Jeremiah looked uncomfortable. He stood up and turned away. “Mebbe. I don’t rightly know,” he said gruffly. He busied himself cleaning up the dishes. After a few minutes of dish splashing and soapsuds, he turned back around. “I know who can help you, dagnabbit,” he said, “but I don’t know that she will. One lady fixes bikes here in Green Marsh, and that’s Estrella Marquez Montgomery.” He spat out the name. “But I ain’t talking to her since it was her great-grandpa who ran those pigs all over my great-grandpa’s dreams. We don’t have nothin’ to do with each other.” He looked mad, and then lifted his shoulders in apology. “But it wouldn’t be right to pretend like I don’t know where you need to go. A word of warning: When we get there, don’t tell Estrella that you’re trying to revive a ghost who was a friend of Joe Branch’s. She’s mean as those pigs her family raises, so that probably wouldn’t help you at all.” He started toward the front door. “I’ll pull the van around while you get your bike, and we’ll head over there.”
Bicycle ran to pick up the blanket with the remains of Clunk wrapped inside.
Bicycle and Jeremiah trundled down the street in a white bakery van labeled PARADISE PIES on the outside. The van moved as slowly as its driver, and Bicycle had to jiggle her legs up and down to defuse her impatience. After a while, Jeremiah turned left at a sign that said MARQUEZ PIGS and drove up a tree-lined driveway to a fine house with a large detached garage. He turned off the engine and said, “You run in alone and see if she’s there. Tell her what you need. Be better if she don’t see you with me.”
But before Bicycle could hop out of the van, a tiny, wrinkled lady came around the corner of the house, hollering at the top of her lungs.
“You git that durn pie truck out of my driveway, Jeremiah Branch! You tryin’ to poison an old lady with those awful fried pies? I ain’t fallin’ for it. You git, now!” She came up to the side of the truck and starting kicking one of the tires with her tiny foot. “Git, I say!”
Jeremiah climbed out of the front seat as fast as he could, which wasn’t very. “You leave off kickin’ my truck, Estrella, afore you break somethin’! I ain’t here to give you no pies! You ain’t never welcome to eat a single pie I fry—that’s the honest truth!”
Estrella redoubled her tire-kicking efforts. “Jealous of my pigs, you are. I know you’re up to something!”
Jeremiah yelled back, “I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for your pigs and the mess they make! Jealous? Ha! I’d like to see the day!”
Bicycle jumped out of the van and dashed around to open its rear double doors and pull out the blanket-wrapped bundle. She interrupted the squabble with one of the Sacred Eight Words: “Help!”
It did the trick. Jeremiah and Estrella stopped arguing as Bicycle lugged the bundle over to them. Jeremiah looked sheepish, but Estrella looked interested.
“Well, youngster, what have you got there? Appears to be a bike in trouble,” she said. The blanket had fallen partially open, and Estrella was peering down at a piece of Clunk’s frame.
Bicycle looked Estrella in the eyes. They were close to the same height, even though Estrella seemed to be a hundred years older. “It is. It’s in a lot of trouble. Please,” she said. “Please help me, help my bike.”
Estrella smiled a puckered smile at Bicycle. She may have had fewer wrinkles than Jeremiah, but not by much. She touched Bicycle’s cheek with a soft hand and said, “Bring it in the shop, honey, and I’ll take a peek. Sometimes things look worse than they are.” She glared at Jeremiah. “You,” she warned, “stay out here and keep your poison pies with you.”
Jeremiah glared back, but he saw Bicycle’s pleading face and kept his mouth shut.
Bicycle followed Estrella into the garage and laid the blanket on a workbench to unwrap Clunk. Estrella put on a helmet with a spotlight on the top and magnifying goggles over her eyes. “Hmmmm,” she hummed, examining the frame from a distance, and then up close. “Hmmmm.” She plinked one spoke like she was playing a guitar string, then plinked another.
“Can you do something? Anything?” Bicycle said. “My friend might be trapped in there, and I need to know if he’s still alive…well, not alive, because he’s a ghost, but at least if he’s awake. Oh, please, say you can help!”
Estrella glanced at her. “Think there’s a ghost in your bike? You’ve been eatin’ Jeremiah’s pies, ain’t you? They’ll make you daft like that old man—you better watch out.”
