Free Whirligig by Paul Fleischman

owner had been there before him, leaving penciled annotations like footprints. The sight of them cheered Brent. He sketched the whale on wood, erased, revised, then realized Lea wasn’t in it. He considered giving the whale her face, then painting her in its belly as Jonah, then looked through the book, saw a design with a mermaid, and decided to change its hair to black and transpose it to the top of the spout. He didn’t know what had given him the nerve to try such an ambitious project. The sunny morning made anything seem possible.
    By dinnertime, not even close to half-finished, he felt like a gasping marathon runner, wondering why he’d made himself do it. The whirligig ended up taking three days spent in trying to balance propeller blades, bending rods, threading rods, wasting wood, starting over, walking a mile and a half to a hardware store for supplies and advice. He learned the hard way to paint in the morning, so that the surfaces would be dry by the time he packed up at the end of the day. He swore at the book, then at himself for making foolish mistakes. It was the harmonica that saved him. Playing it during breaks and at night, improving at blowing through a single hole, progressing from “Hot Cross Buns” to “Tom Dooley” to “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” he added drop by drop to his store of perseverance, which supplied both tasks.
    Despite the difficulties, the whirligig was absorbing, blocking everything else from view. The characters from his first life—allies, enemies, potential girlfriends—who’d once loomed like giants were now barely visible, distant figures disappearing over the horizon. He still noticed the cars he’d lusted after and heard snatches of songs linked to that era. His reactions felt distanced and ghostly. He had no desire to revive that life. It had all been crumpled in the crash. He no longer gave any thought to his clothes. He was an outcast, part of no group, and no longer had anyone to impress. Only when the wind blew did he feel watched—by Lea, looking down on his work.
    It was late afternoon when he finished it. After testing it dozens of times, he looked down at the book’s instructions, took his pencil, and wrote in the margin, “Added mermaid from page 87 on spout,” followed by the date and his name. He felt he was conversing with the book’s former owner. He now faced the problem of where to set it up. He didn’t think it would last long in a public park in a big city. Then he remembered seeing a set of wind chimes on the hostel’s porch. He made his way back and asked the clerk if he could offer it as a gift, in thanks for being taken in.
    â€œSure. Bring a bit more life to the front.” He viewed it. “But no need to go buying presents.”
    Brent mounted it then and there, trying out three different locations and making various minor adjustments. The wind that sprang up each afternoon was blowing, sending the whale’s white spout up and down, with the mermaid on top like a bronc rider. No guests chanced to be out front. Brent snapped a photo and disappeared.
    When the subject of its origin came up at dinner, Brent was as silent as the others. Afterward, though, on the porch, he was not. He claimed one of the rockers, took out his harmonica, and began work on memorizing “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.” It had been sung briskly back in grammar school, the refrain cheery and rousing. He now saw it for the lament that it was. Lea lay across an ocean no boat could cross. He practiced the song over and over, scratching into his brain the pattern of which holes to draw on and which to blow. He finally got it down, closed the book, faced Lea, and played it through perfectly. Champagne bottles are broken on ships’ bows; this felt like the whirligig’s christening. A couple sitting on the front lawn clapped.
    Early the next morning Brent moved on.

Bellevue,