Something nagged at Pam’s brain that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something about Arminger. What was it?
He must have taken her hesitation for weakness. “Two hundred dollars would help your family a lot. Yah?”
Pam felt herself wavering. Talks like buttermilk, he does, all rich and smooth. If she let him go on, she’d end up selling. And be sorry later.
“I got to tend my birds now, Mr. Arminger,” she said firmly. She started to walk away.
“Pam, I’ve got to have those pigeons.” Arminger had always maintained a cool exterior. Now his voice sounded urgent. “If it’s money, I can give you more. Cash, right now” He stepped toward Pam and reached into his pocket.
The next thing Pam knew, Bosporus was lunging at Arminger, snarling and barking. For one horrible moment Pam watched her dog’s teeth sink into Arminger’s leg. “No! Bosporus!” she shouted, and vaulted forward to pull him away. It was all she could do to hold her dog back as he continued to strain forward and bark at Arminger.
Mama appeared out of the darkness. “Pam! Are you all right?” She held the shotgun.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m fine.” Pam couldn’t keep her voice from shaking.
“It was my fault.” Arminger sounded contrite. “I made a sudden movement toward Pam, and the dog took offense. I should’ve known better. It’s not a serious bite. He got a mouthful of trousers more than anything.”
“Pam?” Mama was politely asking if Arminger was telling the truth.
“That’s right, Mama. He was trying to give me money for the pigeons, but I … I decided I don’t want to sell them.” Pam felt like crying. She wasn’t sure now whether she had done the right thing. Would Mama be mad at her for turning down so much money?
“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” Mama asked Arminger.
He nodded. “Barely broke the skin.”
“Then I think it’s time you left.” Mama’s tone gave no room for argument. “And I’d be obliged if you’d not bother Pam anymore about her birds.”
“No, you’re right. I’ll bother her no more. I do apologize for my behavior. Good night.” He tipped his hat and was gone.
Arminger’s departure left Pam feeling relieved but strangely empty. He had appreciated her skill with animals like no one else ever had, except Papa. “Reckon he’s gone for good?” she said, to herself as much as Mama.
“I don’t think he’ll pester you no more. He seems right decent after all.” Her words were distracted, like she was thinking about something else.
Pam sighed. Maybe it was for the best he was gone. But there was still something about him that was nagging at Pam. Something that bothered her, though she couldn’t pin it down.
Mama took Pam’s cheeks in her palms. “There’s something hard I got to say to you, sweetie.” She paused. “Your dog ain’t a pup no more. He’s growing so big …” Her voice trailed off.
Pam went stiff. What was Mama getting at?
Then Mama spoke again, rushing the words. “Fact is, Pam, he was born wild, and he’s still wild. Ain’t no amount of gentling that’s going to tame that streak out of’im.”
Pam felt a numbness mushroom through her body. She reached down and knit her fingers into Bosporus’ thick fur. He was so warm ….
“We can’t have him attacking innocent folks, Pam. What if he went for one of the Suggs younguns? I don’t think it’s going to work to keep him here on the farm.”
Mama wanted her to get rid of Bosporus! The knowledge hit Pam like a hurricane. “No, Mama! He was only protecting me. And Caspian.” Her own words seemed to shake her brain loose, and instantly she realized what had been nagging her about Arminger. The cigarette butt down at the barn—it was his! It had to be! It was proof that Arminger had been skulking around their property, up to no good.
Quickly Pam told Mama about her suspicions.
“Pam, a cigarette butt don’t prove a thing. You don’t know for a fact it was Mr. Arminger’s. Remember, Buell came over for the crab pots this morning. His mama told me he’s been smoking on the sly. Maybe the butt was Buell’s. Was it homemade or store-bought?”
“I didn’t look that close. There was all that commotion at the pigeon loft ….”
“I don’t know, sugar. I think you’re grasping at straws. And it still don’t change the facts about your dog. He’s got to go back to the woods, Pam. He knows how to fend for himself. Take him out a ways and turn him loose, first thing in the morning.”
“What if he comes back?” Pam was hoping.
“Then next time make sure he don’t, you hear me?” Mama’s tone said the matter was closed. “See to your chores now, and come on in the house for some supper.”
