9

MOM SPENDS SUNDAY MORNING PREPPING FOR A late-afternoon wedding. By the time we get to Whispering Pines it’s almost noon. Mom and I walk around the second floor with two Boston cream donuts and two egg-white-and-spinach breakfast wraps. The donuts are for Grampa. The wraps are for me and Mom. Guess who placed the order? Not me.

The cafeteria is mostly empty. Mom checks her phone. “We’re not going to be able to stay long. I’ll go get Grampa. Want to wait here?”

I nod and as soon as she’s out of sight the same woman I noticed during our first visit walks over. She’s wearing a sweat suit with gold-striped Adidas sneakers again.

She waves as she approaches. “You must be Robert’s granddaughter. Same beautiful brown eyes.”

I smile and say, “Thanks.”

“Tell him Antonia says hello.” She walks by me toward a group of residents gathered in the hallway.

A minute later, Mom pulls up with Grampa in his wheelchair. And before she can sit down, Grampa grabs one of the wraps, gives me a very slow wink, and takes a big bite.

Mom frowns. “Dad, that was for Mabel.”

“Guess she’ll have to eat the donuts.” Grampa’s speech is still a little slurred, and even though I know it hasn’t been long, I keep hoping that I’ll visit and he’ll be walking and talking like his old self. The cry-knot is suddenly back, and I don’t think even donuts are going to make me feel any better.

Grampa puts one of his big hands on my back and gives me two solid pats. “Eat before I change my mind.” His voice is the same though, so familiar that I’m able to squeeze a real smile out after all.

“Oh, that lady who wears the Adidas shoes told me to tell you hi. But I forgot her name already.” I bite into the Boston cream and realize I was wrong—donuts do make things better.

“That’s Toni,” Grampa says.

Mom gives Grampa a sly smile. “Seems like you’re settling into your new community nicely,” she says.

Grampa nods. “It’s not too bad.”

I whip my head around to face him. How could he say that? Of course it’s bad. It’s the worst. The duddiest of duds.

As much as I want Grampa to be happy, he already has a community, and it isn’t here. It’s with me.

Mom gives Grampa a play-by-play of her tablescaping win. “Getting into the Expo would be a dream come true,” Mom says. “But I’ll be up against some of the top tablescaping artists in the country.”

Grampa looks at me and raises his eyebrows. Mom sees it and her smile vanishes. “What I do takes a lot of creativity and a ton of work and planning, but I get that it’s not the same as collecting.”

“Janie, I think your tables are beautiful.” There are long pauses between Grampa’s words. It’s hard for me to hear him sound so changed, but it must be harder for him. I stare at Mom, hoping she’ll let it go and give Grampa a break for once.

She just mumbles, “That’s why you’ve only gone to one competition.”

Mom cleans the table, snatching up the bags and napkins. When she gets up to toss our trash, Grampa stops her by putting his hand on hers. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’ve got to get a move on. There’s still more to do to get this wedding off and running before this afternoon.”

While she’s at the bins, Grampa looks over at me and shrugs.

I stare at Mom’s back. For a split second, I wonder what it was like for Mom to have Grampa for a dad. Maybe she felt like she never really had his complete attention, like he never really saw her. Maybe she felt like I do sometimes about her.

Mom and I both give Grampa a hug, but when Mom reaches toward his wheelchair, he shakes his head. “I can do it.”

“You sure?” Mom asks.

Grampa does a long, single nod. “It’s good for me.” He rolls backward and says, “Love you, Mae-mae.” I give him one more hug. He doesn’t say anything to Mom.

She turns to me. “You want me to call Mrs. Hammons and see if she’ll come hang out with you again?”

“Please don’t,” I say. Mom laughs, and we walk out together. I take one more look back. Grampa is stopped and watching us leave. He lifts his hand to wave. I wave back just before the elevator closes.

When Mom works an afternoon wedding, she leaves after lunch and gets home late in the evening.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” she asks.

“I’m sure.” I’ve stayed home alone before but not for hours on end. Normally I go to Grampa’s house.

“Well, you have your phone. If you need anything, you text me or call Mrs. Hammons if it can’t wait.”

I nod.

