Sunshine Picklelime (5 page)

The beach seemed equally stark after the oil spill and massive cleanup operation. Only a couple of dark shapes dotted the sand here and there where a stray oil streak had escaped the cleanup and floated back with the tides. PJ touched her tight, springy curls. When they grew wildly bushy again, perhaps the coast guard would ask for more sacks of hair.

The VW pulled up close to a pathway cut into the cliff. Mrs. Patel switched off the noisy motor and said, “Listen, PJ!”

PJ opened the car door and raised her head. She could hear the distant
caw-caw
of gulls and steady lapping of the ocean below.

“Listen beyond those sounds,” said Mrs. Patel. “Come, let me show you.”

They got out of the VW. Mrs. Patel dropped to her knees and lowered her ear to the sand between clumps of sea oats. When PJ hunkered down and did the same, a
deafening roar filled her head. She sat up quickly and looked around, thinking she’d heard the
whup-whup
of Pete’s helicopter.

“Oh no, child.” Mrs. Patel stood up. “This is a surprise…. I want you to see for yourself.”

“See what, Mrs. Patel?”

“Follow the sounds, PJ.”

They climbed down the stone pathway, holding on to the rope hung there as a handrail. Then PJ began to tune her ears in to the roar of water.

Halfway down the cliff, Mrs. Patel said, “Turn around, PJ. Look!”

There it was. A waterfall crashed down inside the ravine and hit a pool that jumped from the impact. Water escaped over the edge in three separate waterfalls that plunged wildly into another pool below, so deep it looked almost purple to PJ. She leaned over.

Mrs. Patel grabbed hold of her T-shirt. “Careful, PJ! You’re too young for the waterfalls to take you. Let’s keep going, to my secret hiding place.”

They climbed all the way down to the lower pool. Water swirled and whirled and splashed over the rocks. PJ followed Mrs. Patel along the path to a sandy ledge and into a cave directly behind the rushing curtains of
clear water. A wild roar filled the air. “Oooh
wow,”
PJ said. Mrs. Patel waved her closer. A thousand stings of spray hit them. Sand squelched underfoot. They were soaked within seconds.

They stood there until their ears rang with the noise. Then they returned to the path and followed the rapid streams that fanned out across the beach toward the waves. Clear, sweet waters met salt in a joyful leap of foam.

Close by, PJ found a large, seaweed-covered tree that had floated in with the tide. Tiny crabs scurried around and vanished into crevices in the roots as she crouched down for a closer look. Mussels and shells crusted an entire side. Mr. Flax hadn’t said anything about trees that washed up on the beach, but wasn’t this a perfect example of a different ecosystem for the class? She took a quick mental snapshot of it to sketch later for her homework.

The sun hovered over the horizon like a big, squashy overripe orange. Softer shades of orange lingered across the sky between cloud puffs. PJ closed her eyes because she didn’t want to watch the sun disappear. But the air was becoming chillier, giving both PJ and Mrs. Patel goose bumps.

They retraced their steps and climbed up the path,
stopping once more to watch the waters crashing down relentlessly in the falling light.

Mrs. Patel reached into the backseat of the VW for huge, fluffy midnight blue towels and handed one to PJ. They dried themselves and their damp hair and sipped cups of spicy hot chai she had brought in a thermos.

Mrs. Patel said, “Come, child. Time we were on our way.” Then, turning, she pointed toward the mountain.

“Oh, PJ, look at the moon!”

PJ took a deep breath. As the squashy orange sun sank into the ocean, directly opposite it, the curve of the moon began to rise between two peaks. “I’ve never seen both at the same time before! This is
awesome
, Mrs. Patel.
Awesome!
Please can’t we stay a little longer?
Please?”

Mrs. Patel glanced at her watch and shook her head. “PJ, I promised your mother I’d get you home by sunset!”

“Aw, just a few more minutes. Can’t we call her?”

Mrs. Patel jangled her car keys. “Let’s go, PJ. Keep the beautiful images in your thoughts. Never wait until they’re all over.”

“I don’t want to go home,” PJ announced.

“What nonsense! Come. It’s warmer in the car. Talk to me, child,” she said, switching on the ignition. The
VW jumped to life and they bounced over the potholes once again, toward the road.

“I don’t know what to say,” PJ mumbled after a moment.

“You’re too young to be so sad.”

“Only older people can feel sad?” PJ asked.

Mrs. Patel chuckled. “Lemon Pie has gone, but there are other birds and animals that need you. No time to waste now.” Pursing her lips and making a swift left turn, she said, “I think I know just the thing for you! A big sister. Have you met Ruth?”

“Ruth? The girl who bikes around with her hands off the handlebars? Joshua’s her twin?”

“That’s Ruth.”

“But she has all kinds of friends. She probably thinks I’m a baby,” PJ said.

“Nonsense! I’ll introduce you. She lives a few streets away from us. Do you know what she does?”

“I think she plays soccer?”

“Oh, much more than that, child! She rescues injured animals. She could probably do with some help. She’s hoping a soccer scholarship will pay for veterinary school in a few years. So she’s getting lots of experience right now.”

Mrs. Patel pulled up outside PJ’s front gate. “Off you go now, PJ. Your mother’s probably wondering what’s happened to you. I’ll take you to meet Ruth after school tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Patel. Also, thanks for sharing your waterfalls with me,” said PJ, climbing out of the VW. “The sun and moon put on a great show for us, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes, PJ. Just keep watching the sky.” Mrs. Patel laughed.

