Lucky Breaks (8 page)

The mail truck pulled up at the Hard Pan post office each week-day at ten fifteen, and everyone hung around outside, waiting for the Captain to distribute the mail to the P.O. boxes. This gave people a chance to get the latest news and check around to see who might have whatever they needed to borrow.

When HMS Beagle and Brigitte met Lucky at the bus drop-off after school, and Lincoln and Miles went in search of a soccer ball, Lucky discovered that Chesterfield had visited more than one Hard Pan resident. Brigitte reported what she’d heard at the post office that morning.

It turned out that the burro was front-page headlines in Hard Pan, and it wasn’t his first visit. He’d come around before but usually didn’t bray; normally he was pretty silent. Some people were concerned that he would eat their gardens or destroy their property, others were worried that he would bring some weird disease-carrying flies into town, and every
one agreed that his braying this time was loud enough to raise the dead.

Short Sammy, who Lucky felt sure would have defended Chesterfield, had been at work during this post office discussion, clearing litter from his adopted highway. But his absence gave the other residents a chance to compare notes on Sammy’s mysterious box once the topic of the burro had been thoroughly hashed over.

“I am going to speak to him about this,” Brigitte told Lucky now as they walked toward home along the deserted main road. “To everyone who ask him, Sammy will say only that it is a surprise. But I want to be sure he is okay.”

“Maybe it’s some kind of musical instrument,” Lucky said, thinking of how much Short Sammy enjoyed playing his guitar, wanting the box not to be a casket.

“
Non.
It cannot be a musical instrument.”

“Why not?”

Instead of taking the short cut across the rear of the Captain’s property, vacant lots sprouting low bushes, they continued walking the long way, on the paved street. Brigitte met Lucky at the bus stop most days if it wasn’t too hot, so she could use up calories as a way of not getting fat.

“Because he ask to borrow the jackhammer of Klincke Ken.” Klincke Ken lived on disability, which meant he got a check every month on account of his bad back and not being able to get a job. Lucky figured his parents must have been kind
of confused, because his first name, which you pronounced “Clinky,” sounded like some brand of tool, and his last name, Ken, made you think it was a first name. Anyway, no one ever called him plain Klincke or plain Ken, they always called him by both names, Klincke Ken. Before his back went bad, Klincke Ken had been a handyman-carpenter, and he still had a shed filled with tools that he loaned out to people in exchange for a six-pack of Bud Light or a homemade pie.

“What’s Short Sammy need a jackhammer for?” Lucky asked.

“This is what Klincke Ken ask him. Sammy says it is to dig a hole.”

Lucky knew that under a thin layer of loose sand, the ground in Hard Pan was as hard as cement. You couldn’t dig a hole in the normal way, with a shovel. You needed a jackhammer.

Lucky speeded up until she got in front of Brigitte, then turned around and continued walking backward so she could look directly into Brigitte’s face. “So maybe he has some kind of planter inside the box and he’s going to sink it halfway in the ground, like he said at the barbecue. Maybe he’s figured out a way to keep the cottontails from eating
his chili peppers if they’re planted in a container,” she said, as HMS Beagle zigzagged between them, figuring this was a new game.

“Maybe,” said Brigitte, lifting one shoulder slightly.

Lucky saw what she had suspected on Brigitte’s face: worry.

“What?” said Lucky. “You think he’s digging a grave?”

“This is what some people think. But I do not know. Short Sammy seems very…what is the word…enthusiast?”

“Enthusiastic?”

“Yes, not like a sad man who digs his own grave beside his front door. It is very strange. I will take him some radish-leaf soup later and ask him.”

“I’ll go with you,” Lucky said.

“
Non
, Lucky. I want to talk with Sammy alone.”

Lucky did not understand why adults were always trying to keep important information from kids. It was very frustrating, because it made kids have to work twice as hard to find things out.

Lucky faced front again, toward home: their three trailers, connected in a way that curved slightly, like the curve of Brigitte’s arm as she put it around Lucky’s shoulders. HMS Beagle trotted along on Lucky’s other side, their three shadows entwined as each one silently thought her own thoughts.