Mom pulls out and waves while I stand in the parking lot and wave back. We’re both acting different after what happened with Grampa.

Back inside the apartment, I pace for ten minutes across our small living room when I get a text from Jasper. Are we cleared for duty? I think of Grampa sitting there in his wheelchair as the elevator closed. I text back: Meet me at the strip mall at 12th and E. Robinson at 5:30.

I’ve got plenty of time to bike to Grampa’s and figure out a way to attach the wagon. I close the front door as quietly as possible, use the back staircase just in case Mrs. Hammons decides to look out her window, and race to my bike.

It’s almost a twenty-minute ride to Grampa’s. I breeze past Homeland and then take Hinkle Drive until I see the still-in-bloom crepe myrtle trees that line the streets of Grampa’s neighborhood. At the sight of his overgrown lawn, I think of the last time I was there with him and tell myself there’ll be a next time soon.

Grampa always leaves the shed unlocked. Inside it looks sort of like a tiny hardware store. The shelves are all stocked and organized. Our wagon sits, filled with the milk crates we take on expeditions, plus our gloves, hand sanitizer, and headlamps. The grabbing tools rest against the wall. I leave the headlamps and take everything else.

Using one of Grampa’s short bungee cords, I secure the handle of the wagon to the rear rack. The basket in the front, the bell, the brown leather seat, and even the handlebars are all upgrades from my and Grampa’s finds. Mom says my bike looks like a patchwork quilt, but I like it just the way it is.

After a few test runs on the driveway, I decide it’ll do. I’ll have to take corners slow, but it works. I use three releasable cable ties to attach the grabbing tool to the side of the wagon, and I’m all set with half an hour to spare, plenty of time to water our garden and Grampa’s plants.

Grampa’s backyard is one of my favorite places. His planters aren’t pots; they’re rainboots, colanders, even old cinderblocks. The dirt in our little garden is dry and cracked and the green shoots are drooping. I laugh when I see the beets, but the laugh catches and turns into almost crying.

I hang my head and notice a streak of bright green across the dry grass. Our hummingbird feeders hang from a nearby pine tree. We made them from two green glass Sprite bottles. Just a few weeks ago we sat and watched a tiny hummingbird hover and drink sugar water. Grampa looked over at me, smiled, and said, “Sometimes the best things in life are right in your own backyard.”

The lawn chairs still sit in the same spot they were that day. I look over at them and take a deep breath. This is where Grampa belongs, and I’m going to get him back home no matter what it takes.

After watering everything, I let a slow scan of Grampa’s yard, filled with treasures, soothe my heart before I put away the hose, buckle my bike helmet, and take off up Windsor Drive toward the strip mall.

Jasper is waiting in front of the Burger Brothers. He doesn’t see me at first because he’s reading a book again, balancing his bike between his legs.

He looks up as I pull to a stop. “Hey, Mabel.” His face breaks open in a smile. It’s a really nice smile.

“Hey, you ready?” I ask.

Jasper nods and slides his book into his backpack. “Follow me,” I say, and bike across the parking lot. When Mom and I drove by, I hadn’t noticed what kind of store it was, but now I stop and read the sign: BABY OF MINE.

Jasper pulls up beside me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just electronics would be way better. Frank won’t take baby clothes.”

“We can’t give up yet. The heroes always run into what seem like insurmountable obstacles right in the beginning. And who’s Frank?”

“He owns the pawn shop and he’s not interested in clothes—his or other people’s.”

“What about those stores that resell clothes, and the owner gets a percentage?” Jasper asks.

“Consignment.” I nod. “Not a bad idea.” But I need more than a percentage. “I’ll figure it out.”

Jasper puts one foot on a pedal. “Lead the way.”

We circle around the back of the mall, where all the dumpsters are. Sometimes they’re locked, but the one behind Baby of Mine is open. I scan the area looking for any signs marking it as private property, just as a man walks out and throws a garbage bag in. He closes the dumpster and wipes his hands on his jeans.

“Perfect timing,” I whisper. “Let’s bike around a little and give him time to clear out.”

