Gus doesn’t look like he can quite wrap his brain around what Chuck has told him about the church. Because it’s funny, really, how the brain and the heart are connected.
“Chuck is going to reason with Mr. Cole,” I remind Gus, dragging him straight to the welding shed that weekend. “Remember? Chuck told me there was no Eleventh Commandment about how to fix up a house. Chuck will get through to the committee. Of course he will.”
“Auggie,” Gus says. “We tried. We gave it everything we had.”
“Don’t talk like it’s over, Gus. When we’re working on our company, I’m happier than any girl has ever been. And you are, too. I can see it in your face. Chuck sees that, too. Looking at our house makes him think of all sorts of stories to tell me about Mom.”
“It does?” Gus asks, his face softening. “It reminds him of your mom,” he mutters. The words haven’t even completely fallen from his lips when he reaches for the welding torch. I grab a metal mask and slam it on over my face.
We use the Widow Hollis’s old washer and dryer to make a boy with bright silver streamers coming out of his hand—a Fourth of July sparkler. An old vacuum cleaner motor allows a boy to dip his wand into a plastic bottle of soap. When the wind catches the wand, it looks as though he’s blowing bubbles. We prop them in the porch swing and on the fence. We’ve got to be a little creative about where we put our figures, since our yard is starting to get so full.
We use some old bikes to put together a little boy who hangs from the front yard pin oak. His knees are hooked over the lowest limb, and he dangles upside down like a possum. He’s got a big round stomach with a spring for a belly button, because he’s an outie.
Our last two people turn out to be my all-time favorites: baseball players. The umpire wears a wire mask (made from an old screen door), and the batter is on his belly, sliding toward an old plate that’s anchored into the ground right in front of our gate . . . he’s sliding toward “home.”
“It brightens up the world,” I tell Gus as we stand on the front walk, eyeing our creations. “Just like Mom wanted to do.”
When Gus looks down at me, sadness and joy swirl through his face like the stripes on a peppermint candy.