Frank put the key on the table between them.
Outside, from far away, came the sound of thunder. And then there was rain, pattering on the roof of Buddy Lamp’s Used Goods.
“Who’s O. Henry?” said Frank.
“Tsk,” said Buddy Lamp. He put down his teacup. He slowly unfolded himself, got up out of the chair, and disappeared into the confines of the store. When he returned, he had a book in his hands.
He handed the book to Frank and sat down again.
“A Collection of Short Stories Certain to Entertain, Inspire, and Delight,” Frank read aloud.
“You’ll find a story by O. Henry in there,” said Buddy Lamp. “O. Henry is a fabricated name, a pen name, a nom de plume. You can do that, you know: name yourself whatever you please, even if you’re not a writer. Take, for example, the name Buddy Lamp. My father was named Buddy Lamp, and his father before him. But it’s a fabricated name, entirely fabricated, born of longing.”
“Oh,” said Frank.
“Yes,” said Buddy Lamp. “It’s an interesting story, how the name Buddy Lamp came about. Would you like to hear it?”
“I guess so,” said Frank. “And then maybe you can tell me where the third key came from.”
“So,” said Buddy Lamp, “my grandfather came to this country from Italy. He came on his own. He was only fifteen years old. And when he got off the boat and had to announce his name to the authorities, my grandfather thought, I am entirely alone in the world. I can become whoever I want to become. I can name myself whatever name I choose. He said to the man standing next to him in line, ‘I would like a name full of light.’ And the man beside him said, ‘Yeah? Well, turn yourself into a lamp then, buddy.’ So that is what my grandfather did. He turned himself into Buddy Lamp.”
“That’s a good story,” said Frank. He took a sip of hot chocolate. He looked over at the third key.
“Good stories help,” said Buddy Lamp, “don’t they?”
“With what?” said Frank.
“With everything,” said Buddy Lamp. “When I was a boy and I couldn’t sleep, when the world seemed blustery and unbearably sad, my father would make hot chocolate for me. And then he would sit beside me and read me a story. Are you unbearably sad?”
“I think I’m unbearably worried,” said Frank.
“Well,” said Buddy Lamp, “stories are good for that, too.”
“I’m not much for stories,” said Frank. “I prefer a factual account of things. I like to know as many facts as possible.”
“Yes,” said Buddy Lamp. “I see. Well, stories are factual accounts of the human heart. If you hand me that volume, I will demonstrate.”
Frank gave Buddy Lamp the book. He watched him flip through the pages until he came to a story called “The Last Leaf” by O. Henry.
“And so,” said Buddy Lamp. He adjusted his glasses. He cleared his throat, and then he read Frank a story about two artists who shared an apartment. The artists were poor and it was winter and one of them got very sick, and she decided that she would die as soon as the last leaf fell from a vine outside the window of their apartment. But something surprising happened: the last leaf never fell. No matter how hard the wind blew, the last leaf did not fall. It never fell. And the artist did not die.
Frank sat in the pink chair and held his hot chocolate and listened to Buddy Lamp read. He forgot about the third key and the book of worries and unsolvable mysteries.
“So,” said Buddy Lamp when he had finished reading. “You see how things go in stories — how can they surprise you, how things happen that you do not at all anticipate. Maybe that is how it is with your key. Maybe something will happen that you do not expect at all.”
Buddy Lamp closed the book and handed it to Frank.
“Take that with you,” he said. “Share its contents with someone else. Make a little light.” He stood and gave a little bow and then turned toward the window. “I see that it’s raining outside. I have an umbrella that you can borrow. And please, do not leave without your mysterious key.”
Frank left Buddy Lamp’s with A Collection of Short Stories Certain to Entertain, Inspire, and Delight under his arm, the third key in his pocket, and an umbrella over his head. The umbrella had a vulture carved into its handle, and normally Frank would not have wanted to carry a vulture umbrella (vultures were very disturbing birds), but he was distracted.
The whole way home, Frank thought about the O. Henry story. He thought about the last leaf and why it was that it never fell. He thought about all the ways that people can surprise each other. He felt warm inside. It was probably the hot chocolate, but maybe it was the story, too.
“Humdee dum dee,” said Frank out loud. And then he said it again, “Humdee dum dee.”
When Frank got home, he found Stella’s friend Horace Broom sitting at the kitchen table with Stella. They were working together on constructing a model of the galaxy. They were arguing about what color to paint the planets.
Mercy Watson was under the kitchen table. She had her chin on Stella’s foot. She was asleep, and snoring.
“I think that Jupiter should be green,” said Stella.
“But it’s not green!” said Horace. “Jupiter is not a green planet.”
“I didn’t say that it was,” said Stella. “I’m just saying that I think it would look very good green. It would kind of make the whole galaxy look better, zippier.”
“We’re not making art;