Jasper nods and we head back to the mostly empty parking lot, making wide circles. Every time I look back at Jasper, he gives me that huge smile of his. It’s impossible not to smile back. Finally, we see the same man leaving in a beat-up brown truck.

We take off in a race and skid to a stop right in front of the dumpster. “My Grampa always says the best things are unexpected, and that’s what makes treasure hunting special—you never know what you’ll find.”

Jasper nods and we just sit there for a minute. Grampa and I love this moment before we start. Anything seems possible. “Once a woman found a painting in a dumpster. Turned out to be a famous etching done by a Chinese artist and sold for almost sixteen thousand dollars at auction.” This fact is courtesy of my and Grampa’s favorite show, Collector’s Menagerie.

“Whoa.” Jasper adjusts his glasses.

“Ready?” I prop up my bike.

“And so it begins,” Jasper whispers.

I laugh and shake my head. “You’re different.” Jasper’s big smile fades a little. “In a good way,” I add. I unwrap the bungee cord and roll the wagon over to the dumpster. “Here. Grab a pair of gloves. Then take a milk crate and turn it over to use like a step stool.”

It takes both of us to lift the lid.

“So, I’ll go through the bags, but I need you to keep a lookout. If you see someone drive by and slow down or get out their phone, we should probably head out.”

Jasper’s smile disappears. “This isn’t illegal, is it?”

“No. But some people seem to think it should be. So, they’ll call the police. Normally, if the cops even come, they just ask us not to leave a mess. Worst case, they’ll ask us to move along. But as long as nothing is marked ‘Private Property’ we’re okay. But it’s up to you. If you’re worried about getting in trouble and want to go, I’d understand.”

Grampa only considers one place off-limits—the Merkle Creek Mall. He won’t say what happened there, but he does say that trash-to-cash hunts should be done rarely, carefully, and under cover of night.

Jasper shrugs. “Might as well. Nothing else to do in this podunk town.”

Abner is the third largest city in all of Oklahoma, but I decide to keep that fact to myself. A lookout and an extra pair of hands would be nice, but they’re not essential. I get to work and pull the first bag out with ease and rest it on the ground.

Jasper comes over and watches as I open the ties on top. It’s full of stuffed animals, varied in color and size. But they’re all pigs. Every last one. We crouch there for a minute and stare.

“That’s just sad,” Jasper finally says. We both look into the bag, then at each other, and laugh. We laugh until we’re almost falling over.

I point to one. “That one’s hogging all the space.”

Jasper nods to another. “This one’s boared.”

“Look. His pigmentation is off.” I bite my lip, waiting for Jasper to beat that one.

He’s quiet, thinking for a minute, before he singles out a different plush pig and says, “And him, he looks pretty disgruntled.”

“Nice,” I say. “That reminds me, I don’t know your last name.”

Jasper snorts. “How do pigs remind you of that?”

“Because mine is Cunningham. I can’t hear my last name without thinking of a pig in a detective outfit. Cunning ham. Crafty pig. Shrewd sow. Sneaky swine.”

“You are different in a good way too.” Jasper shakes his head and laughs again. “It’s Ketchum.”

I nod and think for a second. “Jasper’s great, if you can Ketchum.”

Jasper just looks at me. “That was terrible,” he says, but his big smile is all the way back.

I smile too. “Enough chatting. Eyes on the road.”

He salutes and turns to face the back alley.

After about half an hour we’ve got the wagon loaded with baby clothes, stuffed animals, a few fancy night-lights, and even a brand-new bouncer. As I secure everything with the extra bungee cords and reattach the wagon to my bike, Jasper says, “I’ve got to get home. If I’m not back by dinner, Mom’ll freak.”

“Where’d you tell her you were going?” I ask.

“Library.” He motions to his backpack full of books. “And it wasn’t a complete lie.”

“See you on the bus tomorrow,” I say. “And thanks for coming.”

“No problem.” He starts to pedal off and stops. “Can we do this again? It was the most fun I’ve had in the last few months.”

“Sure.” I wave and want to ask him why he came to begin with, but I still have to stop by Grampa’s on my way home and store our haul, all before Mom gets back. I watch him as he pedals off. He’s right about one thing. It was fun, definitely not a dud day.