CHAPTER 11 GIFTS
On the way back to Patrick’s house from the reserve, I tell Birdie about the hot-air balloon information I found online for Uncle Carl.
“The ride includes a champagne toast, a commemorative flight certificate, and a unique souvenir gift package.”
“Ooh. What kind of souvenir?”
“I’m not sure. Something romantic. You can reserve tickets online, but you know how Uncle Carl is with the Internet, so he’ll have to call.”
“But there’s no way he’ll call on his own,” says Birdie.
“Well, that’s why I was hoping to see him today. I can coach him through it. I’d do it for him, but I don’t have a way to pay.” I kick a pinecone into the road. “And now Patrick said he’ll be home around lunchtime. There’s no way he’s going to let us go over there.”
“Maybe we should try calling?”
“I did last night. His voicemail never picked up. He probably unplugged his phone again.”
“So our plan is doomed.”
“No, it’s not. You’re going to keep working on the bow tie. I’ll keep calling Uncle Carl when Patrick isn’t around. Then, tomorrow, before Patrick gets up, we’ll head to town. I’ll leave a note so Patrick can’t get mad that we left. You’re technically only suspended today.”
“I bet he’ll still be mad, though. And I hope he’s not early today. It’s already eleven.”
But when we return, the house is empty, except for Duke, who’s still on the couch.
Birdie scratches him behind the collar and Duke raises an eyebrow, but not much else. “I’ll work on Uncle Carl’s bow tie today after green eggs. Do you think Duke would let me put a bow tie on him? He’d look so cute!”
“I doubt he’d notice, but Patrick would. And speaking of Patrick, you should really change out of that jacket before he gets home.”
Birdie sighs. “I know.”
I’m about to start on the green eggs when there’s an engine rumble from outside. Patrick is back.
Birdie looks at me surprised and then runs upstairs.
I get some water from the fridge and start to head up too, when Patrick comes in.
“I need to get the backyard in order,” he says right away. “I think it’s best if you guys start helping on the weekends.” He pauses, but I don’t know what he’s looking for me to say, and he continues, “I have to get some tools from the garage. Meet me in the backyard in fifteen minutes.”
Upstairs, I tell Birdie.
“But what about our green eggs? And how am I supposed to sew if Patrick’s making us work in the yard?”
“We’ll figure it out. Maybe we can make them at Uncle Carl’s.”
“Oh no! I forgot to take Uncle Carl’s measurements for the bow tie.”
“You can get them tomorrow.” Though I have no idea how Patrick will react to us being gone in the morning. What if he finds us before we get to town?
When we go outside, we find Patrick chain-sawing a pile of large branches he pruned earlier in the week. We wait for him to see us because the noise is so loud. After a minute, the chain saw cuts out and there’s Patrick standing there with a bandanna over his face, staring at us.
Then he comes over with the chain saw, hands me two sets of gloves from his pocket, and tells us to put all the other branches into a big pile. The gloves are huge, which he seems to realize as soon as he gives them to me. Then he puts his bandanna back up and goes to the other side of the yard and continues cutting.
We work for almost an hour moving the branches and raking leaves. Patrick finally stops the chain saw for good and the silence that follows is wide and hollow.
I think Patrick notices it too, because he starts whistling, but stops after a little while.
He has us gather rocks and other stones and a bunch of old bricks. We stack them into a giant pile on the side of the house. He carries all of the large ones and we get into a rhythm where none of us is ever in the same part of the yard at the same time.
Then suddenly, Patrick breaks the silence. “All of these bricks are from an old outdoor oven my dad built when I was ten. But Dad didn’t always know what he was doing with the impulsive projects he’d start, and the oven got unstable and fell apart. But not before we got to make a pizza once.”
My mind races trying to decide what to say. I steal a glance, trying to see if maybe there is actually a smile on Patrick’s face, but his face is the same as it ever is: old, hard to read, and topped with a hat pulled low.
I can’t stand the quiet, so I say the only thing I can think of. “What kind of pizza?”
Patrick stops and then says, “Pepperoni and mushrooms. My mom’s favorite.”
Mama’s favorite too. One of the few times she’d eat meat was on a pepperoni and mushroom pizza.
I can feel this thought swimming around in my chest, ready to come out of my mouth. But I can’t. I can’t talk to Patrick about Mama.
So I keep my mouth closed.
After we are done with the rock and brick piles, Patrick has us sort through a bunch of wood to find good pieces to use as kindling for fires. But we only work for another fifteen minutes because suddenly Patrick comes over to us and tells us that we’re done.
“I’m going out,” he says. “I’ll be back in less than an hour.”
Then he turns around and goes inside the house.
“What is going on with him?” asks Birdie after a couple minutes. “Are we supposed to continue with the wood?”
“I don’t know.”
We hear Patrick’s truck start
