitzky raise and reassemble the tree house in PJ’s live oak. PJ wished they could build a walkway from her bedroom right into the tree house, but her mom said, “Don’t even think about it.”

PJ and Josh organized the interior with all the cushions, cages, and shelves in their former places.

“PJ? Josh?” Mrs. Picklelime called from below.

“We’re hungry!”

PJ poked her head over the Dutch door. “We’ll be there in two minutes, Mom.”

Neighbors were busily spreading blankets on the grass and opening their picnic hampers. Mrs. Patel went home to get fresh pitchers of Lemon Nectar sweetened with Mr. Splitzky’s honey. Mr. Santos unpacked large green Spanish olives and placed them in a bowl he’d shaped out of limestone. Mr. Kanafani unwrapped loaves of flatbread he’d baked specially. Mrs. Martins arrived with an avocado salad. Ms. Naguri brought some of her famous sushi, and Ms. Lenz came with a large box of truffles and pralines.