“Did I say there’d be some surprises, or did I say there’d be some surprises?” Dad said, sleeve-dabbing the sweat from his forehead. He closed up the suitcase with the tambourine tucked inside, dumped the dirty water out of the wagon, and carefully rolled up the banner. The sha-shasha of the Nimble Creek street sweeper passed behind us through the park, its spinning brushes turning the little artist’s masterpiece into Vincent van Gone. It seemed to me like the whole day might not have actually happened, as if it would just sweep away in a chalky swirl of imagination.

“Cass, would you pick the back end of this thing up?” Dad lifted the front of the loaded wagon into the side door of The Roast. “I promise this will be the last help of the day.”

A few clumps of wet glitter from the wagon smeared onto the front of my shirt. M. B. McClean plopped onto the couch and eased his feet out of his shoes. The Douglas Nordenhauer part of him looked exhausted.

“I think these things must be made from a rubber snake,” he said, tossing his loafers aside and rubbing his heels. “I’d have been more comfy in a couple of mismatched shoes from that box back there.” He folded the big green glasses and tucked one stem down into his shirt.

“So what did you think?” he said. “I know you must be full of questions.”

Full of questions was putting it mildly. It was more like my head was an endless Pez dispenser of mysteries. And my body stood there stiff to match.

“I don’t…What was…How did…Dad, why are you doing all this?”

Dad stopped and stared at me kind of flat-mouthed, like he was undecided about his next sentence.

“The question is, why would I not do all this?” he said. “Seems to me it would be a shame to turn down an opportunity that one of our Nordenhauer ancestors saw fit to preserve and pass on.”

He picked up the yellow top hat, tossed it Frisbee-style all the way to the dashboard, and patted the couch for me to join him.

“You know, Cass, my original plan was to share this family secret with you when you turned the big 1-1, but frankly, due to the turn of events with your mom this past week, I figured you needed an advance on some magic in your life.”

“You mean magic like a fake lady being sawed in two, right?” I said, trying to balance my behind on the narrow hard edge of the couch.

“Nope. An entirely different kind of magic.”

“So there really is no meat?”

Dad shook his head. “There’s no meat, Casstrami.”

“No steaks?”

“Not one.”

“But you’ve sold meat before, right? Like to the church people and stuff?”

“Yep,” Dad said, mixed in with a groan. “But I’m tired of meat.”

I looked all around at the sure-enough no-meatness of the RV.

“So this is all about old soap?” I said.

“Old soap, yes, but not just any old soap,” said Dad, his voice brighter. “Special old soap.”

He pulled the brown suitcase from the wagon and laid it across his lap.

“Cass, ever since you had knuckle dimples, you’ve been a bright, kind, and curious girl,” he said. “That’s why I feel like I can trust you with this knowledge at a young age.”

Then he suddenly got all hushed.

“Let me tell you about a little something I like to call Sway.” Dad said it slow, like a teacher calling out a spelling word.

“Sway?” I asked.

“S-W-A-Y,” he said.

I thought he meant like when my whole fourth-grade class once had to sway back and forth with our hands in the air while we kazooed “You’re a Grand Old Flag.”

“You mean like this?” I waved my top half left and right, nearly swaying myself onto the floor.

“No, no.” Dad leaned in close. “Sway,” he said. “As in power…As in influence.”

Despite the thick summer heat of the evening, I felt chills scatter up and down both my arms. I scooted onto the cushiony part of the couch and gave Dad my full attention.

“These here soapy remains, each in its own way, have the power to change the people they come in contact with. Inspiring a person to do more, to be more,” he said, drumming his fingers on the top of the suitcase. His promising words echoed bittersweetly in my head. Do more, I thought. Just like Mom.

“How does that happen?” I asked.

“Surprisingly, it’s really a simple transaction,” he explained. “You wash your hands with one of these here soaps, each one once belonging to a notable historical figure, and poof! you begin to take on that person’s best qualities. Just like you witnessed from high atop The Roast this very day.”

Dad was right. I had just witnessed some pretty nifty things. Even so, I still had a lump of doubt in my throat that felt like I’d gulped down the dry yellow middle part of a boiled egg.

“But van Gogh and Michelangelo…didn’t they live like hundreds of years ago? How could their soaps be kept for so long and not be all crumbly?”

“By the gentle and careful efforts of those who came before us,” said Dad, softly knocking at the case with his knuckles. “Granting us our own unique Nordenhauer way of changing the world, one hand-washing at a time.”

“So does it work on grown-ups too?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“Have you ever tried one?”

Dad paused for a moment and twisted his mouth from side to side.

“Honestly, Cass, I haven’t decided which one I’d want to try first. So many available options make for a tough decision. You see, it’s very important to choose the right soap for the right person.”

“Then, if you haven’t tried one, how’d you know they would work?”

“Let’s just say there was some top secret testing done before we left,” he said.

I remembered overhearing him and Uncle Clay talking about wishing they had this stuff when they were kids. But then I also remembered how when I was five, Dad used to tell me he could pull his thumb off and put it back on again. How he made it look so real. And besides, I’d never known Dad to use words like power and influence. Those were Mom words.

“Come on,” I said. “How did you really make all that happen today?”

Dad set the suitcase on the table in front of him and looked at me real serious.

“Looks like you’ve given me no choice,” he said, fumbling around in his big jacket pocket until he pinched out a teeny brass key.

“I’m going to have to implement Rule of The Roast Number Five: Keep away from the Sway.”

Dad struggled to turn the key in the rusty suitcase lock, making me feel like I did the other night when he’d snatched the phone from my hand.