Bicycle shook her head, and then nodded. “No—well, yes, I had some fried pies, but I’m telling you the truth. I had a ghost haunting my bike frame because he needed to get to Green Marsh from a Civil War battlefield since this was his home. I need to know if he’s still in there.”
Estrella turned the spotlight on Bicycle’s face and peered into her eyes with the magnifying glasses. “Hmmmm.” A long moment passed. “All right, you’re telling me the truth. But I mean it—don’t have any more fried pies; they’ll be the death of you.” She turned back to the bike. “So I need to see if I can fix up this here bike and also wake up a ghost who may or may not still be in here, that right?”
“That’s right. Can you do it?” Bicycle twisted her hands behind her back.
Estrella picked up a tiny wrench and leaned close to Clunk’s frame. She tapped it lightly with the wrench and listened to the clank. She squeezed a tire. Then she sniffed at the bike, and sniffed again. “Run over by pigs, was it?” she asked. “Oh my, was this the bike that got caught in the Parade of Pigs? That’s why we always clear the streets beforehand. Those pigs of mine sure can run, but they have a heck of a time knowing when to stop.” She set her mouth in a hard line. “Child, if anyone in the world can help you, it’s me—it’s the least I can do, seeing as how it was my company, Marquez Pigs, that caused this damage to your bike. Whoops, almost overlooked my manners. I’m Estrella Marquez Montgomery, owner of Marquez Pigs and the best bike mechanic in town. And you are…?”
“I’m Bicycle.”
“There’s a name I won’t soon forget. You leave this to me, and we’ll see what’s what.” She was all business now, and waved an impatient hand. “You go on and scat. I can’t work with you staring moony-eyed at me. Come back around dinnertime, and like I said, we’ll see what’s what.” She turned to the bike.
Bicycle started to back out of the garage, past a few other bikes awaiting repairs. “The ghost’s name is Griffin, Griffin G. Griffin, if you find him,” she said.
Estrella gestured distractedly over her shoulder, shooing her out, and Bicycle left her to work.
Jeremiah was sitting in his bakery van, grumbling to himself. “Call my fried pies poison? She’s poison, and that’s the honest truth there.” He saw Bicycle and asked with concern, “Can she help at all? Hate to think we came down here to get yelled at by that old turkey and she can’t help you.”
Bicycle said, “There’s a chance. She said if anyone could help fix Clunk and wake up Griffin, it’d be her.” She climbed in the van. “But we won’t know much more until dinnertime. I’ll have to wait until then to find out what she can do.”
Jeremiah grunted. “Best thing to do when you’re stuck waitin’ for news is to keep busy.” He started up the van and they pulled away. “Pie shop’s closed on Tuesdays, but there’s always somethin’ needs doin’ there. Say, you can help me taste test some new pies I’m workin’ on.”
Without thinking, Bicycle said, “Estrella said not to eat any more of your fried pies or they’ll make me daft.”
Jeremiah spluttered, “Daft? I’ll tell you what’s daft: a woman who won’t eat a single fried pie because of some family feud, that’s what. Pies, fried or not, are the best thing for you in the world—they’re the secret to a long life. I’m ninety-two years old, myself. I’ve eaten nothin’ but fried pies for the last ten of them years, and I ain’t got no complaints. It’ll serve her right if she dies from a lack of pies.” They drove back through town and parked in front of the pie shop. “You come on in and try my double-crispy apricot
fried pie and then you tell me which one of us is daft.”
“I’m sorry,” Bicycle said as she followed Jeremiah into the kitchen at the rear of the shop. “I think your fried pies are delicious. I’d love to try a double-crispy anything.” She thought she’d be too distracted to offer much assistance with taste testing, but she’d give it her best shot.
Jeremiah explained that he was designing some new fried-pie flavors and was having trouble coming up with combinations. “Apple, peach, blueberry, cherry, strawberry-rhubarb, raspberry, bumbleberry, turkey, chicken, pumpkin, peanut butter and sorghum, chocolate cream surprise, bacon and egg: we do those flavors better than anybody. But the only way we’re gonna get world-famous is if we come up with some new fried pies no one’s ever thought up before.”
