The Seventh Most Important Thing Page 11

  “It says Go Ahead. Throw Things at Me,” Squeak answered without looking down at the notebook that he still held in front of his puny chest.

  Go Ahead. Throw Things at Me.

  Arthur felt a small glow of appreciation flicker inside him. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had done something nice for him at school. Not since way before his dad died. And here was Squeak standing up on a table for him. Trying to protect him. Wimpy, short little Squeak was standing up for Arthur Owens, a brick-throwing delinquent. You had to admire the kid.

  “You know we don’t stand on tables and hold up signs in this school.” Vice kept talking quietly, as if he were a bottomless well of patience.

  Arthur was sure if it had been him standing on the table instead of Squeak, Vice would have called the police and had the table surrounded by cops, guns drawn.

  Squeak’s glasses flashed in the artificial lights as he looked down stubbornly. “It’s a free country. I have the right to free speech.”

  “Not on a table in my cafeteria you don’t.”

  “Doesn’t say that in the Bill of Rights.”

  “It says it in my Bill of Rights,” Vice replied, still weirdly calm.

  With Vice and Squeak playing it so cool, Arthur could tell the cafeteria crowd was getting restless. Eventually, the people at the tables around them seemed to give up waiting for something to happen and went back to whatever they were doing before. The lunch noise returned to its previous level.

  Vice kept staring up at Squeak with his arms crossed. Squeak kept standing. Arthur kept trying to pretend he was invisible.

  “You can eat my lunch if you want to, Arthur,” Squeak said after another long minute or two had passed. “I don’t want it.”

  Arthur shook his head. “That’s okay.”

  Vice gave Arthur a suspicious look. “Did you put him up to this cute little trick, Mr. Owens?” he said, eyes narrowing.

  Before Arthur could get a word out, Squeak’s voice answered indignantly from above. “He. Did. Not.”

  Arthur was relieved when the bell finally rang. Afterward, someone called for Vice over the loudspeaker, so he had to hurry away before he could give them a stern lecture. Squeak scrambled down from the tabletop and politely handed Arthur’s notebook back to him.

  “Here.”

  “Thanks,” Arthur said hesitantly. “For doing that.”

  “You helped me last time. This time, it was my turn.” Squeak puffed up his shoulders proudly and gave one of his goofy, too-wide grins. “I looked pretty tough up there, didn’t I?”

  Arthur nodded. He didn’t have the heart to tell Squeak that it would probably end badly. No doubt they’d get bombarded with even more hot dogs tomorrow.

  But he did let him know about the mustard.

  “They got stuff on your sweater,” Arthur said. “You can’t walk around the halls with mustard all over your back. Here, I’ll help you get it off.” He spit on a napkin and dabbed at the glob between Squeak’s shoulder blades. It didn’t make it disappear completely, but he got the worst of it off.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Arthur waited another couple of days to tell Squeak what had happened with Mr. Hampton over the weekend. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to talk about it without losing his cool.

  But the scene with Officer Billie in the restaurant kept bothering him. He felt guilty for what he’d said. Mr. Hampton was dying of cancer, and he’d acted like a complete jerk. He didn’t know how to undo what he’d done.

  He kept picturing the garage full of gold-and-silver furniture that was supposed to be heaven. And all of those shimmering wings.

  —

  “If I tell you something that’s bugging me, can you keep your mouth shut about it?” he asked Squeak while they were finishing lunch on Wednesday.

  “What?” Squeak glanced up from his book, looking lost. He was studying for a big algebra test that afternoon.

  Arthur sighed, already beginning to regret his decision. “Just listen to me for a minute, okay?”

  “Sure. Yes.” Squeak closed his textbook reluctantly.

  Taking a deep breath, Arthur told Squeak the whole crazy story. How he’d found Mr. Hampton crumpled on the floor of the garage and how he’d gone to the hospital with him. How they’d talked for the first time and how he’d finally learned what the guy was doing.

  “So what is it?” Squeak asked.

  “Heaven,” Arthur said. “He’s building a sculpture of heaven.”

