Miracle at the Plate

by Matt Christopher

  “Doughnuts,” said Skeeter. “I’m taking them to my aunt and uncle’s.” He slowed down and braked the bike to a halt. “Wait a minute. There’s plenty in our two baskets for an army. You guys want one?”

  Roger looked at him in surprise. “I only said this was a holdup, Skeet. I didn’t mean it.”

  “I know you didn’t,” replied Skeeter. “Take one, anyway.”

  He pulled back the white linen cloth that covered the doughnuts and lifted one out for each of the four boys. They were large, powder-sugared doughnuts and still warm.

  “Thanks, Skeet!” Roger’s eyes went almost as wide as the doughnut holes. “H’mmm! They smell delicious!”

  The other boys paid their thanks to Skeeter, and then turned their bikes and rode off.

  “Yokies,” said Shadow, wiping his brow with his forefinger. “It’s a good thing you figured that out or we’d have been sunk.”

  Skeeter grinned. “Just leave it to me,” he said triumphantly.

  He got to thinking about Tommy, and the grin faded. No matter what he had thought of Tommy’s ability as a baseball player, deep inside Skeeter felt awful.

  He loved animals so much. Why had Pancho taken that moment to run in front of him and be struck by his bike? Why?

  4

  Dr. Wiggins lived in a white sprawling house with a large green lawn around it. Flowers grew alongside the driveway and up a lattice that stood on either side of the front porch.

  There were three people in the waiting room, each patiently holding a dog. Skeeter and Shadow had to wait for half an hour before their turn came.

  Dr. Wiggins was a tall man with gray, friendly eyes peering through horn-rimmed glasses. He and Skeeter had become acquainted when Gus, the falcon, had gotten sick. Skeeter had taken it to the vet and in a short time Gus was well again.

  After the doctor greeted the boys, he looked curiously at the basket and then at Skeeter. “Gus isn’t sick again, is he?” he asked.

  “No. This is Pancho, a Mexican Chihuahua,” Skeeter explained. “He doesn’t belong to me. I hit him accidentally with my bike.”

  Dr. Wiggins uncovered the trembling little animal, lifted it out of the basket, and laid it gently on a table. He ran his fingers carefully over the tiny body and then paused at a spot on the dog’s rear left leg and rubbed his thumb over it. Pancho whimpered and tried to lift his head, but the doctor held it down.

  “Bone broken in the leg,” Dr. Wiggins observed. “Needs to be set and splinted. That might not be all, though. If the wheel of your bike ran over part of his stomach it could’ve caused an internal injury. I think you’d better leave Pancho here a few days, Skeeter.”

  A lump rose in Skeeter’s throat. “Is he real bad, Dr. Wiggins?”

  The doctor shrugged. “I’m not sure, Skeeter. I won’t know for sure until I see how really serious the damage is. Call back in a few days. By then I should know how he is.”

  Skeeter took the sack of doughnuts out of the basket Shadow was holding and placed it on the table.

  “What’s that?” asked Dr. Wiggins.

  “Doughnuts,” replied Skeeter humbly. “You can have them. There’s no sense taking them back. If those guys stopped us again and smelled the doughnuts we wouldn’t know what to say to them, because I told them we were taking them to my aunt and uncle’s.”

  “What guys?” asked the doctor curiously.

  So Skeeter and Shadow told him about meeting Roger and the others and giving them doughnuts and telling them that they were taking the doughnuts to Skeeter’s aunt and uncle’s. Skeeter said he just didn’t feel like riding all the way out in the country to Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Rob’s now.

  The doctor lifted a doughnut out of the sack between his thumb and forefinger, squeezed it gently, and smiled. “Well! If all the doughnuts are like this one, I’m not going to argue with you!”

  The boys rode home. Skeeter parked the bike in the garage and walked with a heavy heart to the back porch. In the large screened-cage in the corner, built level with the windows so that it could look out-of-doors, was the white falcon Gus.

  His head jerked erect as Skeeter’s footsteps sounded on the porch. A large eye, glued upon Skeeter, was briefly covered as an eyelid went down and up again.

  “Hi, Gus,” said Skeeter. The falcon answered with a soft cackle.

