The Higher Power of Lucky

Lucky was. Her hair was damp from a long shower that had rinsed off every speck of sand, grit, oil, and dust. She climbed onto Brigitte’s lap, even though she was really much too big. But she still fit, and she leaned back while Brigitte wrapped her with her arms, like a present. Lucky felt sleepy and languid. Her knees were almost knobby enough to look like Brigitte’s knees, though Lucky’s were brown and scabby and scarred, and Brigitte’s were beautiful and…Lucky searched for the word…womanly. From the floor where she lay, HMS Beagle touched her nose to Lucky’s bare foot.

“So the papers in the suitcase are to take to the judge in Independence?” Lucky asked.

“Of course, ma puce. We need to show him your birth certificate and my green card for living in California and all of that so I can legally adopt you.”

“And,” Lucky stretched back into Brigitte, feeling as if she’d come to the end of a long and difficult journey. “And the restaurant management course—that’s to open a café in Hard Pan?”

“With a loan from your father, yes. What did you think, that I was going back to France?”

“Mmmm.”

“Oh, Lucky,” said Brigitte, and sighed.

After a moment Lucky said, “Brigitte, what is a scrotum?”

“It is a little sack of the man or the animal which has in it the sperm to make a baby,” said Brigitte in her deep, quiet voice. “Why do you ask about that?”

“It was just something I heard someone say,” said Lucky.

For some reason, Brigitte said, “You know if anyone ever hurt you I would rip their heart out.”

“I know,” said Lucky, and she did. Tears came welling up behind her eyes for a second, then they went back inside for some other time, a sad time. A certain crevice of Lucky’s mind wondered if there is some kind of reservoir for tears where they are stored, because sometimes there are so many of them, pouring and pouring out. Lucky leaned her head back and breathed in the sunscreen smell of Brigitte.

She got the back of her throat ready to say good night, and in drowsy, perfect French she said, “Bonne nuit, Brigitte.”

Through her curly wedge of hair, Lucky felt the smile on Brigitte’s cheek.

23. By and By

Lucky raked the patio in front of the Found Object Wind Chime Museum and Visitor Center. There was much less litter now that Brigitte’s Hard Pan Café had opened for business. People went before and after the anonymous twelve-step meetings to get a piece of apple pie or a ham-and-cheese sandwich, which Brigitte wrote on the blackboard menu as tarte aux pommes and croquemonsieur, and pretty soon the geologists and tourists and everyone in the town knew how to say a lot of French words.

Once in a while, Brigitte put out a platter called “Commodity Tasting,” cooked from the free Government food, and people helped themselves. Usually she added garlic and herbs and spices to make it taste better, and Lucky had the job of sprinkling the platter with parsley.

Lucky twisted shut the top of the black plastic trash bag and hauled it to the Dumpster in back. She inspected the place where the hole in the wall of the Found Object Wind Chime Museum and Visitor Center had been. She had plugged it up with Fix-All.

Not a sound emerged from inside.

She had done a good job.

Acknowledgments

The author is deeply grateful to the following people for their advice, expertise, and support:

My friends and colleagues at the Los Angeles Public Library. LAPL has been a second home to me almost my entire life, as well as a life-support system. Its staff is the best in the world.

Priscilla (Moxom) White, whose courage and integrity are unparalleled in this universe.

For their thoughtful reading of the first draft, deep thanks to Eva Cox, Nadia and Eva Mitnick, Erin Miskey, and Georgia Chun.

Dr. Steven Chun, for invaluable pediatric advice.

Patricia and David Leavengood, for extraordinary generosity.

Jean-Marie and Aglaë Chance, nos très grands amis.

Suzanne Cuperly et Liliane Moussy, chère belle-sœur.

Myriam Lemarchand, qui m’a fait comprendre tant de choses.

Joe and Jody Bruce, whose stories ignited this one.

Lindsey Philpott, of the Pacific Americas Branch of the International Guild of Knot Tyers, for crucial technical support, and the Guild itself.

Virginia Walter and Theresa Nelson, charter members with me of the DJ Fan Club. And warm thanks to Amy Kellman, whose encouragement helped me pitch the story.

Susan Cohen, my kind, protocol-proof, good-humored agent.

Matt Phelan, for giving these pictures such tender life and immediacy.

Richard Jackson, dear world-class editor, for everything, but especially for having so much faith all these years.

The Nortap clan: Sir Nigel, Beauregard, and my beloved Ernie.

To the Reader

The book Ms. McBeam reads to Lucky’s class is The Tree of Life by Peter Sis (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2003).