As far as Lucky was concerned, running a café—even one only open on weekends and holidays—was harder than competing in the Badwater to Mount Whitney Ultramarathon, which is a very, very extreme sport. People don’t realize that the cook, and especially the cook’s
helper,
aren’t just casually stirring something in a pan on the stove and then putting it on a plate, easy-breezy. No, back there in the kitchen there is a
lot
of
work
. By the time the Hard Pan Café had been open a few months, you could see the muscles in Brigitte’s arms and legs, and even in her hands and fingers. She seemed to love the hard work. And Lucky, with the important job of assistant prep chef and busgirl, learned to wash, chop, slice, mash, measure, mince, grate, grind, set, serve, and clear.

One of Brigitte’s handy tips that she taught Lucky is that certain dishes can be made ahead, which is a huge advantage to anyone in the café business. Things like soups and some desserts and salads. So Brigitte and Lucky had prepped as much as they
could in advance (no snails or anything gross) and were ready for lots of customers to come on the weekend. But Lucky was nervous about Paloma’s parents’ visit. Certain things that have nothing to do with cooking, like making a good impression, you can only
try
to prep for in advance and then hope for the best.

On Friday afternoon Lucky sped outside to meet the Wellbornes the minute Paloma’s father pulled up in a gigantic khaki-colored Hummer. Their vehicle looked like something made to transport a small army into a war zone. As Paloma’s mom dismounted, gingerly taking the long step down to the ground in high-heeled shoes, Lucky inspected her. She wore loose cotton slacks with a matching pale gray silky shirt, a scarf that looked as gossamer as butterfly wings draped loosely around her neck, and delicate, spicy-smelling perfume. A perfect tiny row of wrinkles curved up at the sides of her eyes, showing that Mrs. Wellborne had done quite a lot of laughing in her life, and two deep lines between her eyebrows let you know (which Lucky already did thoroughly know) that she had also put in some serious time worrying.

As Paloma jumped out of the back, her mother called, “Paloma! Don’t forget your wellness kit! Zeke, tell Paloma she
must
remember to keep herself safe!”

Paloma’s father, emerging from the driver’s side, waved a hand to show that he was busy with his mobile phone. Brigitte emerged from the kitchen trailer, smiling her big welcome.

Hoisting up a small pink backpack, Paloma said, “Mom,
I
am
safe,” and, in a grown-up way that Lucky admired, introduced everyone.

As the two moms talked, Paloma looped an arm over Lucky’s shoulder and said, “Listen, can you lend me thirty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents?” which made Lucky choke, cough, and laugh all at the same time, because—being exactly the price of learning to swim at home—it was a special coded way of talking that only Lucky would understand. Lucky got the hiccups, and Paloma had to pat her on the back. One unlucky hiccup was so loud and deep, as if coming from a huge man, that it surprised everyone, and Lucky knew that Paloma’s esophagus had to make a giant effort to cram back its own laughter. Paloma mashed her forehead against Lucky’s arm, making tiny spurting snorts.

Mrs. Wellborne was saying, “Brigitte, just look at this Café! Right in the middle of the desert, and yet it’s like we arrived in the south of France! Oh, I wish we could stay for lunch!”

“Of course you must stay for lunch,” Brigitte said. “You are our guests.”

But Mr. Wellborne reported that his cell phone didn’t work, frowning as if he’d found a tomato worm in his salad. Lucky and Paloma were still laughing and hiccuping, and then they leaned against the Hummer and got road dust all over themselves, which made Paloma start coughing, so Brigitte suggested that everyone sit at a table in the shade and have something cold to drink. She caught Lucky’s eye and raised one eyebrow a teeny
bit, which made Lucky suddenly remember that she was supposed to be giving the Wellbornes a good impression.