  Skeeter opened the cage, called to the falcon, and the big bird stepped out and climbed upon Skeeter’s arm. It was heavy, its white plumage like snow.

  “Want to exercise your wings a little?” Skeeter smiled. He walked to the porch door, stretched out his arm, and the falcon took off with a whoosh! of its huge, pointed wings. The wings flapped quickly for a while as the big white bird climbed higher and higher, flying over the houses and the towering trees.

  Skeeter watched, with a bright glow in his eyes, as his winged friend sailed freely around in the sky. A few minutes later the falcon returned, landing on the wooden perch that extended from the rail of the porch steps Dad had made expressly for this purpose. From there it climbed up on Skeeter’s arm and Skeeter returned it to its cage.

  At baseball practice the next morning, Skeeter noticed that Tommy Scott seemed even more troubled than he was last evening. The first thing he heard was, “Something’s happened to Tommy’s dog, that little Mexican Chihuahua. He disappeared yesterday.”

  He trotted to the outfield and shagged flies which a high school boy was hitting out to them. Another high school boy was working with the infielders.

  There was batting practice afterwards, but Skeeter remained in the outfield. He didn’t come to bat until one of the guys yelled for him to come in and hit. He didn’t want to bat even then. But if he didn’t, someone might wonder what was bothering him.

  He swung at two pitches and missed completely. Then he hit two grounders, popped one to the pitcher, and missed again.

  Roger Hyde, standing in center field with his arms folded, roared out in laughter. “What happened, slugger? I thought you were a fence buster?”

  Skeeter telephoned Dr. Wiggins that afternoon. Pancho’s condition was still critical, said the doctor. He had placed a splint on the broken leg, but he was not yet able to tell whether the little Chihuahua might survive its internal injuries.

  “I have a hunch he’ll come through, though, Skeeter,” added the doctor. “Don’t worry.”

  He just says that to make me feel better, thought Skeeter.

  A few days later he changed into his baseball uniform in preparation for the game against the Dinosaurs and heard his father calling to him. Dad was reading the Crown Point Journal in the living room. “There’s a notice here in the Lost and Found column about Tommy Scott’s pet dog, Pancho,” he said. “Says Pancho’s lost or stolen. Have you heard about it, Skeeter?”

  Skeeter’s neck reddened. “Yes. Heard it last week. Tommy told us at practice.”

  “That’s a shame. That was a cute little dog, that Chihuahua.”

  5

  Skeeter wasn’t himself as he stood beside the dugout and waited for his turn to bat. He couldn’t get Pancho out of his mind.

  Tip and Joey both struck out. Roger banged out a single and Skeeter stepped to the plate. There was a girl sitting in the bleachers behind the Milky Ways’ dugout and shouting as if she were the only Milky Ways fan there. She had yelled for Tip and Joey and Roger to hit. Now she was yelling for Skeeter.

  He took a called strike and two balls. Then he swung at a belt-high pitch and missed for strike two.

  He stepped out of the box, rubbed his sweating hands on the bat, and stepped in again.

  The pitch came in, a little high and close to the outside corner. He swung.

  “Strike three!” cried the umpire as the bat swished through the air.

  A disappointed moan broke from the girl in the stands.

  No balls came out to Skeeter during the second half of the inning. In the next inning a high fly was hit to deep left. Skeeter watched it soar into the blue sky and thought for sure
that it was heading for the fence behind him. He turned and rushed back, stumbled, regained his footing, turned again.

  His eyes widened in horror as he saw the ball coming down far in front of him. Boy, had he misjudged that one! He bolted forward, running as hard as he could. When he saw that he would not be able to catch it by running, he dove at it. The ball brushed the tip of his glove and struck the ground, and he went sprawling forward on his stomach.

  He scrambled to his feet, picked up the ball, and pegged it to second. The man was already there.

  Laughter exploded from the Dinosaurs’ fans.

  “Holy cow, Skeet!” exclaimed third baseman Henry Mall. “If you’d stayed in your position you could’ve caught that ball in your hip pocket!”

  In the third inning he misjudged another fly. He thought this one was going to land almost in the exact spot where he was standing. He realized it wasn’t when it began sailing over his head. By that time he wasn’t able to get back fast enough. The ball bounced out to the fence. He raced after it, picked it up, and threw it in. The hitter stopped on third base for a triple.