He walked over to a spread of fried pies he’d made the day before. “Now, over here I’ve got some turtle pie.”
Bicycle wrinkled her nose.
“It’s not what you think. It’s full of caramel and pecans. Then over here we’ve got sweet potato, but that’s not what you think either—it’s got turtles in it.” He spluttered a hearty laugh at her expression. “Naw, just kidding—it’s sweet potatoes, I promise. Hey, how about a cutie pie?”
“What’s a cutie pie?” Bicycle said.
“You are!” He laughed even harder.
Bicycle managed her first smile since she’d seen the Parade of Pigs coming her way.
“That’s an old pie-seller’s joke. My momma always used to use that one on me. Okay, down to business. Try this,” he said, handing her a lumpy pie pocket.
She bit into it, and spat it back out into her hand. “What was that?” she asked.
“Celery and banana. Not so good?”
“Not so good.”
Jeremiah sighed. “Let’s hit the cookbooks.”
The shop’s kitchen table was loaded with as many cookbooks and recipe notecards as Jeremiah’s home kitchen table. They pored over the recipes all afternoon, trying to mix the right combination of unusual and appetizing. They blended canned peaches with dried cherries, then toasted walnuts with ground beef, and agreed they were on to something interesting when they filled one pie with chopped blueberry muffin tops and tapioca pudding. They were so intent on their work that Bicycle was surprised when she glanced at a clock on the wall and saw it was past six.
A flutter of hope started flittering inside her, accompanied by a good dose of nervousness. “Jeremiah, can you please give me a ride back to Estrella’s?”
Jeremiah grumbled, but agreeably. “Ayup, I’ll drive you, but I’m not gettin’ out of the van this time, even if she kicks a tire again.”
Back at Estrella’s garage, Bicycle crossed her fingers and stepped inside. Estrella was bent over the workbench, her chin resting on one hand. Bicycle came up behind her and looked over her shoulder. “Holy spokes,” she said, stunned.
Clunk looked as good as new. Better, in fact. The frame was shinier than it had ever been, gleaming like it was under a spotlight. The bike lay on the workbench like a polished work of art. “Estrella! This is incredible! How can I ever thank you?” Bicycle’s flutter of hope had turned into a flying bird, soaring through her with happiness.
Estrella, however, wasn’t celebrating. Her face was grim.
Bicycle felt the flying bird soaring through her turn into a frightened, fluttering thing once more. “Is it…did you…could there…” She couldn’t ask the question, because she was afraid of the answer.
Estrella waved her closer and took her hand. “Honey, this is something I never like to tell anyone. Your bike, it may look good, but…” She shook her head. “You’re never going to ride it again. I was able to fluff out the frame so it would have the right shape, but it’s weakened here”—she pointed—“here, here, and right through here. In fact, I strongly suspect it was getting toward the end of its riding life before it got to Green Marsh. This is an old, old bike, sweetheart. All it’s ever going to be is a pretty shape to look at. I am so sorry.”
Bicycle stared at the frame in disbelief. It looked perfect. “Are you sure? How can you be sure?”
Estrella rummaged through her tools and came up with a stethoscope. “Here, give a listen. Best way to tell if a bike is safe to ride or not is to listen to its frequency.”
Bicycle put the stethoscope in her ears, and Estrella placed it against Clunk’s frame, which she then tapped with a screwdriver.
“Hear that? That’s weakness in the steel.”
Bicycle heard a twang and then a hum in her ears.
“And listen here,” Estrella said, moving the stethoscope to another part of the frame and tapping it again.
Another twang and hum.
“And even here.” Estrella put the stethoscope up near the handlebars and tapped once more.
A twang, a hum, and Bicycle heard something else. Distant, like it was coming from several miles away.
“Sun so hot, I froze to death, Susanna don’t you cry…”
“Griffin!” she shouted with joy, dropping the stethoscope and hugging the frame. “You’re back!”
Estrella raised her eyebrows. “You hear the ghost?” She took the stethoscope and listened for herself. “Hmmm, I hear him, too. He’s got a good singing voice.”
Bicycle kept hugging the bike frame with one arm and turned and hugged Estrella with the other.
