The Higher Power of Lucky

Lucky thought how strange it was that some small things turned out just right, which was rare for big important things to do. As the sunset faded and faded and the sky darkened, she and Lincoln ate eggs, Miles got a Fig Newton, and HMS Beagle polished off a carrot. The feel of the air, soft and nearly still, was something you usually wouldn’t even notice. But now, after the dust storm, it felt like a kindness, a special thoughtful anonymous gift.

After a while, the full moon roared up into the sky behind their hill. Lucky thought that the people on Earth were very, very lucky to have their exact moon. They could have gotten a little puny moon like some of the other planets, and that would have totally messed up the oceans and the tides. Or their moon could have been too close or too far away. Or they could have had two moons or even more, and everything about their life would have been different. Lucky was sure, both as a scientist and as a girl-speck looking for her Higher Power, that it wouldn’t have been as good.

She was thinking how most people didn’t appreciate the moon enough at all, how they really didn’t give it much serious thought, when Lincoln said, “Well, here they come.”

There were many vehicles bumping along the dirt road: Short Sammy’s old Cadillac and Brigitte’s Jeep and Dot’s pickup and Mrs. Prender’s VW and the Captain’s van, and more following in their dust. They drove slowly, shouting “Lucky! Miles! Lucky! Miles!” out of the windows.

“We could hide,” said Lincoln.

But Lucky didn’t want to hide, and anyway Miles was already lurching down to the road, as excited as if they had won a game of hide-and-seek. She sat on a rock and gazed out at the desert. Maybe they would think she’d kidnapped Miles, and send her to a special school in L.A. for bad kids, and if they did she would become a bad kid. She saw herself in a room full of beds like in a jail, each bed with a bad kid in it. They would take away her specimen boxes and her survival kit. Instead of being a ward with her own private personal Guardian, she would become a Ward of the State. And you can’t sit on the State’s lap and the State doesn’t hug you before bed. Probably she would die of sadness, Lucky thought, seeing herself under a gray sheet, her face turned to the wall.

Car doors were slamming and dozens of people were getting out and shouting and laboring up to their camp. The air was so warm and the moon was so bright it was almost like daylight, except more mysterious. Lucky got something out of her plastic bag and ducked into the shadows of the dugout where she could watch.

She had something important to do before she surrendered.

HMS Beagle ran joyfully around greeting each arrival, including several other dogs. Everyone was talking at once, asking questions and hugging Miles. From inside the dugout it sounded like the whole town was there. When Brigitte called her name from nearby, Lucky stepped out into the moonlight and, looking down, saw that the silky dress and the urn both reflected its light.

“Thank you for coming to this memorial service for my mother,” Lucky said in a clear, strong voice, and everyone stopped talking and turned to her with surprised faces. She saw that Brigitte suddenly had tears in her eyes.

Lucky was not sure what should happen next, and then she remembered the one thing her father—the man she’d thought was a crematory man—had said to her. He’d said that the decision she made would be the right one.

“These are her remains,” Lucky went on, clutching the urn to her chest. The sense of her mother’s smooth shoulder flooded her with sadness, and then Brigitte smiled up at her and clasped her hands under her chin, almost like praying.

As Lucky opened the lid of the urn, Short Sammy cleared his throat and began to sing “Amazing Grace.” Dot’s high, clean voice joined in, and then everyone was singing, their voices clear and ringing in the still night.

Suddenly a breeze came, a little afterthought of the storm, as if, Lucky thought, some Higher Power was paying attention and knew what was needed. She walked to the edge of the ring of people and flung the remains of her mother up into the air, and everyone watched, singing, as the breeze lifted and carried them out into the great waiting desert.

22. Bonne Nuit

Lucky put on her summer nightgown, which was old and had become tight at the armholes. It was fresh and California soft from the dryer.

Brigitte came to the door. “Ready?” she asked, and sat on Lucky’s bed.