Popeye put his cereal bowl in the sink and said, “They like living in a Holiday Rambler.”
Velma made a little pffft sound and flapped her hand at Popeye. She shuffled across the floor in her ratty old slippers and poured herself another cup of coffee. “Maybe if Dooley’d get off his dern lazy behind and help those people, they could get that contraption out of here and be on their way.”
Popeye felt a little knot growing in his stomach at the thought of the Holiday Rambler driving away with Elvis and all those kids inside, leaving a big empty space in the road and a whole summer full of boredom ahead.
“Come on, Boo,” he called, and hurried out the front door. He hopped down the steps and raced to the silver motor home. The shiny gold lightning bolts on the side glittered in the morning sun.
He stood on his tiptoes, trying to see into the windows. He wondered if he should just stand there and wait or if he should go up onto that little platform step and knock on the narrow metal door. He sure was busting to get inside and check things out.
“Wait here,” he said to Boo.
He climbed onto the step and knocked on the door.
Walter’s face appeared in the window. “Elvis!” he hollered. “That skinny-headed ding-dong kid is here.”
“Walter Jewell!” a woman yelled from somewhere inside. “If you’re needin’ some soap in your mouth, you say that again.”
The door of the motor home opened.
“I got to get my shoes on,” Elvis said.
Popeye tried to peer around him and see inside. Then, as if the good Lord had sent an angel to answer his prayers, Elvis’s mother snapped, “For heaven’s sake, Elvis, invite the boy in.”
Elvis stepped aside, and Popeye climbed up into the Holiday Rambler and found himself in a world of wonder. All around him were kids and shoes and pillows and towels and cereal boxes and paper cups and dirty dishes and piles of clothes and magazines and board games. On one side of the motor home a bed was folded down out of the wall and heaped with blankets and scattered with playing cards and potato chip bags. On the other side was a table with booth-style seats, like in a diner. Giant plastic soda bottles and paper plates with half-eaten hot dogs and puddles of ketchup littered the table.
Beside the booth was a tiny television, strapped to the wall with a bungee cord. Behind it was a tiny stove and a tiny sink and a tiny refrigerator. Popeye felt like he was inside a dollhouse. He didn’t say a single word, but in his head, he was saying, “This is awesome, and Elvis, you are so lucky. Trade places with me. Go live in my house with the heart-shaped water stain on the ceiling and Dooley on the couch and I will live here in this silver dollhouse.”
Then he was snapped out of his daydream by Elvis’s mother, who said, “I’m Glory Jewell.”
She was sitting in a blue plaid chair up front next to the driver’s seat, her feet propped on the folded-down bed and her hands resting on her stomach. She was a great big overstuffed pillow of a woman, the exact opposite of Velma, who was as hard and dried up as a peach pit. On the ceiling above her, a tiny fan whirred and rotated back and forth, blowing her thin dark curls off her forehead.
“You can call me Glory,” she said, fanning herself with a magazine. “I bet you hadn’t counted on gettin’ new neighbors, huh?” She grinned at Popeye.
“No, ma’am.”
“Furman’s supposedly coming up with a plan to get this thing out of the mud, but I got my doubts.” She dabbed her neck with a paper towel. “I swear, if that husband of mine had an idea, it would die of loneliness.”
Popeye wasn’t sure if he should smile at that or not, so he did a little half-smile thing and shrugged his shoulders. Behind him, Walter and Willis were kicking each other on the bed, their legs flailing and their bare feet slapping each other’s arms. Prissy was trying to grab something away from Shorty, and Calvin was standing on top of the kitchen counter writing on the ceiling with a marker.
“Calvin!” Glory snapped. “You got your stupid head on today?”
So Calvin jumped down onto the bed and landed on top of Willis and everybody was suddenly kicking and hollering and Elvis said, “Come on,” to Popeye and flung the door open and disappeared outside.
Popeye followed him, stepping down out of that noisy silver dollhouse and out into the real world.
8
POPEYE AND ELVIS spent all morning at the creek. The first thing they did was dig under the pile of leaves to see if the little Yoo-hoo boat was still there.
It was.
Then they decided to build a bigger dam than the one they had built the day before. That way, if any other boats came down the creek, they would get trapped.
They piled up rocks and branches and mud until they had a real good dam.
“There,” Elvis said. “That oughta do it.”
The next thing they did was sit on the mossy bank beside the creek and wait, while Boo curled up in the soft green ferns beside them and napped.
“How long you think we’ll have to wait?” Popeye said.
Elvis tossed pebbles into the creek.
Plunk.
Plunk.
“Beats me,” he said. “How long we been here?”
Popeye glanced up at the sky. “Beats me.”
They sat and they waited and they sat and they waited and after a while, Elvis said, “Aw, heck, this is stupid. Let’s go see where this creek comes from.”
So the two boys and Boo made their way along the edge of the creek, farther and farther into the woods. Sometimes they had to push through pricker bushes or climb over fallen trees. Sometimes the creek went straight, and sometimes it curved around a corner and then straightened out again.