  “What?” Squeak’s mouth dropped open. “Heaven?”

  Without stopping to explain, Arthur pushed on with the rest of his story, telling Squeak what he’d learned from Officer Billie. How Mr. Hampton had cancer and how it was possible he might be dying.

  When Arthur finished talking, Squeak’s eyes were wide and unblinking behind his glasses. “Gosh, that’s a lot…to have happen all at once,” he said.

  Arthur paused and swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. “The thing is, he asked me to keep working on the project while he’s in the hospital. He gave me the keys to his garage. But I don’t think I can do it.”

  “Why not?”

  Arthur picked up one of the foil squares from the table and crumpled it in his hands. He didn’t like talking about his feelings, especially not about his dad.

  “Because I can’t deal with it again, not after my dad’s death and all that stuff,” he said finally. “I don’t care who it is—I don’t want to deal with it.”

  He kept on crumpling more and more foil without saying anything else. When he finished, he had a small pile of foil gumballs in front of him.

  After a long silence, Squeak said, “Well, do you want my opinion?”

  “I guess.”

  “I don’t think you can give up on Mr. Hampton.”

  “Why not?” Arthur snapped, sounding more irritated than he meant to.

  Squeak took off his glasses and wiped them carefully on his shirt. “Well, it’s your probation sentence, that’s one reason.”

  “Officer Billie said they’d find something else for me to do.”

  “It might be worse.”

  “Than working for a dying person?”

  “Who knows?” Squeak shrugged. “You don’t know for sure what’s going to happen. Maybe the project will somehow save him. The mind is a powerful thing. Maybe building heaven…working on this masterpiece…is what’s keeping him alive.”

  “That’s crazy,” Arthur replied, although he couldn’t help remembering what Mr. Hampton had said in the hospital about the brick saving him. “And now you’ve made me feel guilty,” he added. “Like if I don’t help him, he might die.”

  “I could come along with you this Saturday and help out, if you want,” Squeak offered. “Except for my violin lesson, I don’t have anything else to do.”

  Arthur stared incredulously at Squeak. “You take violin lessons?”

  “They only last an hour.” Squeak looked embarrassed. “I’d like to see the project. Maybe if I saw it, I could give you some ideas about what to do next.”

  “I don’t need any help,” Arthur insisted, annoyed with himself for sharing too much with Squeak. There was no way someone whose biggest worry was violin lessons could possibly understand all the things he had to deal with in his life.

  Squeak stood up and slid one knee onto the tabletop. “If you don’t let me come this Saturday, I will stand up here again. I swear I will.”

  Arthur grabbed Squeak’s elbow, accidentally knocking his pile of books to the floor. “Don’t be an idiot.”

  Squeak’s eyes were fierce behind his glasses. “Then let me come along.”

  “Fine,” Arthur sighed. “Okay.”

  He was tired of fighting with everyone.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Fortunately, Saturday turned out to be a decent day—a little windy, but pretty warm for the middle of February. Arthur was pleased to see it would be good weather for pushing the cart around Seventh Street collecting stuff with Squeak
. Even though he hadn’t called Officer Billie to tell her he wasn’t quitting, he hoped the hours would still count toward his probation. He’d give Squeak the job of finding a mirror, he thought with a smile.

  Of course, Squeak showed up for trash picking dressed as if he were about to enroll in college. Loafers. Neatly cuffed denim jeans. And a gosh-awful, bright red pullover.

  “For crying out loud, what the heck are you wearing?” Arthur said when he opened the door and saw him. “Didn’t I tell you to wear crummy clothes? Did you forget or what?”

  “These are old,” Squeak insisted.

  With a loud sigh, Arthur pulled on his old elementary school coat and yanked his black knit cap over his head. If Squeak wanted to look like an idiot collecting trash, it wasn’t his problem, he tried to tell himself. He was just glad his mom and sister had left to run a few errands, so he wouldn’t get the endless questions about who his new friend was, and comments about how nice it was he’d made a friend, and blah blah blah.

  They started down the street, with Arthur still feeling annoyed.

