The Pigeon With the Tennis Elbow Page 4

  Kevin got worried.

  “I can't figure it out, Gin,” he said on the third day of Charlie's absence. “He's never been away from us this long before.”

  “Maybe he's gone back to his friends at that old church steeple,” she said.

  “Maybe. Shall we go find out?”

  “It's the only way,” she said.

  They got permission from their mother to take a bus to downtown New Laswell. It was only a two-block walk from where they got off the bus to the church where Charlie had said he and his friends congregated. Good thing that Charlie had described the church as being near a courtyard, otherwise it might have been days before they would have found the right one.

  “That's it,” Ginnie said, pointing at the church steeple sticking up into the sky like a long spike. “Look at the pigeons. There must be hundreds.”

  “Look at those diving down like bombers,” said Kevin. “They must be the ones who used to fly the Spads and Handley Pages.”

  They approached the courtyard.

  “How can we tell which is Charlie?” said Ginnie wonderingly. “They all look alike.”

  “Don't worry,” Kevin assured her. “If he's there he'll see us and come.”

  They stood watching the pigeons assembled on the roof, under the cornices, and flying around the steeple and the courtyard. There were benches in the courtyard with people sitting on them, some holding bags of peanuts which they fed to the pigeons that fluttered fearlessly around them.

  “I see what Charlie means about being well fed,” Kevin observed. “Guess it's not a bad life, at that.”

  “For a pigeon,” Ginnie said.

  They hung around for ten minutes, according to an electric clock on a corner of the New Laswell National Bank.

  “He isn't here,” Kevin said, a lump coming to his throat. “We might as well go home.”

  They took a bus, neither saying more than a few words during the whole ride.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Ginnie.

  “I don't know,” answered Kevin.

  It wasn't until they were off the bus that Ginnie seemed to find her tongue again. “Let's ask Mom,” she said. “Maybe she can think of something.”

  Mrs. O'Toole was stirring up a cake batter when the kids got home.

  “Well,” she said, surprised. “You two sure made it back in a hurry. Did you find Charlie?”

  “No,” said Kevin, getting a whiff of the sweet, mouth-watering smell. “That's what we want to see you about, Mom. We're stuck. We don't know what else to do.”

  “Have you checked with some of the people in the neighborhood?” she asked, looking at her two offspring with her wide blue eyes.

  Kevin shrugged. “No. But what could they tell us? Pigeons all look alike to them.”

  “Maybe something happened to your pigeon and somebody might have heard about it,” she said. “I hope for your sake and Charlie's that nothing has happened to him, of course. But I've seen kids with B-B guns. And a pigeon makes a pretty good-size target.”

  The thought sent chills scurrying like mice up and down Kevin's back. “That's right, Ma,” he said. “And Charlie, being a gutsy pigeon, would let himself be an easy target for any dumb kid with a gun.”

  He headed for the door. “Come on, Gin. Let's get moving. Thanks, Ma! We knew you'd come up with something!”

  8

  THEY WALKED FOUR BLOCKS down Colvin Street, asking every kid they met — whether they knew him or not — if he had seen or heard of an injured pigeon. Usually they'd get the same look, and the same answer, “No.”

  They turned left on Mitchell and continued the procedure, sometimes going a full block without spotting a single kid.

  “Can't be they're all watching that stupid boob tube,” Ginnie said.

  “Never know,” Kevin replied.

  They had turned left on Carpenter Street when a thought struck Kevin that made him realize how stupid they were for confining their questions only to kids.

  “Hey, what's the matter with us?” he said, grabbing Ginnie's elbow and stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “What's wrong with our asking grownups, too?”

  Ginnie grinned sheepishly. “Why didn't I think of that?” she said.

  “Sure,” said Kevin. “Come on. From now on we'll ask every living soul we meet if they've seen or heard about Charlie.”

  The first two people they met were grownups. Neither was of any help. The next person they met was another kid, a dark-haired boy carrying a baseball glove and a ball.

  Kevin, almost certain what the kid's answer would be, popped the question anyway. “We've lost our pet pigeon,” he said for the umpteenth time. “Have you seen or heard anything about one around here?”

