The Higher Power of Lucky

Silence. Lucky knew Lincoln had a hard time talking on the phone because he needed both hands for tying knots on a string or a cord. When he was about seven, Lincoln’s brain had begun squeezing out a powerful knot-tying secretion that went through his capillaries and made his hands want to tie knots. He’d learned how to tie about a million different ones, plus bends and hitches.

She heard a crash when he dropped the phone and then a jostling while he got it cradled between his ear and his shoulder. This was the usual thing that happened when they called each other.

“Listen,” he said. “Do you have any of those thick permanent-marker pens? A black one?”

“I think so. What for?”

“It’s that sign Miles asked about, the one he noticed on the way back from school today.”

“‘Pop. 43’?”

“No, after that. Right when the school bus pulls into Hard Pan.”

“Yeah,” Lucky said. It was a diamond-shaped orangy-yellow traffic sign. Miles was in kindergarten and was learning to read, which made him interested in finding out what every sign said. Lucky was glad that there were only a few signs on the long highway to and from school in Sierra City. “What about it?”

“I’ll explain later. Bring the marker and meet me there in a few minutes.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Knot News, does it?” Lincoln got a newsletter every month from the International Guild of Knot Tyers, which he was one of the youngest members of. It was a fairly boring newsletter to Lucky, but Lincoln read every page minutely, like he was memorizing it, and then he told Lucky all about things like what makes a good fid (which is some kind of knotting tool). Lucky knew that the latest Knot News had arrived recently.

“Nope,” Lincoln said. “It’s about the sign. Just meet me there. You’ll see.”

HMS Beagle was already standing at the screen door, looking out. A lot of times she knew what was going to happen even before Lucky did. “Okay,” Lucky said, thinking she could also capture a few ants and glue them to her report for extra credit.

She hung up and went to look at herself in the little mirror on the door of the cabinet by her bed. The trouble about Lucky, and this was a big problem she couldn’t solve, had to do with being all one color.

Her eyes, skin, and hair, including her wispy straight eyebrows, were all the same color, a color Lucky thought of as sort of sandy or mushroomy. The story she told herself to explain it was that on the day before her birth, the color enzymes were sorting themselves in big vats. Unfortunately, Lucky decided to be born a little ahead of schedule, and the enzymes weren’t quite finished sorting—there was only one color-vat ready and the color in that vat was sandy-mushroom. So Lucky got dipped in it, head to toe, there being no time for nice finishing touches like green eyes or black hair, and then, wham, she was born and it was too late except for a few freckles.

Before hoisting on her survival kit backpack, Lucky rummaged in it for a small plastic bottle of mineral oil. A remedy she’d thought of to the all-one-color situation, since Brigitte wouldn’t let her use actual makeup, was to dab a tiny bit of oil on her eyebrows, which made them glisten so you could at least see them.

One side of Lucky’s mind wondered if Lincoln noticed her hair-eyes-skin-all-one-sandy/mushroomy-color aspect, but the other side doubted it because he was always absorbed in his knots or in Knot News.

Lucky found the marker and her floppy hat, and she and HMS Beagle went outside. Brigitte was watering her big tubs with herbs growing in them.

“This parsley is going already to seed,” Brigitte told Lucky. “The seed packet says in hot weather parsley may bolt early. This word makes the parsley sound like a horse running away.” She looked at Lucky’s hat. “And you are bolting too, right before dinner?”

“I’m meeting Lincoln—he needs to borrow the marker.”

“Please come back before the sun goes down, ma puce.” Brigitte pinched tiny white flowers off of a bushy plant, and Lucky smelled the herb Brigitte put into spaghetti sauce. She said, “I would like to catch that rabbit who eats my basil.”

Lucky did not tell Brigitte that it would have been easy to trap the cottontail. She knew Brigitte would skin it and cook it, and Lucky did not want Peter Rabbit for dinner.

She and HMS Beagle set out for the town’s main road—five minutes if you took the shortcut behind the old abandoned saloon.

When they got to the sign, Lincoln hadn’t arrived yet, so Lucky shrugged out of her backpack and dug around in it for a Ziploc bag. The old rutted blacktop road was too hot to be near—it was much hotter than the sandy ground—so Lucky and HMS Beagle went off to the side by some bushes to look for ants. Pretty soon the Beag found a little lace of shade under a creosote to lie down in, and Lucky found some ants.