On the Road to Mr. Mineo's

by Barbara O'Connor

  “Just ignore them,” she said to Gerald, tossing her curls out of her eyes with a flip of her chin. “Let’s go back to your house.”

  So Stella and Gerald headed back toward Waxhaw Lane, with Levi and C.J. and Jiggs trotting along behind them, chanting “Mr. and Mrs. Wormy” and laughing up a storm.

  As they walked, Stella scanned the trees and telephone wires overhead, hoping to see the one-legged pigeon. Every now and then she glared over her shoulder at Levi and C.J. and Jiggs. “Just ignore them,” she whispered to Gerald, who seemed to droop lower and lower until Stella thought he might sink right down through the sidewalk.

  Just as they rounded the corner onto Waxhaw Lane, Stella stopped dead in her tracks.

  Mutt Raynard was doing something sneaky.

  Tiptoeing along the sidewalk in front of Gerald’s house.

  Peering over the top of the fence.

  Craning his neck to look onto the garage roof.

  “Hey!” Stella yelled.

  Mutt didn’t jump like she’d hoped he would.

  He didn’t blush and look wide-eyed like she’d hoped he would.

  He turned a cool gaze her way.

  Stella raced toward Gerald’s house.

  Levi and C.J. and Jiggs raced toward Gerald’s house.

  Gerald trudged stoop-shouldered and heavy-footed toward his house.

  They all gathered in the driveway beside the fence with the pale pink words.

  WORMY LIVES HERE

  Stella jammed her fists into her waist and glared at Mutt. “What’re you doing snooping around here?”

  “Who says I’m snooping?” He tossed a piece of gravel from hand to hand.

  “I do.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re not allowed here.”

  “Says who?”

  Stella looked at Gerald.

  Gerald looked at his sneakers.

  Levi stepped in front of Stella and put his face up close to hers. “You’re not the boss of the world, Mrs. Wormy.”

  Stella pushed him aside and stomped over to Mutt. “You’re looking for that pigeon.”

  Mutt kept that cool-as-a-cucumber look and said, “What pigeon?”

  “That one-legged pigeon.”

  Mutt glanced at Levi. “There ain’t no such thing as a one-legged pigeon.”

  Stella jabbed both thumbs toward her chest. “That pigeon is mine. You keep your crazy ole hands off of him and get out of Gerald’s driveway.” Then she tossed her head, chin in the air, and marched up the driveway toward the garage, calling over her shoulder, “Come on, Gerald.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Gone Fishing

  When Luther and Edsel finished their pork lo mein, Edsel said, “Let’s go take a look at that hunk of junk.”

  They went outside and Edsel opened the hood of the white delivery van. They peered down at the engine.

  Luther checked the oil.

  Edsel wiggled the spark plugs.

  Luther examined the fan belt.

  Edsel fiddled with the duct tape on the radiator. “Hmmm,” he said.

  Luther took his baseball cap off, scratched his head, and put his cap back on.

  Edsel fished a greasy wrench out from under the front seat of the truck and tightened some bolts. He tapped the end of the wrench on a few things under the hood.

  Tap

  Tap

  Tap

  He banged the end of the wrench on a few things under the hood.

  Bang

  Bang

  Bang

  “Give her a try,” he told Luther.

  Luther climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key.

  The engine whirred and clanked …

  … and then started.

  Dark gray smoke puffed out of the tailpipe.

  “Give her some gas!” Edsel called from under the hood.

  Luther revved the engine. Rumbles and rattles echoed up Main Street. Puffs of smoke floated over the awning of the restaurant.

  Edsel let out a whoop. “Let’s go!” he hollered.

  So Luther ran to get his fishing rod and tossed it into the back of the van. He slammed the doors and climbed into the front next to Edsel.

  The white delivery van rumbled up Main Street toward the lake, with smoke pouring out of the tailpipe and a one-legged pigeon nestled contentedly inside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Boy Who Cried Wolf

  Mutt jogged along the side of the road toward home, studying the cloudless sky, the rooftops of the houses, the tops of the dogwood trees. If Stella or Levi caught that pigeon, he would never be able to prove that he had been telling the truth.