  The kid's eyes opened a fraction wider. “Yeah,” he said. “Somebody shot one a couple of days ago.”

  Kevin's heart stopped. Then it started up again, pumping harder than ever. “Wh-where is it? Who shot it? Did he use a B-B gun?”

  “Is it dead?” Ginnie asked in a husky whisper.

  The kid looked at both of them again before answering. “I don't think so. I'm not sure.”

  “Where is it?” Kevin said. “Do you know who's got it?”

  “Yeah.” The kid pointed at a green, white-shuttered house a short distance down the street. “It's at that house there. Eagan's.”

  “Eagan's?” Kevin's heart received another jolt. “You mean Chuck Eagan's?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “Know him? I sure do! I'm playing tennis with him on Wednesday!”

  “He shot the pigeon?” Ginnie said, her voice ready to break. “Chuck did?”

  The kid's head bobbed up and down as if it were on a spring.

  “Come on, Gin!” cried Kevin, already heading for Chuck's house. “Thanks, kid!”

  He was at the front door before Ginnie was even starting up the porch steps. He knocked on it, trying to keep from falling apart as he certainly might have were he not well secured at the joints.

  The door opened. A tall, red-haired woman stood there; her steel-blue eyes coldly looked them over.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Whatever you're selling I have plenty to last me for weeks. Good…”

  “We're not salesmen, Mrs. Eagan,” Kevin interrupted before she was able to close the door. “We're the O'Tooles. I'm Kevin and this is my sister, Ginnie.”

  The stern eyes softened as if he had spoken the magic word. “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Eagan, placing a finger against the cleft in her chin. “You're to play tennis with Charles.”

  “That's right. Is he in?”

  “Yes. Just a minute.”

  She left. A minute later a tall, skinny kid in a T-shirt with the names of universities printed in all directions on it came to the door. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi, Chuck,” said Kevin. “It's about that pigeon you shot. Did you kill it? Do you still have it?”

  “Why?”

  “We — we'd just like to look at it,” said Ginnie.

  “It's O.K., if that's what you want to know.”

  “Can we look at it? Please?” said Kevin.

  Chuck thought a minute. “O.K.,” he said finally, and went back into the house. A moment later he was back, carrying —

  “Charlie!” Kevin cried, a lump suddenly clogging his throat. “It is you!”

  He reached for Charlie, who glanced up at him and then at Ginnie with a surprised look. His wings fluttered as he started to rise, then went limp as he settled back in Chuck's arms, his beak open, his tongue trembling.

  “Is this the pigeon that's been coming to the tennis matches?” Chuck asked.

  “Yes,” said Kevin. “He's our pet. We've been looking all over for him.”

  “You — you didn't know he was our pet?” inquired Ginnie, a tone of suspicion in her voice.

  “No. Why should I? All pigeons look alike.”

  Ginnie shrugged. “Well, I just thought…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Yeah, I know,” said C
huck. “You thought that I might have shot your pet pigeon to hurt Kevin so that he'd be no good in the game we're playing on Wednesday. Ain't that right?”

  Kevin stared at him. “Now wait a minute, Chuck.”

  “Well, that's what she meant, isn't it?” Chuck snapped.

  “Yes, that's what I meant, Chuck,” Ginnie admitted, “and I don't want to accuse you of anything, but it's dumb to shoot any bird.”

  “You know how Ginnie is, Chuck,” said Kevin. “Right or wrong she always speaks her mind.”

  Ginnie shot her brother a cold stare, then smiled at Chuck. “Thank goodness he wasn't killed,” she said, and reached for Charlie.

  Chuck pulled him back. “His right wing is busted,” he said. “I've put a splint on it.”

  “You — you are going to give him back to us, aren't you?” Kevin said, fear gripping him at the dreadful thought that Chuck just might not want to. “After all, he is ours.”

  “We'll forget that you shot him,” Ginnie said. “We won't tell anybody.”

  “I don't care about that,” Chuck said. “A lot of guys know it already.”

  He glanced past Kevin. A second later footsteps sounded behind Kevin and a voice said, “Is that Charlie, your pet pigeon?”