  A single drove in the run, and the Dinosaurs led 3 to 1. Roger caught a high fly in deep center for the third out of the inning and trotted in with a cocky look on his face. Near the dugout the expression changed to one of disgust as he looked at Skeeter. Skeeter pretended he didn’t see it.

  At the plate, things were a little different. Skeeter had forgotten his worries about Pancho after the first inning. His second time up he slashed out a three-bagger. On his third time up he hit a homer with two on.

  “Thataway, Skeeter!” yelled the girl in the stands.

  Tommy Scott replaced him in the fifth. He corked a single, then got out when he failed to tag up on a caught fly ball.

  The side was retired. Roger, running out to his position in center field, patted Tommy on the shoulder.

  It’s okay to be pals, thought Skeeter, but why does Roger prefer to have Tommy play instead of me? Anybody can see that Tommy is no hitter. And he really isn’t much better than I am in the outfield.

  The game ended with the Milky Ways winning 8 to 5.

  The next afternoon Skeeter telephoned Dr. Wiggins and received some happy news.

  “Yes, Pancho is coming along fine, Skeeter,” said the doctor. “You can come over and take him home, but better watch him for a few days. Don’t let him run around. And see that he is fed only once each day and very little, at that.”

  Skeeter got the basket in which he had taken Pancho to the vet, and went over to Shadow’s house. He told Shadow that he was going to pick up Pancho and take him to Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Rob’s and asked if Shadow would like to go along.

  “Of course,” said Shadow. “But I can’t go on my bike. I’ve got a flat.”

  “Okay. We’ll walk,” said Skeeter. “It’s only a little way out.”

  So the two of them walked to Dr. Wiggins’s office and picked up Pancho. Skeeter was worried about how to pay the doctor. He didn’t have much money in his bank. Dr. Wiggins’s bill surely would be much more than he had. Well, whatever it was, he’d earn money somehow to pay for it.

  Pancho didn’t look any different than on the day Skeeter had taken him to the vet. Guess he just couldn’t be any skinnier, or fatter. The splint was still on his leg. He’d need it for another week or so, explained the doctor.

  Skeeter was embarrassed when the moment came to ask for the bill. Finally he asked, and then waited to hear the doctor mention a large sum. After all, besides fixing up Pancho, the doctor had housed the dog for almost a week.

  Dr. Wiggins looked seriously at Skeeter, then at Shadow. “Remember those doughnuts you gave me?” he said, pressing a hard finger against Skeeter’s chest. “Bring me another half a dozen sometime and we’ll call it square. Fair enough?”

  Skeeter stared at him.

  “Get out of here.” The doctor motioned as if he were in a hurry to get rid of them. “And don’t forget those doughnuts. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir!” smiled Skeeter, and hustled out of the room with Pancho nestled in the basket and Shadow at his heels.

  Four blocks and they were out of the village. They began climbing the hill that led to Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Rob’s home.

  “Shadow, remember me telling you that we’re going to visit my aunt and uncle in Idaho sometime this summer?” Skeeter said.

  “Yes. Said you’re going when your dad has his vacation.”

  “Right. Well, it starts next Monday, so we’re leaving this Saturday by jet.”

  “Boy! Wish I could go with you! I’ve never ridden on a jet. Have you?”

  “No.” But flying by jet wasn’t what he was thinking about. “Shadow, will you take care of my pet falcon Gus while we’re gone?”

  “Sure I will.”

  “Thanks. All you have to do is feed him once in the morning and once at night. A small cup and the feed are next to his cage. Let him out once in a while for exercise. He’ll fly back after five minutes or so.”

  “It’ll be a cinch, Skeet,” said Shadow.

  A car drove up beside them and stopped. “Want a ride?” a voice asked. It was Tommy Scott! And behind the wheel was the girl from the baseball game! The girl who had done all that crazy shouting!

  Skeeter blushed. He put his hand, which had suddenly begun to tremble, over the white linen cloth which covered Pancho. “No, thanks,” he said nervously. “We’re not going far.”

  “Oh, get in, Skeeter,” persuaded the girl, smiling good-naturedly. “We can talk baseball. I’m Jan, Tommy’s sister. And you’re Shadow, aren’t you?” She looked at Shadow.