Pam let her pigeons out for exercise. Then she milked Daisy and went back to feed her pigeons and lock them up for the night. Bosporus didn’t leave her side for a minute, as if he knew something was amiss.
While Pam fixed the hole in the fly-pen, she explained to him that he couldn’t linger around the farm anymore. “But I’ll come visit you in the woods and take you squirrel hunting with me. How’s that?” He thumped his tail and opened his mouth in what looked like a grin. Pam swallowed a lump in her throat. Maybe Bosporus would be happier in the woods than he was on the farm. For his sake, she hoped so.
With a heavy heart she told him it was his last night under the barn. “Better hunker in tight,” she said. “A nor’easter’s beginning to blow”
All night the storm raged. The morning was gray and mean, with a steady downpour and a wind that bored holes through Pam’s slicker. Head down, she fought through the rain to the pigeon loft to care for her birds. Homers could fly in the rain, but Pam would never let them out even in the fly-pen in a wind this strong. They would have to be content with flapping about inside the loft for today.
Pam closed her eyes against the biting wind. The rain stung her face, but she was glad of it for one reason: Mama had postponed Bosporus’ exile until tomorrow. She wished there was some way she could convince Mama to let him stay. This was all Arminger’s fault, she thought angrily. She wished he had never set foot in Currituck.
She fumbled blindly for the latch on the loft door, but her wet fingers kept slipping. She opened her eyes to a slit in order to grasp the latch.
What she saw made her stomach turn.
Two black feathers floated on top of a puddle. Two black feathers from one of her pigeons.
CHAPTER 7
STOLEN BIRDS
A strangled cry escaped from Pam’s throat. Something had happened to Orleans, her second-best cock! He was the only bird she had that was solid black.
Pam’s fear was confirmed inside the loft. Orleans was gone. Little Verdun, usually saucy with snapping, bright eyes, sat alone in the nest box with her wings drooping. She missed her mate.
Pam felt sick. It was clear what had happened. Since she had refused to sell Arminger any pigeons, he had decided to up and take one. But why had he stolen only Orleans and not Verdun? A cock wouldn’t do him much good without a hen. Unless he planned to mate Orleans with a bird of his own.
Angry thoughts whirled through Pam’s head. She’d known from the start Arminger wasn’t to be trusted; she’d had a funny feeling about him all along. All that money, the man thought he could do as he pleased. Well, he wouldn’t get away with stealing her pigeon. She wouldn’t let him. All she needed was proof. Proof that he had been lurking about on the farm, waiting for a chance to make his move.
The only proof she had was that cigarette butt down by the barn.
Pam searched all over for the butt, but she knew it was pointless. The storm had washed away every trace.
Pam poured out her thoughts to Mama on the walk into town that morning. The weather was far too rough to risk taking the skiff. Mama felt bad for Pam, but she said there was no way they could prove Arminger had stolen Orleans. “Maybe Orleans somehow escaped on his own,” she suggested.
Any pigeoneer would know better, Pam thought fiercely. No homer wo
uld venture out in a storm like that on its own. But she didn’t dare say that to Mama. Mama would call it impudence.
By the time Pam got to school, it was past recess. She had missed spelling, thank goodness, but she had also missed half the arithmetic lesson. Now she would never get the hang of fractions. Never. At least Henry wasn’t there to torment her today. Maybe he had caught the grippe and would be sick in bed for days. Or weeks. Mama would scold her for wishing him ill, but Pam couldn’t help it. If anybody deserved the grippe, it was Henry.
The rain stopped about the time school got out, but the sky, gray as shingles, promised more later. Pam walked Nina home and told her all about Arminger and the stolen pigeon. Nina agreed entirely with Pam, as usual.
“Of course he did it, Pam,” said Nina matter-of-factly. “He’s a German. What d’you expect?”
“Well, no one knows for sure he’s a German,” Pam said. She wasn’t sure why she felt obligated to offer that defense, especially for a rat like Arminger. “But he sure does act like one,” she threw in quickly.
“Look, Pam.” Nina pointed to the sawmill down by the riverbank. “Speak of the devil. Or devils.” Arminger and two other men Pam didn’t know were loading his truck with lumber. And there was Henry, lolling around the truck, his jaw pumping up and down like he was talking their ears off.