“How come?” I said.

“Because you’re not ready.”

“But those kids got to try it.”

“Because they believed,” he said. “The power these slivers can have over a believer is strong.” Dad looked me in the eye. “Sway is not for doubters, Cass.”

“But…”

“You’ll have your own taste of it when you are good and ready,” he said. “When you’re feeling more open to the possibilities.”

He paused a moment. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” But it was a Yes, sir that was as No, sir as a Yes, sir could be.

“Until that day,” he said. “As we travel, this case will be locked tight. Only when we are working will it be opened.”

When he leaned to push the case back under the driver’s seat, I saw two damp ovals on the couch where he’d sat on his wet jacket tails. A small part of me wanted to laugh at him, but the rest of me was busy searching my brain for far-fetched things I knew of that had turned out true. Fainting goats. Lizards that spit blood. Babies who can name all the presidents. But magical soap? Could Dad even make all that up? Because making all that up might be the ultimate in wrength.

“We’ll hit the road again tomorrow in search of shoe-o numero two-o, and then we’ll get to see Sway in action again. And just imagine this: someday soon, you’ll be choosing the sliver you most want to use. And as my partner, you’ll have the pick of the whole collection.”

“When will that happen?” I said.

Dad gave a test sniff to his armpit.

“Soon enough,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to air out this sweaty suit.” Dad squeezed his way through the bathroom door and turned all sorts of ways to try and get it shut behind him. His changing back into Douglas Nordenhauer sounded like not-so-distant thunder. While I waited, Dad’s mention of someday choosing my own soap sliver had me feeling more than a little muddled. I mean, trying the soap could maybe be compared to finally being allowed to open one of Aunt Jo’s jars from the storm shelter. Like it would be cool to read all the notes inside there, except for they might end up being nothing but a big bummer.

When Dad came back out in the Roll Tide T-shirt and faded jeans I’d seen so many times before, he warned, “I had to hang the suit from the ceiling light in there. Don’t let that lemon-lime scarecrow spook the soul out of you in the middle of the night.

“Now, what do you say we buckle up and find ourselves some supper?” he said. “You starvin’ like a Marvin?”

I’d only eaten snacky stuff all day, so I was very much starvin’ like three Marvins. Thankfully, by the time I’d even gotten into my seat good, we’d already pulled into a place called Sup ’n’ Go. It was one of those restaurants with a flat roof over a drive-up area where people on skates used to bring out the food. Dad thought long and hard about parking up under there with everyone else, but ultimately decided that The Roast was too tall for it. Mainly our bumping the roof with the top of The Roast helped him make that decision. I ate a whole catfish sandwich they called a po-boy, and he had two of the same. With his mouth half full between bites, Dad said, “So be honest, Cassparagus. I know this is a lot to take in all at once, but didn’t you think those things you saw out there today were pretty impressive?”

My head and my heart and my gut disagreed on the correct answer to the question. My head knew that I was totally weirded out by new places, new people, and new dad all at the same time. My gut felt pretty excited by it all. And my heart felt like this must be, for whatever unknown reason, something Dad really needed to do. Mom once told me that, in a rescue situation, it is important for the grown-ups to get okay first, so they can then help the kids.

“I’ll take your silence as a no,” he said. “Who am I kidding thinking I can impress you with that wacky getup, huh?”

“It’s just that it was kind of a surprise, I guess,” I said. “I mean, have you done all that before?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious I haven’t,” he said. “So maybe at the next stop we’ll tone the act down a bit.”

I took a long slurp on my Coke, assured that Dad was still Dad, that I had managed to avoid totally crushing his feelings, and soon I would find out more about this mysterious thing called Sway. Surprisingly, my head, my gut, and my heart agreed that for the moment, things were somewhat okay.

“We never saw what the soap did for the Michelangelo kid,” I said.

“You know, you’re right,” said Dad. “But I have heard that sometimes it may take a while for the Sway to have an effect.”

Dad and I both chomped on some ice for a minute.

“So does Mom know about all this?” I said.

“Well, no, not so much.”

“How come?”

“I guess I didn’t want our magical brand of cleanup to totally overshadow the cleanup work that she’s done, you know? It just didn’t seem right. I thought it could have its debut as a special me-and-you thing, no?”

“But you said it was a family secret.”

“I said it was a Nordenhauer family secret.”

“Mom’s a Nordenhauer,” I said.

Dad sure did seem to forget that fact. Like he needed to write it on his hand or something.

“Cass, we’re not calling her.”

I swallowed an ice cube whole and clenched my jaw from the instant brain freeze.

“But…”

“Case closed,” he said.

Dad stepped down out of The Roast and waved the Sup ’n’ Go manager over. While he apologized for the ding in their roof and asked permission to camp in their lot for the night, I retired to my room, where I checked on the cell phone in the bottom of the beauty box and promised myself I’d use it as soon as I was able to buy more minutes. After lint-rolling glitter and fish crumbles from my shirt, plus some leftover Chex Mix bits from my bed, I found the first blank page that hadn’t been wrecked in my Book of In-Betweens and noodled a yellow-andgreen-striped soap sliver with big ears, a beard, and glasses. Next to it, I drew a brown suitcase with MBM scribbled across in gold.

“Hey, Dad!” I said through my curtain. “What’s the M. B. stand for?”

“Well, I sure know what it doesn’t stand for,” he said. “Definitely not Muchos Boring.”

I added a top hat to the sliver.

“And certainly not Mega Bland,” Dad added.

Perhaps not Muchos Boring, I thought. But I wasn’t ruling out Mysterious Buffoon just yet.