  Both Ginnie and Kevin turned around at the same time. Neither one was overly pleased at the sight of the newcomer who, by now, was on the porch, his hands pressed into his rear pants pockets.

  “That's right,” said Kevin.

  “I told Chuck that he looked like your pet pigeon,” said Roger Murphy. “But they all look alike. You sure it's yours?”

  “No doubt about it,” said Kevin. “Look what he does when I reach for him.”

  As Kevin reached for Charlie, Charlie leaned toward him, as if eager to go to him. “See that?” said Kevin. “Now you try it.”

  Roger did. Charlie backed away, turning his head and cooing indignantly. Laughter broke from Ginnie, Kevin and Chuck.

  “Guess that proves it, all right,” said Chuck. “O.K., Kev. Here, take him.”

  Happily, Kevin took Charlie into his arms. Boy, how he ached to squeeze the adorable bird to him to show him how thrilled he was that he had him back.

  “See you Wednesday,” said Chuck, as Kevin and Ginnie started off the porch.

  “Right,” said Kevin. In a softer tone he said, “Got to get you home so I can take a look at your wounded wing, Charlie.”

  9

  THE CRUD GOT ME WITH one rifle shot while I was perched on a tree in his backyard,” Charlie said angrily. “It feels as bad as the tennis elbow did when I was a human.”

  “What in heck were you doing on a tree in his backyard?” asked Kevin, looking at the splint clamped to Charlie's right wing. It looked like a good first aid job. Better than he could have done himself.

  “Spying,” confessed Charlie. “I was checking him out.”

  “Checking him out?” Kevin echoed. “You mean you were watching him practice tennis in his backyard?”

  “You get the picture,” said Charlie, his head bobbing. “Well, you want to beat him, don't you? You want to play that Murphy kid, don't you? And beat him?”

  Kevin shook his head. “Charlie, you're impossible. Just plain impossible. You're lucky you weren't killed, you stupid pige … Oh-oh. I'm sorry, Charlie. I didn't mean that.”

  “Yes, you did, and you're right,” said Charlie. “But I was looking out for you. I really want you to beat those kids, Kevie. Nothing will ever please me more during the rest of my pigeon life than your playing Roger Murphy and beating him.”

  “You must have really disliked that ancestor of his, didn't you?” said Kevin, trying hard to control a chuckle.

  “Can you blame me?” Charlie said hotly. “He was a stinkpot, I tell you. A stinkpot through and through.”

  Kevin smiled and stroked Charlie's soft, velvet-like feathers. “I'll do my best, Charlie,” he promised. “But what if I beat Chuck and Roger beats me? He's pretty good, you know.”

  “Then I would wish you a tennis elbow. No, no! I take that back!” Charlie said quickly. “I'm sorry. I can't wish tennis elbow on my worst enemy. Except Wally Murphy. And it's too late for that. Just beat him, will you, Kevie? Let's forget the consequences till later. O.K.?”

  Kevin grinned. “O.K. I think that's the best idea, Charlie. By the way, did you find out what Chuck's weaknesses are?”

  “A little. He was playing in his driveway with Roger, as you know,” Charlie said. “But they weren't playing seriously. I couldn't learn much other than he seemed rather weak with his serves. They were only fooling around, and the next thing I knew he had gone into the house and come out with his rifle. It's a good thing I started off just as he took aim and fired, otherwise I might've been a dead pigeon.”

  Game time between Kevin and Chuck Eagan was at five o'clock on Wednesday. Chuck won the choice to serve or the side of the court. He chose to serve. Kevin chose the north side, noting that a soft breeze was blowing from that direction.

  Chuck's first serve hit the net for a fault. He tried again, this time driving the ball over the net directly at Kevin. Kevin returned it with a light stroke, biding his time to get better warmed up. He had promised himself that he would do his best to beat Chuck, and felt that he had a good chance to do it. At least a better chance than he would have against Roger.

  But beating Roger would earn the feather in his cap. Charlie would be thrilled to pieces then.

  Don't push your luck, O'Toole. Let's take them one at a time, O.K.?