  “You do this every Saturday? In the snow and everything?” Squeak said after they’d only gone a few blocks. He seemed genuinely impressed.

  “Yeah.” Arthur shrugged. “It’s not all that bad, really.”

  “How many more hours of probation do you have left?”

  Arthur had to admit he’d lost track. “Around eighty or ninety hours, I think, but I’m not sure.”

  “Wow,” Squeak said, shaking his head.

  Arthur didn’t know if he meant “wow” good or “wow” bad.

  As they got closer to the neighborhood where Hampton’s garage was, Arthur could see Squeak was getting more nervous. He kept taking quick looks over his shoulder. His hands were jammed in his pockets. He walked faster.

  “I told you to wear old clothes,” Arthur reminded him.

  He knew Seventh Street wasn’t the best-looking area, but it wasn’t dangerous—at least, he’d never had any trouble. There was a big BEWARE OF DOG sign on a house where he had never seen any dogs. Another dilapidated house had a tabby cat that always sat in the front window. It had taken Arthur a couple of Saturdays to decide whether the cat was real. He pointed it out to Squeak.

  “Really, it’s a lot safer around here than in the cafeteria at Byrd,” Arthur said. “Nobody is going to nail you in the back with a hot dog here.”

  Squeak laughed. “Okay.”

  As they turned at Groovy Jim’s and started down the short gravel alley, Arthur gestured toward the shop. “Groovy Jim is pretty cool. I’ll introduce you later.”

  Squeak glanced back at the shop. “Yeah, someday I’m going to get one.”

  “What? You want to get a tattoo?”

  Squeak nodded. “Yeah. Something dangerous. Like a big white skull. Or a snake. You know, right here on my arm.”

  He seemed serious, so Arthur kept a straight face and tried not to laugh. He couldn’t picture Squeak with a skull on his skinny white biceps. Ever.

  —

  When they got to the garage, there was no grocery cart sitting outside, of course. The place appeared as deserted as always.

  “This is it?” Squeak asked, looking doubtful.

  “Yeah, this is it. Nothing fancy.”

  Arthur could still see the tire tracks of the ambulance that had taken Mr. Hampton away. It seemed like it had been months ago instead of only a week. Shaking his head, he reached into his pocket for the keys Mr. Hampton had given to him. He hoped the guy was doing better. He hoped it wasn’t a mistake that he’d brought Squeak to see his strange masterpiece. Without even thinking, he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  And there was James Hampton working inside.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “Whoa!” Arthur shouted, just about knocking Squeak flat to the ground behind him as he lurched backward in surprise.

  The old man was sitting in one of those rolling office-type chairs in the middle of the garage, with boxes scattered around his feet. Bright bits of foil covered his lap.

  “Saint Arthur, come in!” Mr. Hampton turned his chair and gestured to them, smiling a little. “I wasn’t expecting you today. I was informed that you were quitting.”

  And I was told you were dying, Arthur thought as he stood there stupidly staring at the guy, who looked very much alive. Maybe a little thinner. But mostly okay, compared with the last time he’d seen him, in the hospital bed.

  Mr. Hampton was wearing ordinary clothes. A baggy brown cardigan with a few holes in the sleeves sagged around his shoulders. He had on corduroy pants and scuffed shoes. Somewhere he’d found another pair of glasses to replace the broken ones. Behind the round black frames, the old man’s eyes looked sharp and clear.

  “He changed his mind about quitting,” Squeak piped up behind Arthur.

  Mr. Hampton’s gaze shifted from Arthur to Squeak. “I see you’ve brought reinforcements.”

  “This is Squeak,” Arthur mumbled, stepping aside to let Squeak come in.

  “That’s your friend’s name? Squeak?”

  Just by the tone of Mr. Hampton’s voice, Arthur could tell he didn’t approve of the nickname.

  “It’s Reginald, actually. I’m Reginald Buckley Pierce, sir.” Squeak walked over to Mr. Hampton and stuck out his hand politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Good grief, Arthur thought. Squeak didn’t need to recite his entire birth certificate for the guy.

