Sunshine Picklelime (3 page)

Mr. Kanafani brought a salad of young lettuce, parsley, and bright red radishes. Mrs. Martins came back with plates of sliced papaya. Ms. Naguri, a Web designer from Japan, walked over from her home four houses away, carrying one of her special rice dishes scattered with sesame seeds. Swiss-born Evi Lenz of the Chocolate Dream arrived with boxes of her special white, milk, and bitter chocolate truffles for everyone to enjoy. She took one sip of the nectar and her eyes widened. Would Mrs. Patel and PJ share their blend with her so she could create a special lemon truffle?

“Of course,” said PJ. “As long as you name it Lemon Nectar.”

Soon Mrs. Patel’s lawn hummed with villagers, all sharing stories with one another over this spontaneous feast.

That evening, Mrs. Patel and PJ counted over two hundred and twenty-six dollars and forty-five cents in coins and small notes. More than that, Pete, the helicopter pilot who took supplies to the coastal relief effort, came by to enjoy the wonderful spread of food. He offered to take Mrs. Patel and PJ on his early-morning
flight so they could give the money—and big containers of lemon nectar—to the rescue crew.

PJ was so excited, she wished they could go immediately. Later, after everyone had gone home and she had helped Mrs. Patel clear up, she went to her room and began sketching lemons and frangipani, experimenting with different shades of yellow and cream to get the colors and textures just right.

PJ finally fell asleep and dreamed that the bees on Mrs. Patel’s tablecloth came alive and danced with the lemons. She woke up to find drawings and pastels scattered around her pillows.

The next morning she described the exact spot she’d seen on TV, near the long, jagged split in the cliff. Helicopter Pete knew the spot well and said yes, he could certainly land close by so PJ could climb down to see her beloved Lemon Pie. Mrs. Patel and PJ loaded the helicopter with tall containers of lemon nectar and the box of money they had collected for the rescuers.

Pete strapped them into their seats. Propeller rotor blades
whup-whup-whupped
wildly overhead. The chopper lifted high off the ground and arched toward the coast. As they circled close to the cliff’s edge, PJ scanned the sky for that quick dash of yellow. But when they drew
near, she only saw a laughing gull with a black polka-dot-tipped tail seated in the nest on the ledge just below the top of the cliff, surrounded by chirping chicks.

As promised, Pete swayed down to land a little distance away. PJ asked for time alone. She didn’t want to disturb the gull, so she moved very slowly and quietly to the cliff’s edge and peeked over. But there was no sign of Lemon Pie anywhere. She looked from left to right, all the way down to the beach below. PJ cupped her hands around her ears to block out all other sounds so she could pick out the quaint call she knew so well. Sadly, there was nothing.

PJ returned to the chopper and hid her face from Pete and Mrs. Patel. Pete tilted to the right, and down they went to a wide stretch of beach that had been turned into a special landing pad. Men and women in shiny oilskins bustled around, unloading supplies.

Whoops and cheers filled the air as they set up the containers and tasted the nectar. They told PJ and Mrs. Patel exactly how Lemon Pie’s rescue fund would be used to save more birds.

After returning to the village, Mrs. Patel took PJ’s face in her hands and said, “Don’t be unhappy, dear PJ. I know about Lemon Pie and how he lived in your hair and
the rosebush while you taught him to sing. I’ll always keep your secret, please don’t worry. But friends like Lemon Pie need to fly and be free, to share the talents you shared with them. Be patient, child. One day you’ll look up and hear his song when he is ready to return. Because I know he’s in your heart, which is why you wanted the lemons.”

When PJ didn’t respond, Mrs. Patel added, “See what you did yesterday! We brought lemon joy to the village, to Mr. Kanafani, Mr. Splitzky, Mrs. Martins, Mr. Santos, Ms. Naguri, Ms. Lenz, and who else? We all helped rescue more birds! We’ve started something, PJ. Come. The village is waiting for more.”

PJ knew Mrs. Patel was right, but it just wasn’t enough for her to create another lemonade stand in the neighborhood to help save more birds. She yearned to know where Lemon Pie had gone. To keep her little friend’s image alive, PJ went up to her room and reached for her sketch pad. Using broad sweeps with her pastels, PJ drew the lost warbler peeking out of clusters of yellow roses that were a little darker than his creamy feathers. She also sketched the TV clip of Lemon Pie swooping close to the cliff’s edge and nurturing the nest of laughing gull eggs. Then she sharpened some of her pencils and
did quick sketches of everyone who came to the Lemon Nectar fiesta, from poplar-tall Mr. Kanafani to Evi Lenz with her bell-like copper curls, and Mrs. Patel in her flamingo pink yoga pants and shirt.

Smiling, PJ pinned the sketches onto a corkboard, next to the pastels of baskets overflowing with lemons and frangipani blooms she’d drawn the night before. What better way to wake up or fall asleep than facing such delicious sights along with her memories of Lemon Pie?

a birdmail from lemon pie

PJ thought she must
be dreaming. There was a frenzied flapping of wings against her windowpane before dawn. She shook herself awake and sat up. But instead of a hundred birds out there, she saw only one, a large white gull with black wings and a handsome polka-dot tail. How could one lone gull kick up such a rumpus?

The gull began to
tap-tap-tap
the windowpane, squawking and yelling “PJ, PJ, PJ, PJ,” over and over until PJ thought it would wake up the entire neighborhood. She reached out and opened the window. The gull hopped straight in, clearly annoyed at being kept waiting. He looked a bit battered and travel-weary.

“Are you Ms. PJ Picklelime?” the gull asked.

“Yes I am. And who are you?”

“Special Messenger Gull. I need some form of ID please?”

“Before five o’clock in the morning? You can’t be serious!” PJ protested.