As he walked, Popeye could feel Velma’s eyes on him, sharp as tacks. The farther he got into the woods, the sharper those tacks got. After a while, he could hear her voice, cutting through him like a knife.
Don’t you be going too far into them woods, you hear?
There’s snakes and I don’t know what else back there.
But Popeye kept going.
The three of them walked and walked and walked, following the creek.
Elvis and Popeye and Boo.
One behind the other.
Finally, after it seemed like they’d walked about a million miles, Elvis said, “Dang! Let’s stop.”
Popeye tried not to look too relieved when he said, “Okay.”
“Let’s mark this spot so we’ll know how far we came,” Elvis said.
They found two big branches and placed them beside the creek, one crossed over the other, to make an X. Then they turned around and headed back down the creek.
Elvis walked in that heavy-footed, head-hanging way of his, not talking. Popeye hummed a little as he walked. Just a hum, hum, hum, no-name tune. Every once in a while, Boo stopped to drink from the creek, making big slurping noises.
They hadn’t gone very far when Popeye noticed something out of the corner of his eye.
Something yellow and brown and blue.
A boat!
A Yoo-hoo boat!
“There’s a boat!” he hollered, making Elvis jump. “Look! Over yonder! A boat!”
Elvis stepped down into the water, shoes and all, and scooped it up. Then he climbed back onto the creek bank and he and Popeye examined it.
The boat was perfectly made, just like the first one. And tucked inside was a tiny square of paper, just like before.
Popeye could hardly keep still as he watched Elvis unfold the paper.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
There was the same sloppy handwriting.
The same blue colored pencil.
The boys read out loud together:
“Princess . . . Queen . . . T-Bone”
9
“Y’ALL ARE IN TROUBLE.”
“Y’all are in trouble.”
Prissy and Calvin and Walter and Willis and Shorty danced around Popeye and Elvis, their faces beaming with delight.
Elvis, on the other hand, looked like worry was meant for anybody else but him. He waved off those kids with an annoyed flap of his hand, like swatting at gnats.
Prissy skipped after them as they made their way up the side of the gravel road.
“Your grandmamma was gonna call the police,” Prissy said to Popeye, pronouncing the word POleese, loud and dramatic.
“Yeah, and she was banging on our door and hollering in our windows,” Walter said.
“What was she saying?” Popeye said. His voice came out quiet and whiny and worried.
All the kids took turns hollering like Velma.
“You in there, Popeye?”
“Get out here right now, Popeye.”
“I’m gonna skin you alive, Popeye.”
“You got till the count of three, Popeye.”
“So what?” Elvis said.
So what?
Why hadn’t Popeye thought of saying that? It was the perfect I’m-not-one-bit-worried kind of thing to say.
So he said it, too.
“So what?”
Only, when he said it, it didn’t sound nearly as not-worried as when Elvis said it.
“And Mama is mad as a hornet at you, Elvis.”
Prissy galloped in circles around them. “You were supposed to help Daddy fix that tire jack.”
Elvis shoved her aside. “So what?” he said.
“Yeah, so what?” Popeye said.
“Where y’all been, anyways?” Calvin said.
Elvis stopped and glared into Calvin’s face. “Nowhere.”
“Yeah,” Popeye said. “Nowhere.”
Elvis pushed his way through all the kids, and Popeye followed him. When they got to the motor home, Elvis climbed up the ladder on the back and sat cross-legged on the roof. Popeye stayed below, trying hard to push his worry away and look like somebody who says “So what?” and means it. But he was pretty sure it wasn’t working. He was pretty sure he looked like someone scared to go home and face the wrath of Velma.
wrath: noun; extreme anger
That had been one of Velma’s words a few weeks ago.
Popeye had learned it, and now he was going to go home to face it.
Velma’s wrath had been swift and mighty.
She had met him at the door with arms crossed and foot tapping, her lips squeezed together into a hard line.
Popeye’s feet had felt like cinder blocks as he made his way up the front steps and into the house.
The clock ticked.
A couple of flies buzzed around a half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table.
Boo flopped down on his bed by the woodstove with a grunt.
And then Velma let her wrath fly.
“. . . been calling you and calling you . . .”
“. . . told you not to go . . .”
“. . . that hooligan hippie boy . . .”
“. . . got my hands full with Dooley and now you go and . . .”
Popeye sat on the couch, staring down at the dirt on his knees and letting the wrath swirl around him.
Finally, it stopped.
The clock ticked.
Boo snored.
Velma dropped into her easy chair and turned on the television.
Popeye went out on the porch and sat on the top step. Velma’s wrath still hovered in the air like a swarm of hornets.
Popeye let out a big heaving sigh and propped his chin in his hands. He and Elvis had made plans to go back to the creek later that day.
Elvis could waltz out of the Holiday Rambler and trot on back to the creek without a care in the world.
But not him.
He was stuck here under a swarm of hornets, listening to the clock.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
10
ONE OF THE BEST THINGS about having Dooley for an uncle was that he was very good at diverting the wrath of Velma.
divert: verb; to cause to change course or turn from one direction to another
Not five minutes after Popeye had gone out on the porch and Velma had dropped into her easy chair, the phone rang.