Estrella blushed but hugged back. “Shucks, woulda done it for any bike, haunted by a ghost or no.” She finally disengaged from the hug. “Now, now, don’t squeeze it too hard, it needs some time to rest before the frame’s as strong as it’s gonna get. I’m keepin’ it here overnight, but you can take it in the morning, don’t worry.” She covered the frame with the blanket.
Estrella brushed aside Bicycle’s thanks and offer of payment as they walked out of the shop together.
Jeremiah rolled down his van window and looked distrustfully at Estrella and questioningly at Bicycle. He saw Bicycle’s happy face and asked, “All fixed up, then?”
Bicycle struggled with a funny feeling—a combination of disappointment over the terrible luck that she was never going to ride Clunk again, and elation over the terrific luck that Griffin was back. “Not exactly,” she answered. “The bike looks normal, but Estrella says I can’t ride it anymore. But Griffin—he’s awake! He’s still in there! He just needs to rest. I’m going to see him in the morning.” Knowing Griffin had made it home—that seemed to mean more to her than anything. So this is what it’s like to help out a friend, she thought.
Jeremiah took the information in stride. “Well, sometimes half-good news is good enough. Let’s head home.”
Estrella said, “She’s had a hard enough time, I reckon, without havin’ to sleep near the poison-fried-pie experiment laboratory you call a kitchen. She’ll stay here with me tonight and have some proper food.” She turned her back on Jeremiah.
“Hmph,” Jeremiah said. He asked Bicycle, “That what you want to do? Stay here tonight?”
Bicycle didn’t want to choose sides in any family feud, but she did want to stick around while Griffin recovered. “Yes, if that’s okay with you.”
“Anything you want to do is okay with me,” he said. “Guess I should go get your backpack and bring it here so you have your stuff.” He hesitated. He seemed torn between wanting to help Bicycle and not wanting to return to Estrella’s house any more than absolutely necessary.
“No need,” Estrella announced without turning around. “You think I can’t take care of a guest? I got great-grandkids who visit. I’m stocked up with spare toothbrushes and pajamas, and I got the best dinner planned—ham steaks and pork ribs.”
Bicycle smiled at Jeremiah to show she’d be fine for the night, and he nodded ruefully back, turning the key in his engine.
“I’ll be back in the morning to check on you,” he said to Bicycle. To Estrella, he added, “You do your best to show that girl some kindness, or you’ll get an earful from me.”
“I’m kind as the
day is long,” Estrella retorted, leading Bicycle toward the big, rambling house.
“Well, don’t feed her too much pig meat—that stuff’ll kill you!” Jeremiah shouted as he started down the driveway.
“I’m ninety-one and ain’t got no complaints!” Estrella shouted back. She opened her front door. “Land sakes, that ol’ man.”
Bicycle and Estrella had dinner together, eating plates of ham, ribs, pickled pig’s feet, and bacon. Estrella asked her about how she came to be in Green Marsh, and Bicycle told her the shortest version of the story that explained it all.
Estrella was impressed. “You know, when I was your age, I biked clear across Missouri—one of the best things I ever did. Good to know that youngsters still go on bicycle adventures in this day and age, what with video games and technopads and whatnot. When I wasn’t learning the pig-raisin’ trade as a teenager, the biggest favor my folks did for me was letting me mess around with tools and bikes out in that garage. I’m lucky to have a hobby that’s so satisfyin’ and useful.”
Bicycle swallowed a bite of ham and asked a question that had been in the back of her mind. “Estrella, why are you mad at Jeremiah? He told me that his great-grandfather’s pie business was nearly ruined by your great-grandfather’s pigs, so I sort of understand why he holds a grudge. Why do you?”
“That man!” she said. “I’ll tell you why I hold a grudge. I tried to make peace with him once. I brought over a nice pork-skin pie that I baked myself, thinkin’ we could put our great-grandfathers’ follies behind us and start again. At the least, we could be civil.” She chewed angrily on another slice of bacon. “But that durned Jeremiah! I gave him my pork pie, and he threw it on the ground! Rudest thing I ever did see! I told him he was a dunderheaded lummox and stormed off. Haven’t had a polite word between us since then. It’s been”—she squinted and counted on her fingers—“seventy years now.”
The Adventures of a Girl Called Bicycle Page 9