  A poor backhand return on Chuck's part earned Kevin his first point. He scored another on a double fault, a break for him. Love-30. Then Chuck evened it up with a solid drive that just hit the left sideline. And another that was so easy to hit that Kevin, in his eagerness to get it just over the net, drove it into the net instead.

  Kevin won the next two points on faults, and took the game.

  He served the second game and lost it game-15, mostly because of his poor serves. It was 1-all now.

  He scored better in the third game, but not much. Someone seemed to have moved the net up a few inches. He just couldn't get the ball over it. Chuck 2; Kevin 1.

  It was Kevin's serve now. His first try was a let. His next was better than he expected, for it bounced sideways, fooling Chuck completely. Kevin's fans cheered him on the play, though he knew that the bounce was a fluke.

  Luck seemed to return to Chuck during the rest of the game. He took it with Kevin not scoring a point. Chuck 3; Kevin 1.

  You're choking up, O'Toole. You're supposed to take this match. Remember? You promised yourself and Charlie that you would. Let's get on the ball, shall we?

  Chuck took the next one, too.

  Kevin, determined to make a better showing, bounced back with two wins in a row. Chuck 4; Kevin 3.

  And then it happened. Chuck went after a hard smashing drive to his left side, swinging at the ball with a backhand stroke. He never touched the ball. His swing was half-way through when he stumbled, fell and stayed down on the court, writhing with pain.

  10

  THE ANKLE SEEMED to be sprained. Ben Switzer made the judgment after feeling it and finding it slightly swollen. It was really sore, too, according to the way Chuck twinged when Ben squeezed it.

  “I'll take you home,” Ben said. “A cold compress right away will help it a lot.”

  “My parents are here,” said Chuck, a pained look on his face. “They'll take me home.”

  Kevin saw a tall, heavy-built man stepping down through the widely scattered fans, the boards bending under his weight. He approached Chuck who was standing up now, favoring his injured ankle.

  “Tough luck, son,” the man said, picking Chuck up in his arms like a toothpick. “What happens now, Ben? Does he lose the game?”

  “We have a rule in our by-laws,” said Ben. “If the match isn't continued within four days after an accident or an injury, it goes to the opponent.”

  “You mean that if Chuck's ankle doesn't hea
l up in that time the O'Toole boy wins the game?”

  “That's right,” Ben said.

  Kevin, overhearing Ben's answer, knew right away what a certain kid would think if Chuck's ankle didn't heal up within four days. What an easy way to win a match, O'Toole. But you'd like to win 'em all that way, wouldn't you?

  “Mr. Switzer,” said Kevin, “can I say something?”

  “You sure can, Kev.”

  “I'd rather wait for Chuck's ankle to heal than to win the match by a forfeit,” he said, looking directly into Ben Switzer's eyes. “I don't care if it takes a week, or two weeks.”

  Ben's eyes lit up and a smile spread across his face. “Well, that's mighty big of you, Kevin. But the rule says — ”

  “Then I won't play Roger Murphy,” Kevin broke in. “I won't play him unless I beat Chuck — if he doesn't beat me, that is,” he added softly.

  The men looked at each other. “Well, I guess that decides it,” Ben said. “But let's hope that it won't take more than a few days for Chuck's ankle to heal. Suppose that I leave it up to you, Ed, to call me when you think Chuck's ready to play again?”

  Mr. Eagan's face cracked into a broad smile. “I'll do that. And thanks, Kevin. You're a real square-shooting boy.”

  Ben announced to the fans that the match had to be discontinued because of an injury to Chuck's ankle, but that it would continue after the ankle had healed. They applauded briefly, then started to leave the stands, an air of disappointment hanging around them.

  “Isn't there a four-day ruling governing injuries?” asked Kevin's father as they walked home together — he, his wife, Kevin and Ginnie.

  “Yes, there is,” answered Kevin. “But I told Mr. Switzer that I wouldn't take the game on a forfeit.”

  “Why not? You'd be breaking the rule if you didn't, wouldn't you?”

  “Well — I told him that I wouldn't play Roger Murphy unless I played the match out with Chuck.”