Later, at the kitchen table, PJ told her parents about the wonderful sights she had seen.

Her dad took another slice of spinach quiche and said, “Shouldn’t you be doing homework instead of chasing waterfalls? Patel’s claptrap VW is so noisy I’m surprised the waterfalls didn’t dry up in shock!”

“Philip, don’t be such a party pooper,” Mrs. Picklelime said, helping herself to fresh beetroot-and-parsley salad. Then, with a toss of the head, she said to PJ,
“‘Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water’s roar? And tumble out your hair That the
salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool’s triumph …’”

“Maura, give us a break,” PJ’s dad cut in. “PJ’s too young for your mad Irish poets.”

“No one’s ever too young for Yeats,” PJ’s mom said. “My parents read him to me in my crib.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” he muttered.

“Dad, Mom, come on,” pleaded PJ. Then she turned to Mrs. Picklelime. “Mom, what’s the poem called? Won’t you finish it for me? I like the words.”

“Ah, it’s called ‘To a Child Dancing in the Wind,’ and yes, of course I can finish it for you. Where was I now?”

“‘The fool’s triumph,’ Maura, ‘the fool’s triumph,’” said Mr. Picklelime, rising from his chair. “OK, I’ll leave you poets to it. I’m beat.” He went to the next room to watch TV.

“Mom?”

Mrs. Picklelime glanced at her husband’s half-finished meal, then reached out and closed the door to muffle the sound of the TV. In a soft tone, she went on,
“‘… nor yet Love lost as soon as won …’”
Her voice trailed off. “Um, sorry, PJ, I can’t remember the rest. Have a look at my collected poems of W. B. Yeats. It’s on one of the bookshelves in the front room,” she said.

PJ tried to figure out her mother’s expression, but Mrs. Picklelime looked away. “Mom, did you quote poetry to me as a baby?”

“Sure I did, honey. It’s a long tradition in my family. My ear is never far from wonderful poets and writers—Yeats, Lorca, Keats, Rumi, Frost, Angelou. You’ll find them all there, all of them,” she added, nodding in the direction of the bookshelves. “Love them in your time, PJ. Now, let’s stack the dishwasher!”

Later PJ went up to her room. Why did her parents seem to be in different worlds these days? To stop herself from worrying, she completed her homework assignments, including a detailed pencil sketch of the mussel- and seaweed-covered tree she found on the sand. Then she picked up her pastels, propped herself comfortably against cushions on her window seat, and began to draw Messenger Gull flapping at her window. Before going to sleep, she also sketched the waterfalls, the beach, the squashy orange sunset on the horizon, and the moon peeping above the mountains.

ruth and the rescue animals

The next afternoon after
school, ready to work with Ruth’s animals, PJ changed into blue-and-white-striped dungarees and a dark blue shirt. Mrs. Patel met her at the front gate and they walked together to Ruth’s place a few blocks away.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew Ruth’s garden. Massive live oak trees grew every which way. PJ nicknamed them the “arms-and-legs” trees. Huge trunks splayed out of deep roots surrounding the house, back and front. Branches sprawled wide and high at the top and also curved and snaked close to the ground, like some mythical sea creature that couldn’t stop growing. The
two-story house was built sort of zigzag around the trees. Vine-covered branches poked in and out of balconies.

Ruth’s tree house nestled in the curve of a giant trunk and balanced on two thick branches. When Ruth saw PJ and Mrs. Patel, she hung over the top half of her Dutch door and grinned at them. She wore a large, bright purple T-shirt. Her honey-colored hair was loosely braided into a wide pigtail that dangled in midair.

Mrs. Patel said, “Ruth, here’s PJ. She has a wonderful way with birds and I thought you could do with an extra pair of hands.”

“Cool!”
Ruth said, waving at PJ. She opened the lower half of the door and tossed a rope ladder down from the tree house. Rolling her eyes, she explained, “I keep the ladder up here because my twin Joshua’s going crazy with a tiny camcorder zooming in on anything that moves. The animals freak! Come on up, PJ.”

“Girls, I’ll leave you to it,” said Mrs. Patel. She hugged PJ goodbye.

PJ swung herself up the rope ladder and grabbed Ruth’s hand at the top to jump inside. Her first glimpse made her gasp. Ruth’s tree house was something every kid dreamed of having. The walls, floor, and ceiling were crafted out of raw planks of oak salvaged from trimmed
branches. The tree house was tall enough for an adult and roomy enough for PJ to stretch out her arms and make two complete circles in each direction. Later she found out it had been built by their neighbor Mr. “Bearded Beekeeper” Splitzky as a mini version of his barn.

“I love it! Great woody smell. Does Joshua have his own tree house?” PJ asked.

Ruth shook her head. “His bedroom’s twice the size of mine and full of junk. I chose the tiny bedroom, so my parents had the tree house built for me.”

Books filled corner shelves. One shelf held a soccer ball and a team photograph. Big, puffy bright blue cushions lay below a sloping skylight. Four homemade cages painted in vivid reds and greens stood stacked two by two in the opposite corner under screened windows. Ruth opened the first cage and gently removed an injured red cardinal.