  A one-legged pigeon had landed on his head. He wasn’t lying.

  Maybe he should go to his spot at the lake in case the pigeon came back.

  Or maybe he should go farther up the road past the bait shop.

  Grasshoppers sprang out of the dry weeds as Mutt hurried by, his sneakers slapping on the pavement. The sun burned down on the asphalt road, leaving little bubbles of gooey melted tar here and there.

  When he got to the Ropers’ small brick house, he slowed to a walk. His T-shirt was damp with sweat. His hair stuck to the back of his neck.

  Maybe he wouldn’t go to his fishing spot after all. He studied the sky, searching.

  Hoping.

  But he didn’t see the one-legged pigeon.

  Just as he was nearing the long dirt driveway that led to his family’s cluster of houses, a white delivery van drove by, clanking and rattling and leaving puffs of dark gray smoke hovering in the still summer air behind it.

  Luther and Edsel.

  Mutt kicked a rock on the edge of the road, sending it tumbling into the weeds.

  Luther and Edsel fished all the time and lately they had been going to Mutt’s favorite spot.

  Mutt hated that.

  One time he dragged a big rotting log across the dirt road that led to his spot, but Edsel had just driven his van around it.

  Maybe he would go tell them he knew a better spot, way over on the other side of the lake.

  * * *

  When Mutt got home, his mother was mad as fire.

  “Where have you been?” she hollered.

  “Fishing,” Mutt said.

  His mother thumped him on the side of the head and said, “Don’t lie to me.”

  Mutt glanced out the window and saw all his dirty-faced cousins playing in the yard.

  “Hallie Pearson seen you in town with Levi and them other troublemakers,” his mother said, her fists jammed into her waist and her eyes narrowed in that mad way of hers.

  “I was looking for that one-legged pigeon I told y’all about,” Mutt said.

  His mother flapped a dish towel at him. “Get on out yonder and help your daddy with the lawn mower like you’re supposed to.”

  Mutt stomped out the door and clomped down the steps and brushed past his cousins on his way to the garage out back. He pretended he didn’t see them hopping around the yard on one foot and flapping their arms like wings. He pretended he didn’t hear them calling out “Hey, Mutt, there’s a one-legged pigeon on your head!” while they laughed and tossed gravel at him.

  Mutt shook his fist at them before he went into the garage. He would show them. He was going to catch that pigeon no matter what.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Mr. Mineo Mused and Tossed Pork Rinds

  Mr. Mineo sat in a canvas camp chair in front of the bait shop, eating pork rinds. Every now and then, he tossed one down to Ernie and sighed. He hadn’t been feeling like himself lately.

  Normally, he felt happy and content.

  He had so many reasons to feel happy and content.

  He lived in a nice trailer by the lake.

  He owned a bait shop and earned enough money to buy groceries and pay the light bill and put gas in his pickup truck.

  He had a very fat dog he loved and who loved him back.

  And he had a weathered blue s
hed full of homing pigeons.

  But now a little glimmer of sadness was starting to buzz around him like a pesky fly.

  “I don’t know, Ernie,” he said. “I’ve just got a bad feeling about Sherman.”

  Ernie cocked his head and wagged his stubby tail.

  “He’s a rapscallion, no doubt about it.” Mr. Mineo tossed a pork rind onto the gravel parking lot.

  “I don’t know…”

  Toss.

  “He’s never been gone this long.”

  Mr. Mineo had put six Xs on the calendar on the wall in the bait shop. Sherman had been gone for six days.

  Toss.

  “Maybe he’s scared of Amy.”

  Toss.

  “Which he oughtta be. I know she’s red-hot mad at him.”

  Toss.

  “Which she oughtta be.”

  Toss.

  “All them others fly off over the lake and then come back like they’re supposed to, but not that dern fool Sherman.” Mr. Mineo glanced up at the sky. “Heck, he’s liable to be anywhere.”