It was someone named Sergeant Greeley from over at the Anderson County Sheriff ‘s Department.
Popeye knew this because here is what he heard from his spot on the porch:
“Sergeant who?”
“Greeley?”
“I don’t know any Sergeant Greeley.”
“Sheriff ‘s department?”
“What sheriff ‘s department?”
“Anderson County?”
“Well, what in blazes . . .?”
Then Velma’s voice went from grouchily irritated to whopping mad.
“I wish to sweet heaven above I didn’t know Dooley Odom,” she yelled into the phone.
After a few more lines like “Oh, for criminy’s sake” and “I need this like I need a hole in the head,” Velma slammed a few doors and muttered some nasty things about Dooley and came out on the porch with her purse and car keys.
When she told Popeye to stay in the house while she was gone, he didn’t say “yes, ma’am.”
He didn’t nod.
He didn’t move a muscle.
But in his head, his thoughts danced.
Anderson County?
Thirty minutes to get there.
Thirty minutes to get back.
One hour.
He had one whole hour to waltz out of the house and trot on back to the creek without a care in the world.
Like Elvis.
Popeye sent a silent message of thanks to Dooley as he watched Velma go roaring out of the driveway and up the road, dirt and gravel flying.
“Calvin and them are gonna try and follow us,” Elvis said. “I just know it.” He glanced over his shoulder.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go back there now,” Popeye said.
“We got to.” Elvis pushed through the tall weeds and jumped over a log.
“We could go tomorrow,” Popeye said.
“No way.” Elvis turned to face Popeye. “Look,” he said. “If you don’t want to come, that’s fine by me. Go on home. But my dad is gonna get that motor home out of the mud any time now and I want to find out where them boats came from.”
Popeye looked down at the ground. Why did he have to be such a baby about stuff? he wondered. Why was he so scared of Velma and her wrath? What had happened to all that waltzing and trotting he had planned on doing not ten minutes ago?
Why couldn’t he be more like Elvis?
They followed the fern-lined path into the woods. The air felt cool and damp. Popeye breathed in the earthy smell of it.
As soon as they got within sight of the creek, Popeye could see the boat, floating there in the little pond created by the dam.
“Hot dang!” Elvis raced toward the creek. “Another boat!” he hollered.
Popeye ran after him, the flutter of worry in his stomach turning to a flutter of joy and excitement. When they got to the creek, Popeye darted in front of Elvis and leaped into the water, shoes and all.
Elvis looked a little annoyed, but Popeye grinned at him as he stood in the creek with minnows darting around his ankles and held the boat up proudly in the palm of his hand.
“Is there a note?” Elvis said.
Popeye peered into the boat. “Yep.”
He climbed out of the creek, set the boat down on the mossy bank, and unfolded the note.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The boys read the note out loud together:
“Float like a butterfly.
Sting like a bee.”
11
qualm: noun; an uneasy feeling of doubt, worry, or fear, especially about one’s own conduct
Popeye had been having a lot of qualms lately. Yesterday, he had qualms about going so far into the woods where he wasn’t supposed to go.
Then he
had qualms about leaving the house when Velma told him not to.
And he had qualms about looking for whoever was sending those little Yoo-hoo boats like Elvis wanted to.
So many qualms.
Popeye’s stomach didn’t feel too good.
He finished his milk and went into the living room to lie to Velma.
Another qualm.
“Can I go over to the ball field behind the school?” he said, keeping his eyes on the faded green rug.
Velma put down her crossword puzzle and looked over the top of her glasses at Popeye. “What for?” she said.
Popeye shrugged.
Velma narrowed her eyes. “With who?”
Popeye glanced at Velma’s stack of crossword puzzle magazines.
He glanced at the lady on television mopping her floor and singing about how much fun it was.
He glanced at Dooley’s muddy work boots under the coffee table.
“Just me,” he said.
Velma was going to say no.
Ever since she had brought Dooley home from the sheriff ‘s department yesterday, she’d been flinging her wrath around the house like crazy. Dooley, of course, was staying out back in his trailer so none of that wrath would come his way. (Where it rightfully belonged, in Popeye’s opinion.)
Velma breathed in real deep and let out a big sigh. “Popeye,” she said. “I am a beat-down woman. My spirit is broken. My patience is worn thin. I am done.”
Popeye felt a little ray of hope starting to shine in that house of wrath.
He kept quiet and waited.
“Go,” Velma said. “Just go.” She dropped her head onto the back of the chair and closed her eyes.
Popeye felt a whoop trying to work its way out of him, but he clamped his mouth shut. Then he motioned for Boo to come with him and raced off to the Holiday Rambler.
Elvis sat by the side of the road, looking glum. His father, Furman Jewell, sat beside him, wiping the sweat off the back of his neck with a dirty red bandanna. Tools were spread out in the weeds around them. A crowbar. A shovel. A pickax. A car jack.
The Small Adventure of Popeye and Elvis Page 3