“What’s Henry doing over there?” Nina said.
“Probably pestering ’em to death. Good! Arminger deserves Henry!” There was bitterness in Pam’s voice.
“Wonder why Henry wasn’t in school today,” Nina said.
“I don’t care. He can play hooky every day if he wants to. The less I see of Henry Bagley the better.”
Pam left Nina at her gate and went on alone to the drugstore. Alice Bagley and Louisa White were sitting on the front steps of the store, sipping lemonade from tall glasses.
“Hey, Pam,” said Alice. “I been dying to talk to you all day.”
“Yeah? You saw me at school,” said Pam, a little irked. Alice was always too busy with her friends to speak to Pam at school.
“Well, you were talking to Nina and all.” Alice pursed her lips and sipped from the glass. “I thought you’d want to know Henry got it from Pa last night for picking a fight with you. Henry tried to make out like you started it all, but I told Pa what really happened.”
“Oh.” Pam stumbled for something appropriate to say. Maybe Alice was trying to be nice, but she always made Pam feel like a charity case. Alice’s face said she expected to be thanked, but Pam couldn’t push gracious words off her tongue. Her pride wouldn’t let her. “That’s good, Alice” was the best she could manage. Pam chewed nervously on the inside of her lip, while an awkward silence stretched between them.
Finally Alice broke it. “Just keep an eye on him. He’s hopping mad.”
“Says he’s going to get even with you,” Louisa added dramatically.
Pam’s temper flared. When would Henry Bagley leave her be? “Tell him I’m quaking like a rabbit.” She marched past them and up the steps, seething. That Henry was worse than a redbug for getting under her skin. She took a deep breath to calm herself before she went into the store. It wouldn’t do for Mama to see her so riled over Henry again.
Pam didn’t mention a thing about Henry to Mama, but she did tell Mama she saw Arminger loading up his truck with lumber.
“Oh, yeah,” said Mama. “We been hearing all morning about how much money that man is spending. Wonder where he gets it from, in these times.” Mama was at the cash register, counting the day’s receipts.
“Don’t know ’bout that, but word is he’s fixing up old man Sanders’ place. Which sets tongues wagging even faster.” Mr. Bagley’s voice boomed from the back room where he mixed prescriptions. Pam could see him through the service window, pouring liquids into a medicine glass. He stirred the concoction, poured it into a bottle, and brought it to the cash register where Mama was closing out the drawer. “For Luther Truitt when he comes in tomorrow morning. His boy’s got the croup,” Mr. Bagley said to Mama. Then he looked at Pam and winked. “Sanders was a sorcerer, y’know. Minnie Midyette swears old Sanders hexed her pa’s fishing nets and put him out of business.”
Mama snorted. “Merl Midyette put himself out of business by sleeping till noon every day.”
“Still,” said Mr. Bagley, “folks been scared of that old place ever since Sanders passed on. It’s haunted, they say, and Arminger’s asking for trouble by moving in there.”
A clap of thunder startled Pam; rain suddenly pounded on the roof. The front door slammed, and Alice and Louisa dashed in with water streaming down their faces and dripping off their frilly white dresses. With their bobs pasted flat to their heads, they looked bald as newborn possums. Pam tried hard to suppress a giggle. Mr. Bagley laughed out loud.
“Pa, it’s not funny,” Alice whined. “My new dress is ruined.”
“Sears-Roebuck dries just like homemade, my dear,” said Mr. Bagley. “Ain’t no sense in having clothes too fancy for Currituck weather. You girls seen Henry? I want him to tote Miz Lowder and Pam home in the buggy.”
Pam groaned inwardly. Given a choice between swimming in a riptide and riding home with Henry, Pam thought she would choose the riptide.
Henry was far worse than the riptide, Pam decided. The boy bragged for a solid hour, all the way home. Mama sat up front with him, saying “Ain’t that something” and “I know your ma and pa are real proud of you, Henry.” Pam sat in back, rolling her eyes and wondering how long a body could go on about one blessed picture show he saw in Norfolk.
The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle that robbed the landscape of its fall brilliance. The rich red of the sumacs and maples was dulled to the color of old bricks, and the yellows of the willow and black cherry trees were a washed-out beige. Pam felt listless and depressed. The buggy ride seemed endless. Finally she saw the wind-twisted cedar that stood watch at the edge of their property.