  Toss.

  Ernie gobbled the pork rind before it even hit the gravel and smacked and crunched and slobbered.

  The two of them went on like that the rest of the afternoon.

  Mr. Mineo tossing pork rinds and musing out loud about Sherman. Ernie being a good listener and gobbling up the pork rinds.

  When Mr. Mineo tossed the last one, he stood up with a loud, heavy sigh. “Let’s go let them birds out again,” he said. “Maybe they can find Sherman.”

  So he locked the bait shop, climbed into the truck, and headed for home with Ernie sitting contentedly beside him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Evening Settles In

  As the sun sank lower in the summer sky, the streetlights along the sidewalks of Main Street flickered on.

  Over on Waxhaw Lane, Stella and Gerald put the cards in the shed at the back of the garage roof.

  Stella studied the branches of the oak tree overhead, hoping the pigeon would be there.

  But he wasn’t.

  Gerald tried to make the knot of worry in his stomach go away. How much longer was Levi going to call him Wormy?

  Levi and C.J. and Jiggs carried their skateboards under their arms and headed for home. Levi was determined that tomorrow he would find that pigeon.

  Mutt Raynard wiped his greasy hands on his shorts and put the lawn mower in the garage. As he headed back to the house, his cousins hopped on one leg and flapped their arms. He chased them home, grabbing at the backs of their shirts and pulling their hair and making two of them cry.

  In the rusty trailer out by the lake, Mr. Mineo sat in his old plaid lounge chair in the dark with Ernie at his feet. He had let the pigeons out after dinner, and they had flown across the lake and then they had come back.

  Edna

  Frankie

  Martha

  Samson

  Leslie

  Taylor

  Amy

  Joe

  Christopher

  and Martin

  But not Sherman.

  On the edge of a secluded cove of the lake, Luther and Edsel packed up their fishing gear and stretched and yawned. It hadn’t been a very good day for fishing. As Luther snapped the lid shut on the tackle box and Edsel folded up the lawn chairs, a one-legged pigeon hopped out of the back of the white delivery van and flew off over the trees.

  And a little brown dog trotted along the road to Mr. Mineo’s.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Little Brown Dog

  Amos was always grumpy when he woke up from his morning nap.

  Ethel could see him out in the yard, muttering.

  Every now and then, he threw his arms skyward and hollered, “Why me?”

  Or glared at the ground and grumbled something Ethel couldn’t make out.

  She poured a tall glass of sweet tea and went out to the backyard. “Here,” she said, thrusting the glass toward Amos.

  He took the glass and didn’t even say thank you.

  Ethel had to try very hard not to snap You’re welcome! She didn’t want to make Amos any grumpier. Sometimes when Amos was really grumpy, he went out to his workshop in the corner of the barn to putter. He fixed drawers that were stuck or put a new nozzle on the garden hose or started making a birdhouse that he would never finish.

  And if he went to his workshop in the corner of the barn, he might see the pie tin full of food that Ethel had put there for the little brown dog. If that happened, she and Amos would argue.

  Why was she encouraging that mangy mongrel to stick around? he would ask.

  If that fleabag kept him up one more night, he was going to call the dogcatcher, he would warn.

  And if that one-legged pigeon showed up again, they would be having pigeon stew for dinner, he would threaten.

  Usually, Ethel liked a good argument. But today she just wasn’t in the mood. It was too hot and her gout was bothering her again. She was going to ask Amos to come inside and help her shuck corn, but before she could get a word out, he went on a tirade about moles in the garden.

  “They’re tunneling right through the tomato plants,” he griped.

  “Why can’t they go somewhere else?” he grumbled.

  “And what about that dern dog of yours?” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Ethel said.

  “I mean, if that flea-infested mongrel is going to come snooping around here every night, why can’t he at least keep moles out of the garden?”