  “Very nice to meet you, Reginald.” Mr. Hampton shook Squeak’s hand. Then he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands neatly in his lap. He reminded Arthur of the dignified Mr. Hampton from court again—only without the sling like the letter A across his chest.

  “Well, boys, I wasn’t expecting company today, but I sure could use the help.” He shook his head. “I lost a lot of time this week. Way too much time. I had all sorts of big plans, and none of them happened, did they?”

  Arthur decided not to point out to Mr. Hampton that his plans hadn’t worked out because he’d almost died in his garage.

  The old man waved one hand toward the shimmering work of art. “As you can see, my vision of heaven is far from complete.”

  This was the first time Squeak and Arthur allowed their attention to turn toward the spectacular creation that filled the rest of the garage.

  Arthur heard Squeak whisper, “Wow.”

  As Arthur gazed at the startling objects again—dozens upon dozens of glittering pieces crowded together—he could feel his heart fluttering just like it had when he’d first seen them. It reminded him of the feeling you got when you looked down from a tall building. How everything below looked real and unreal. That was how the creation made him feel—as if he was looking at something both real and unreal at the same time.

  Now he could see how some of the pieces were made of the things he’d collected, just as Mr. Hampton had said. He recognized the red-and-gold throne chair he’d brought back from the big Victorian house, and a few of the small tables he’d found over the past two months. He was pretty sure the silver globes decorating many of the objects were lightbulbs covered in foil. And nearly every square inch of everything else was covered in foil too.

  Squeak spoke up. “Arthur told me you’re building heaven.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Hampton replied. “Actually, it’s the Throne of the Third Heaven. What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure.” Squeak looked as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

  “Well, let me show you how it all started.” Mr. Hampton rolled his chair closer to the radiant display. He pointed out a small box covered with layers of metallic decorations near their feet. It resembled a fancy jewelry box.

  “There, pick that one up,” he said to Arthur.

  “You pick it up, Squeak,” Arthur insisted. The box looked like it would fall apart if you breathed on it.

  “Are you sure?” Squeak glanced uncertainly at Mr. Hampton. Arthur could tell he didn’t want to pick it up either.

&
nbsp; “Hand it to me,” Mr. Hampton commanded.

  Acting like he was lifting a tray of eggs, Squeak slowly picked up the box and handed it to Mr. Hampton.

  “This was my first piece,” the old man said.

  There was a little handwritten tag on it, Arthur noticed, in some strange language.

  “I made it on Guam after I had my first vision.” Mr. Hampton looked sharply from Squeak to Arthur. “Now, which one of you knows where Guam is and why it’s important?”

  Arthur was extremely relieved when Squeak jumped in to answer that it was an island in the Pacific where the Allies had fought the Japanese in World War II.

  Right then and there, Arthur decided that if he ever got on a TV quiz show, he’d definitely want Squeak on his side.

  “Very good, young man. He’s a smart kid, isn’t he? Keep him around,” Mr. Hampton said to Arthur. Then his face grew serious. “I served on Guam in the Second World War, and when we got there, it was a terrible place. Everything was in pieces. Everywhere you looked there were pieces—of bombs, of planes, of people.”

  As he spoke, Hampton’s voice shook and the box trembled dangerously in his hands. Arthur thought they probably shouldn’t be talking about war and upsetting the guy. Especially since he’d just gotten out of the hospital. He glanced toward Squeak, trying to send him a subliminal message to change the subject.

  “Every night, I had dreams, terrible dreams, about the things I saw,” Hampton continued.

  Arthur’s mind went back to his own bad dreams: The bottles rolling away. The cops coming to their door. Trying to save his father and never succeeding.

  “And then one night,” Mr. Hampton said, “I’d had enough. I couldn’t stand the war any longer. I wanted to die and be done with it. And that’s the night when I had my first vision, my first dream, of building heaven out of broken things.”

  He held up the fragile box for them to look at again. Now Arthur could see the bits of wood and glass and metal he’d used. Tiny nails and pins held the parts together. One piece of metal had numbers stamped on it. Another looked like a round silver button. There was a rusted hinge from something and a metal handle or knob from something else.