CHAPTER
twenty-nine

The last time I’d watched the fireworks in Detroit was just a handful of months before we moved to LaFontaine. That morning our dad had told us he wouldn’t be home until late and that we weren’t to leave the apartment.

“I guess we’ll just have to watch the show out the window,” I’d said to Clara, letting my shoulders slump.

“We’ll see about that,” she’d answered.

When it was finally dark enough, Clara pushed the window open as wide as it would go, lifting one leg up and over, her hard-soled shoe clunking on the iron landing of the fire escape.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Going to the roof.”

“No.” I’d crossed my arms and made my sternest face but didn’t move to stop her. I knew better.

I could never win in a fight with my sister.

“Why not?” she asked.

“We aren’t supposed to leave the apartment.”

“The roof is part of the apartment,” she said. “Come on.”

“We’ll get in trouble.” I let my arms fall to my side. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Well, I don’t care what you think.” She swung the other leg out the window before turning her face toward me. “You can come watch with me or you can be an old fuddy-duddy and stay here.”

She was up and out before I could say “boo.”

Against my better judgment, I’d followed behind her.

“It’s the best place to see it all,” she’d said, several rungs ahead of me on the ladder.

I’d just tried not to look up, knowing if I did, I would see her skivvies.

She had always thought it was so funny that I was embarrassed by such things.

We sat on a couple of old, overturned wooden milk crates and watched the explosions only a few miles away. The booming blasts seemed to shake the whole city, filling the sky with every color I could ever have imagined.

About halfway through, she covered her face, putting her head between her knees and sobbing. I knew without asking what it was about.

It was the last time I saw my sister cry over the death of our mother.

I watched the rest of the fireworks with my hand resting on my sister’s back, the tears in my own eyes blurring the edges between the bursts of light and the pitch-black sky.

LaFontaine simply did not have the budget to put on a firework show every year. So, they reserved their display for even years. The odd years, everyone went to Detroit or Lansing. But the idea of the traffic in or out of the city was more than enough to make my eye start twitching.

So, I formulated another plan.

I put my old picnic basket on the table beside where Hugo worked on a coloring page.

“How would you like to go on an adventure?” I asked.

“I’d like that a lot,” he answered.

“All right,” I said. “But first we have to pack our supper.”

I pulled out the makings for sandwiches and let Hugo slap the ham and cheese on his own bread and spread mayonnaise and mustard all over the top of it. When he’d asked if he could please have a few pickles on top, I told him that he was a boy after my own heart.

“How about I tell you a story while we work?” I asked, getting the jar of dill slices from the refrigerator.

He nodded his head and licked a smudge of mayonnaise from his thumb.

“There once was an ogre who lived underground,” I began, turning the lid of the jar and fishing out a few pieces with a fork.

“Why’d he live underground?” Hugo asked, climbing up on a kitchen chair and kneeling on the seat.

“Because he didn’t like people.” I held up the fork, five pickles speared on the tines. “Is this enough or would you like a few more?”

“Maybe two more, please?”

“Oh, your manners are so nice.” I dug out a couple more slices. “The ogre thought that people were cruel and nasty and smelled badly.”

Hugo grinned at that.

“He couldn’t be blamed for thinking such a thing. Whenever he saw a newspaper, he read about wars and crimes and the horrible things some people do to one another.”

“Why’d he think we’re stinky?”

“Well, because right along with the articles about bad things were advertisements for cologne and soap.”

He covered his mouth and giggled.

“I’m glad you think that’s funny.” I held up a golden delicious in one hand and a banana in the other. “Which would you like?”

“Apple, please.”

I put it into the basket.

“You see, this ogre never took the time to get to know people.”

“His name’s Rocky,” Hugo said. “Okay?”

“Of course, okay.” I tore strips of wax paper off the roll to fold around the sandwiches. “One day, while spying on the people, Rocky noticed how they were attracted to color. He watched a woman sniff a red rose and a child licking a yellow lollipop. A man drove a green car and a little girl played with a pink doll.”

I made my voice deeper and said, “‘They don’t deserve the colors,’ the ogre cried. ‘They’re wretched! Evil! Gross!’ And so he began to make plans to steal the color from the world.”

Hugo’s eyebrows knit and his forehead wrinkled. “That’s not nice.”

“No, it isn’t,” I said. “But Rocky wasn’t concerned with being nice. So, little by little, he took the colors away. First, he plucked green, taking it with him to his underground home.”

“Then what happened to the grass?” Hugo asked.

“It turned a dull gray,” I answered. “Can you imagine walking outside to see the leaves and yards weren’t colorful anymore?”

“No.” He lowered one side of his mouth. “I wouldn’t like it.”

“Neither would I. The next day he took red.” I sighed, grabbing a tin of Goldfish crackers from the cupboard. “The cardinals lost their brightness, poppy flowers darkened to black, stop signs were no longer easy to see.”

“What did he take next?” Hugo asked. “Blue?”

“He did.” I pointed out the window. “The sky became a big dome of white. He took yellow and then orange and then purple. Last he stole away brown and pink, and everything was in black and white.”

“Like TV.”

I nodded. “Rocky stood outside the door of his underground home where he’d hidden all the colors. He called for the attention of the people in the town, saying, ‘I have taken all the colors, you horrible and stinky people. And I’ll never give them back!’”

“I bet they chased him,” Hugo said.

“They didn’t,” I answered. “Instead, they decided to show that they weren’t awful or mean or smelly. Every morning, when the ogre woke up, he found a tray with breakfast on it. What do you think they made for him?”

“Scrambled eggs and toast,” Hugo answered.

“That does sound good, doesn’t it?” I went on. “And in the middle of the day, they would bring him flowers of all kinds. While they couldn’t see the colors, they remembered them, and picked the prettiest they could find.”

I finished packing the basket and let the top clap shut.

“And at night, they stood near the doorway to Rocky’s underground home, singing lullabies for him as he fell asleep.”

“Why were they being nice? He was mean to them.”

“Because if they were mean back, all that would have done was prove that the ogre was right about them,” I said. “They were trying to prove him wrong.”

Hugo sank down on the chair until he was sitting flat on the seat. Then he leaned on the table, propping his head on his hands.

“One day, while Rocky was enjoying his fluffy eggs and crisp toast, he understood something.” I lowered my tone again. “‘These people aren’t as bad as I thought they were. In fact, they’re good people.’

“That very day, he stepped outside and, once again, called for them all to pay attention.”

“Did he give them back their colors?”

“I’m getting there.” I winked at him. “He spread his arms wide and said, ‘For your kindness, thank you. For your generosity, thank you. And your forgiveness I ask, please.’ But before anyone could say a word, bursts of light broke up from underground where Rocky had it tucked away. The colors flowed like a fountain, reds and greens and purples. And as they broke free, they took their places back in the trees and sky and flowers. They returned to the faces of the people in town and the houses along every street.”

Hugo sat up, his eyes smiling.

“Rocky was so pleased to see the joy of the townsfolk that he used magic to make sure the colors flowed like a fountain every night after the sun went down.”

“Why?”

“Because he realized how seeing something beautiful can be like food for the soul.”

Hugo clapped at the end of the story, and I picked up the picnic basket.

“Are you ready for our little adventure?” I asked.

Hugo helped me carry our picnic basket out to the car.