  Ethel jammed her fists into her waist. “Amos Roper,” she said, “stop picking on a poor little ole dog that hasn’t even got a home. If you spent half the time you spend complaining, doing something useful instead, like fixing that kitchen drain, you could…”

  And so it went.

  Amos and Ethel argued for the rest of the morning.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Harvey

  “There he is!” Gerald jumped up, pointing into the branches overhead. The trash can turned over and cards scattered across the roof of the garage. Some of them fluttered down into the shrubbery below.

  “Dang it, Gerald,” Stella whispered. “Be quiet. You’re gonna scare him away.”

  She peered up into the branches. Sure enough, there was the pigeon. “Don’t move,” she mouthed silently to Gerald.

  Stella held her breath. The pigeon blinked down at her and cocked his head.

  Please.

  Please.

  Please.

  Stella begged silently.

  Please fly down here.

  She sent her thoughts up through the branches.

  And then …

  … miracle of miracles.

  The pigeon flew down out of the tree and landed on top of the shed at the back of the garage roof.

  Stella looked at Gerald. His mouth was open, his eyes wide.

  She put her finger to her lips. “Shhhhh.” She tiptoed toward the shed.

  One foot in front of the other.

  Slowly.

  Slowly.

  Slowly.

  When she got closer, she stopped. Her arms hung limply at her sides.

  She took a breath in.

  She let a breath out.

  Her heart was pounding in her ears.

  The pigeon hopped around on the tin roof.

  Tap

  Tap

  Tap

  Stella held her finger up toward the pigeon.

  And he hopped right on!

  Stella’s insides swirled with excitement. She looked back at Gerald, grinning. “He likes me,” she whispered.

  The pigeon’s one claw clung to her finger. She stroked his soft gray feathers. He pecked at her. A gentle peck. Like a pigeon kiss.

  She held him gently with both hands and walked carefully back to the lawn chairs. She sat down and cradled the pigeon in her lap. He made a soft, warbley, cooing sound.

  Stella could hardly believe her good luck. She had found the pigeon before Levi had!

&nb
sp; She began to imagine all the things she would do with him.

  She would make him a comfy little cage on top of the shed on the garage roof.

  She would feed him popcorn and birdseed from a Dixie cup.

  She would let him fly around over Meadville every day, and then he would come back and land on her shoulder and keep her company.

  At night, he would sleep in a cozy little bed that she would make out of one of her father’s old flannel shirts.

  “His name is Harvey,” she told Gerald.

  Harvey was the name Stella had picked out for the dog she had wanted for so long. Harvey was a good name for a dog, she thought. And now it was a good name for a pigeon.

  Stella and Gerald spent the rest of the day playing with Harvey.

  They drew a pigeon town on the garage roof with colored chalk. They drew houses and watched Harvey hop from house to house.

  They added roads with stop signs and a lake with boats. They drew a church and a birdseed store and a Chinese takeout restaurant.

  They sang “Home on the Range,” and Harvey hopped around the pigeon town like he was dancing.

  They tried to teach him to carry a card and put it into a coffee can, but he never quite got the hang of it.

  It was the most fun Stella had had all summer.

  It might have been the most fun Stella had had in her whole life.

  And then, while Harvey was hop, hop, hopping from the chalk lake to the chalk church, someone called out from the street below:

  “Yoo-hoo! Wormy!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Mr. and Mrs. Wormy

  Levi!

  Gerald clutched his stomach.

  His heart felt like it was going to bust right through his T-shirt.

  “Dang,” Stella said. “He better not come up here.” She tiptoed to the edge of the roof and peered out toward the road.

  “Do you see him?” Gerald asked.

  Stella motioned for him to be quiet.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wormy!” Levi called from the sidewalk out front.

  Gerald watched Harvey hopping to the chalk birdseed store, where Stella had put some crumbled saltine crackers. His knees felt trembly. He sat on the hot tar roof of the garage, in the middle of the chalk lake, and wished he hadn’t eaten so much cereal that morning.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Wormy!” Levi’s singsong voice was closer now.