  “Yes,” said Shadow, bobbing his head.

  “You sure you don’t want to ride?” said Tommy. Skeeter realized now how closely the girl resembled him.

  “We’re sure,” he replied, and tried to smile. “We don’t mind walking.”

  Just then the tiny warm animal under Skeeter’s hand stirred. Then he barked. And he barked again and again.

  6

  Skeeter stared at the lumpy linen cloth stirring in the basket and then at Tommy and his sister Jan. He wished he could disappear then and there. Or that the world would swallow him up. Anything so he wouldn’t have to face those two in the car.

  “That’s Pancho!” Tommy cried. “You’ve got Pancho in that basket!”

  The little Mexican Chihuahua struggled free of the cloth and poked his small head out of the basket. His big round eyes saw Tommy and he barked again. A happy bark, followed by a whimper.

  Tommy opened the door, jumped out and picked the little animal up into his arms. “Pancho!” he cried, cuddling the chihuahua. “My Pancho!”

  “Skeeter!” exclaimed Tommy’s sister, her brown eyes growing wide as chestnuts. “You took Pancho!”

  “I didn’t steal him,” said Skeeter, his throat suddenly aching terribly.

  “We were going to bring him back,” Shadow explained. “Just as soon as he got well again.”

  “Well again?” Tommy’s hot eyes shot from Skeeter to Shadow. “What do you mean ‘well again’?” And then he noticed the splint on Pancho’s leg. “What’s this?”

  “I struck him with my bike,” confessed Skeeter, unable to look Tommy directly in the eyes.

  “You struck him, and you never told me? You — you nut!”

  “Tommy!” yelled his sister. “Let Skeeter explain, will you?”

  Skeeter took a deep breath, let it out, then explained how he had accidentally struck Pancho with his bike, and how he had taken the little animal to Dr. Wiggins and had left it there and why he was taking it to Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Bob’s now.

  “I — I was going to bring Pancho back to you as soon as he got real well again,” Skeeter finished, glad that at last he had the secret off his chest.

  “You should’ve told me about it when it happened,” Tommy shot back angrily. “I thought somebody had stolen him! Just like Roger says — you’re a meathead! A hundred percent meathead!”

 
He jumped into the car, his eyes wet and blazing.

  “Tommy,” said his sister, calmly, “Skeeter did what he thought best. He took Pancho to the vet, didn’t he? He helped save Pancho’s life.” She turned to the boys. An apologetic look came over her face. Then a smile. “Get in, boys. I’ll take you home.”

  “No, thanks,” said Skeeter. “We can walk back.”

  The girl looked at him. The smile faded a little. “Well, guess I can’t blame you. Thanks very much for what you did for Pancho.”

  She released the brake, stepped on the accelerator, and drove off. Skeeter and Shadow headed back down the hill for home.

  “You can’t win,” murmured Shadow disgustedly.

  “Guess maybe I should’ve told him so he wouldn’t have worried so,” said Skeeter. “Guess that’s what I should’ve done, Shadow. You saw his face the minute he saw Pancho. He almost cried he was so happy.”

  “Yes. I saw him,” said Shadow.

  The Milky Ways played the Dragonflies on Thursday. Skeeter had planned to tell Coach Jess O’Hara after the game about his going to Idaho, but the coach had already known about it. Some of the guys had told him.

  Jimmy Sutton started in left field instead of Skeeter. He caught a couple of flies and popped to short. Skeeter took his place in the third inning and the first time he doubled. It was the second hit off Cal Fielding, the Dragonflies’ star right-handed pitcher. Roger Hyde had got the first one.

  Bogy Adams corked a line drive to right center which the fielder caught on the first hop. Skeeter tore around third and bolted for home in a desperate attempt to beat the throw.

  “Slide, Skeeter!” someone shouted.

  “Hit it, Skeet!” yelled the coach. “Hit the dirt!”

  He was sure he would make it without sliding, though. He could tell by the look on the catcher’s face that the ball wasn’t anywhere near home yet.

  And then, within two steps of the plate, the catcher caught the relayed throw-in from the pitcher and tagged Skeeter. “Out!” yelled the umpire.