“Zeke, I
told
you there’s no cell reception here,” Mrs. Wellborne said, her sides-of-the-eyes wrinkles and her between-eyebrows wrinkles all scrunching up at once. She turned back to Brigitte. “That’s part of why I’ve been so worried about Paloma staying—it’s just so
remote
here. I keep envisioning some kind of terrible emergency. But meeting you and seeing what you’ve been able to do with this darling Café—”

“Honey, I don’t remember you telling me that,” Mr. Wellborne interrupted. “And I think I
would
remember if you had, because I have a studio conference call in five minutes! Where’s the nearest Starbucks?”

Lucky became uneasy. This was not giving the Wellbornes a good impression. It was a bad mark against the town that there was no cell reception or Starbucks. “We don’t have a Starbucks,” Lucky said, “but you could use our landline,” she added, avoiding Brigitte’s eye. She knew Brigitte kept the phone open so customers could call to make a reservation or ask for directions. Lucky moved closer to Brigitte and gave her a private, hard little poke.

“Yes, please come inside,” Brigitte said after a moment, and turned toward the kitchen trailer.

Mr. Wellborne cleared his throat and looked at his watch, which was to Brigitte’s watch what the Hummer was to Brigitte’s Jeep. “I’m afraid this is a
confidential
call,” he said.

Brigitte turned back and gave Mr. Wellborne the beautiful, deep gaze that Lucky knew from experience meant serious business. That gaze could pin you to your chair and bore straight into the special deep compartments in your mind where you kept your bad thoughts. Mr. Wellborne was going to be in big trouble in a minute if he kept on with that attitude. Lucky grabbed Brigitte’s hand and thought-beamed urgent pleas to let him off the hook. Brigitte relented.

“Please come in and use the phone, Mr. Wellborne,” she said in a calm, steady voice. “I am sure you will not take long. It is the phone for my business. We will wait outside.”

“Well…thank you,” said Mr. Wellborne. The words sounded rusty, like some old metal tools he’d left outside and hadn’t used in a long time. “I’m…sorry to be in such a rush.”

He was rewarded with Brigitte’s smile. “You are welcome, Mr. Wellborne,” she said, and led him inside.

Lucky could hardly wait to get safely away with Paloma, but there was the problem of Mrs. Wellborne. It would be impolite to leave her sitting at the Café table by herself, yet Lucky was afraid that Mrs. Wellborne would start in again about all the bad things that could happen in Hard Pan.

Suddenly a breeze came up, grabbed Mrs. Wellborne’s scarf, and tossed it like a leaf over and behind the half circle of
trailers. “My scarf!” she cried. “Did you see that? The wind just yanked it off! It’s probably halfway across the desert by now.”

“We’ll find it,” Lucky said, with a meaningful look at Paloma. As Brigitte came out carrying glasses and a pitcher of water, the girls dashed behind the trailers to look for the scarf.

“It could be all the way up to the Found Object Wind Chime Museum already,” Lucky suggested, thinking they could make the scarf search last a couple of hours if they were careful not to really look for it.

“Yeah, but we better not shilly-shally,” Paloma said, reading Lucky’s mind and letting her big smile out, “which, after we find it, we can figure out how to escape.”

“Your mom is so gorgeous,” Lucky said. She spotted the scarf on a low branch of a feathery-leaved mesquite tree by the dry wash, where it looked almost as beautiful, she thought, as around Mrs. Wellborne’s throat.

“So’s yours,” Paloma said. “I just wish mine didn’t worry so much. And I wish my dad—”

“Listen,” Lucky interrupted, plucking the scarf off its branch. The subject of fathers was too complicated to go into right then. “We really should go up to the museum. Don’t you want to see the other Paloma’s brooch? We can get Sammy to tell the whole story of how she was tragically murdered.”

Paloma put her finger across her lips. “Don’t say that! My mom will freak out!”

Lucky nodded, remembering again her resolve to give the Wellbornes a good impression. “Okay, you’re right,” she said. “Let’s go back.”

But when they returned to the Café side of the trailers, Lucky saw something that she was sure would ruin all her plans.