But Henry wasn’t about to shut up. “I reckon you know I been made head of the Boys’ Relief Corps, Miz Lowder.”
“Yes, Henry, I do recollect you mentioning something about that,” said Mama.
“That’s ’cause he’s mentioned it about five times,” retorted Pam. Mama’s scorching look in her direction kept Pam from adding and that’s only today. Great goodness, Pam told herself, you’d think Henry would catch on that everyone knew he was only appointed because his father was Red Cross director. But no, he would go on and on as if he was a flying ace shooting down German airplanes.
“I’m in charge of putting all the boys in town to work raising fall gardens to help out the war effort.” Henry, still boasting, drove the buggy up under the grove of live oaks in the Lowders’ front yard. Beneath the canopy of leaves and Spanish moss, the ground was barely wet.
Pam scrambled out of the buggy before the wheels stopped turning. She thought she would be sick if she had to listen to Henry any longer. She caught hold of the horse’s bridle, caressing its velvety muzzle to calm herself. She had always wanted a horse, but all they’d ever had was old Trixie the mule. Trixie had up and died this past summer, and Mama said there wasn’t money nor reason to replace her; they’d not be plowing with Papa gone, and it was faster to row into town than to take the wagon, anyway. Pam missed Trixie, even if she was the stubbornest thing this side of the Currituck River.
“I reckon you got your hands full, Henry,” Mama said as she climbed out of the buggy. “Hope you’ll still be able to come help us out on Saturday.”
“That’s just it. I can’t come Saturday. I got to go ’round and get some of the boys started on their gardens,” Henry said. “But Pa says I got to come out to your place sometime, so he said to skip church Sunday and come. Ma says it’s okay since it’s our Christian duty to help out those less fortunate than us.”
Pam’s temper shot sky-high. She’d give Henry Big-mouth a Christian duty! It wasn’t like they had ever asked for his help, and as far as Pam was concerned, they’d b
e better off without it. She couldn’t believe Henry would dare smart off like that to Mama. She rubbed the horse’s cheek with long, firm strokes, waiting for Mama to deliver Henry’s tongue-lashing.
But instead of giving Henry what-for, Mama thanked him—thanked him! “We’ll expect you for Sunday dinner then,” she said, as if Henry had tipped his hat instead of insulted them.
Pam seethed. Mama and her southern courtesy! If Pam had things her way, she’d teach Henry a thing or two about courtesy, she sure would. Furiously she stroked the horse’s neck.
Then Henry had the gall to ask what they were having for dinner. “Corned ham? I love it stuck full of cloves,” he said with longing.
Pam couldn’t contain her temper a minute longer. “You know good and well we gave up eating ham for the war effort!” The horse stamped its foot and whinnied.
“Now, Pam,” said Mama evenly. “Henry likely don’t know we pledged to give up pork entirely, ’stead of just on Thursdays and Saturdays like the government asked. I’ll stew a chicken, Henry, and make persimmon pudding. How’s that?”
“Yes’m, that sounds mighty good.” Henry was getting down from the buggy. He planned to stay! Well, he had another think coming if he planned to tag along with Pam. She was so mad right now she felt like she would bust wide open. “I’ll be down at my loft, Mama,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Hold on,” said Henry, “I’m coming, too. I ain’t seen your pigeons in a while—not since they got famous. Hah.” His voice was mocking.
Pam’s stomach quivered like a sack full of hornets. She glared at Henry, her lips trembling with angry words she couldn’t say. She whirled and stalked down the slope to the loft. The cold drizzle raised goose pimples on her arms. Behind her, Henry’s boots thudded in the sand, and she picked up her pace. Maybe she couldn’t stop him from following her, but she could make it clear he wasn’t welcome.
The loft looked forlorn in the gray mist. Pam noticed the whitewash had faded and the roof sagged a little on one side. Papa had always prided himself on keeping their outbuildings in fine shape. Papa’s not here anymore, an inner voice murmured. A sense of gloom overwhelmed her, and she rushed into the loft before Henry could see the tears welling up in her eyes.
The Night Flyers Page 5