“Ms. Picklelime, I take my work
verrrrry
seriously. I have a special delivery for you.”

“Delivery?” PJ asked excitedly. “From Lemon Pie?”

The gull nodded twice. “From Lemon Pie. But I have to deliver it to Ms. PJ in person and I was told she had wildly bushy hair. Your hair is too short, so I’ll need some ID.”

PJ quickly scratched around in the drawer next to her bed for her school ID card and handed it to the gull, who squinted at it, head to one side, one eye shut, and gave the ID back with a brief nod. “All right. But I’m tired and hungry, so before I talk, I need to rest and eat.”

“Oh yes, of course.” PJ was about to say she knew gulls ate practically anything, when something stopped her. This gull spoke with a different accent than the laughing gulls off the coast, and he seemed bigger and slimmer. Perhaps he had flown a very long way?

“Messenger Gull,” she said, “here, I’ll make a snug
nest for you in my shoe box.” And she went off to her closet and rumpled an old red tartan flannel shirt in the box for the bird. “Now, what would you like to eat?”

The gull hopped gratefully into the box and settled himself around the soft shirt. “Lemon Pie told me you make nice toasted sardine sandwiches….”

“Done,” said PJ. “I’ll be quiet and quick. My parents are still asleep.”

“Snnnnzzzzz,”
was all she heard from the box.

PJ tiptoed downstairs, trying to figure out Messenger Gull’s accent and way of pronouncing
sardines
as “sawdeenes.” Mrs. Martins pronounced
sardines
like that. Could Messenger Gull possibly be from somewhere off the coast of South Africa? And he flew all this way? PJ’s heart quickened. Had Lemon Pie flown that far? She longed to read Lemon Pie’s letter but realized Messenger Gull had probably fallen asleep with it folded under a strong wing.

She prepared the toasted “sawdeene” sandwiches, hoping beyond hope the smell of the toaster wouldn’t wake up her parents, and quickly tiptoed back upstairs to her room.

Messenger Gull was lying with one wing fanned out and draped over the edge of the box. PJ placed the
sandwich beside the tip of his wing and reached gently under the bird for Lemon Pie’s letter. Nothing. The gull stirred, hung out of the box, and began to peck hungrily at the sandwich, murmuring,
“Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm.”

PJ watched for a moment. She went to fill a little bowl with water for him and then asked, “Where do you live, Messenger Gull?”

“Everywhere but nowhere. I fly north to south and east to west delivering birdmail. You have e-mail. We have b-mail. This is how I see the world. I’m a loner, PJ. I’m a Cape gull. I was born on a boat in the docks of Cape Town and learned how to fly off the masts of different boats sailing around the Cape in winds you would never imagine. Never! Winds so fierce and wild they tear feathers off your body and tumble you around the rrrrrugged coastal cliffs. Rocks and proteas fly through the air, and once even a tiny baby baboon went rolling along! I lost my family in a storm….
Mmmm, mmmm
, you know you make the best sandwiches, PJ!”

PJ waited impatiently until Messenger Gull was finished. Then she asked, “When can I get Lemon Pie’s letter?”

“Letter?” said Messenger Gull. He leaned over to point his beak into the bowl of water. “Oh no, PJ,” the
gull chuckled. “You don’t understand. There’s nothing to read. Once I’m fed and rested, I
quote
Lemon Pie’s b-mail to you from memory. Give me a few moments here, hey?” And again PJ heard a little of Mrs. Martins in the way the gull said “hey?”

Finally, Messenger Gull stretched his wings and legs and hopped out of the box. He arranged himself on the window seat like an actor on a stage. “Now, PJ, promise you won’t interrupt? Otherwise you’ll break my chain of thought.”

“I promise!” PJ settled down cross-legged on a big toffee-colored beanbag cushion.

Messenger Gull took some deep breaths and closed his eyes. Outside, a milky white dawn was beginning to break up the dark sky.

“Lovely PJ,”
Messenger Gull began, in Lemon Pie’s crackly little voice.

Tears trickled down PJ’s cheeks, and she hastily wiped them away, fearful of interrupting Messenger Gull’s flow.

“Lovely PJ,”
came Lemon Pie’s voice again. PJ glanced at the pastels of Lemon Pie pinned up on her corkboard and imagined he was right there in the room with them.

“Keep watching your windows. I told Messenger Gull to
remind some of those laughing gulls I took care of to visit you so you wouldn’t be lonely,”
the familiar voice went on.
“I joined some restless gulls who wanted to explore coastlines. We kept going from winter into summer until we found ourselves flying with large Cape gulls down the southeast coast of Africa. To Port Elizabeth. Except one day while flying low over a flooded river bursting to join the sea, I saw these strange little nests looking like baskets swinging in the wind off a tree hanging over the floods. And out flew these little yellow birds, PJ! Imagine! I thought they were South African versions of yellow warblers, but they weren’t, because of their funny nests. The birds were called weavers. And I watched one young bird hanging upside down off one of the nests and he was making these silly noises, and you know how silly they must have been, even sillier than I sounded when you first met me. Then he flew away, and a tiny lady bird’s head popped out of a hole in the side of the nest and said, ‘Hey, you!’”
(Messenger Gull created a falsetto voice in a South African accent for Lady Weaver.)

“‘Me?’ I said, looking around.”
(Lemon Pie’s voice.)

“‘Yes you. Come here.’”
(Lady Weaver’s voice.)

“‘Come there?’ I asked.”
(Lemon Pie’s voice.)

“‘What’s the matter with you?’”
(Lady Weaver’s voice.)

“Well, you know me, PJ. Without another peep I flew over. And I looked up into this cute little face and felt all fluttery
until Lady Weaver said, ‘Don’t get funny ideas, stranger. I don’t need to know who you are. But I need you to hang around so they will stop bothering me!’