The Small Adventure of Popeye and Elvis (6 page)

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.

“Hey,” Popeye called.

Elvis looked up. “Hey,” he said. “I can't go. I've got to help my dad.”

Furman Jewell waved his hand at Elvis. “Ah, go on.” He looked over at the still-tilted, still-stuck-inthe-mud motor home and shook his head. “I've got to come up with Plan B.”

Elvis jumped up and took off toward the creek. “Come on,” he called over his shoulder.

Except for a few rotting leaves and a school of silvery minnows, the little pool formed by the dam in the creek was empty.

No boat.

The boys stood on the bank of the creek and stared down into the clear water. Boo stood beside them, snapping at the gnats circling around his face.

“Maybe whoever sent the boats is gone now,” Popeye said.

Elvis shook his head. “Naw, I bet you anything we find another boat today.”

“Maybe whoever sent the boats is tired of making ‘em.”

“No way,” Elvis said.

“Or maybe they got tired of drinking Yoo-hoo.”

Elvis kicked some dirt into the creek, making the
minnows dart around. “Look,” he said, “if you don't want to go with me, then go on home. Play with Prissy if you want to.”

“I didn't say I didn't want to go.” Popeye tried to sound tough, like Elvis, but he just sounded squeaky.

“Then come on.” Elvis pushed through the bushes and started off up the side of the creek.

Before long, they came to the spot where they had left the two branches crossed to form an X.

They kept going.

After a while, the weeds and bushes and trees began to get thicker, making it harder to follow the creek. Every so often, they had to mash down some pricker bushes or snap off branches so Boo could get through.

“I should've brought my hatchet,” Elvis said.

Hatchet?

Elvis had a hatchet?

Popeye wished Velma would let him have stuff like that.

The thought of Velma stirred up all those qualms of his, making him feel not-so-good again. Just as he was thinking maybe he should tell Elvis he was sick and go on back home, Elvis let out a whoop.

“A boat!” he hollered, stepping down into the creek and scooping up the Yoo-hoo boat.

Popeye's stirred-up qualms settled down, and he waited for Elvis to bring the boat over and unfold the note.

Just like before.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And just like before, they read the note together:

 

“Indians smoke pipes.”

 

“THAT DON'T MAKE one lick of sense,” Elvis said, stuffing the note into his pocket.

Popeye examined the boat.

Perfect.

Just like the others.

That did it. He was ready to push all his qualms aside and find out who was sending the perfect Yoohoo boats down the creek. He felt a burst of courage lifting him up and pushing him forward.

“Let's go,” he said, hurrying on up the side of the creek with Boo trotting along behind him.

The noonday sun was high overhead, sending
streams of light through the trees and dancing along the tops of the ferns that lined the winding creek.

“Shoot,” Elvis said. “This creek's liable to go all the way to China.”

Popeye squinted up the creek. It went on and on.

More water.

More rocks.

More trees.

More ferns.

His burst of courage had begun to fizzle out. It grew dimmer and dimmer until it was gone and all his qualms came flooding back.

“Yeah,” he said. “China.”

Elvis hurled a stick into the creek. “Dadgum it,” he said. “Soon as my dad gets our motor home out of the mud, we're leaving. I sure do want to know who this boatbuilding cuckoo bird is.”

Popeye hurled a stick into the creek, too. “Do you think it's a kid?” he said.

Elvis shrugged. “Probably.”

“A boy or a girl?”

“Boy.”

Popeye studied the Yoo-hoo boat, trying to imagine the cuckoo bird who had made it.

“I'm tired and hungry,” Elvis said. “Let's mark this spot and go on back.”

“Where y'all been?” Prissy came running toward them, her tap shoes clacking on the gravel.

“To China,” Elvis said.

“Fibber.” Prissy skipped along behind them. When they got to the motor home, the other kids ran over, stirring up dust and elbowing each other to get to Boo.

“Your grandma is gonna make your no-good uncle help Daddy get the Holiday Rambler out of the mud,” Calvin said.

Popeye felt an unexpected wave of anger flood over him. “Don't call my uncle no-good,” he said.

“Your grandma did,” Calvin said.

“Yeah,” Walter said, “and she called him a criminal, too.”

“And a lazy bum moocher,” Willis said.

“She said he's about as useful as a steering wheel on a mule.” Calvin nudged Willis. “Ain't that right, Willis?”

Willis nodded.

“Yeah,” Shorty said, grabbing Boo's tail and swinging it around and around like a jump rope. Boo gave him a dirty look, but he didn't move.

“Your grandma's had it up to
here
with your uncle Dooley.” Prissy sliced her hand over her head full of springy curls. “She said he's got to get all his friends to come over and get us out of the mud.”

Elvis turned to Popeye. “That means we've got to finish what we were doing,” he said.

“What
were
y'all doing?” Calvin smacked Shorty on the arm to make him quit swinging Boo's tail.

“It's a secret,” Elvis said.

“You can't keep secrets,” Prissy said.

“Says who?” Elvis narrowed his eyes and stuck his face down close to hers.

She jabbed her fists into her waist and glared back at him. “That's the
rules
,” she said.

Elvis thumped her on the side of the head and said, “They don't call me the Royal Rule Breaker for nothing, right, Popeye?”

Popeye nodded. “Right.”

Royal Rule Breaker.

He'd give anything to be a Royal Rule Breaker.

“Let's go get some lunch,” Elvis said.

Popeye sat on the bench in the diner booth of the Holiday Rambler and ate a jelly sandwich. The other kids used their old paper plates with their names written on them in crayon, but Popeye ate right off the sticky table.

Glory sat in her big plaid chair up front and wrote in a spiral notebook. “What rhymes with
car
?” she said.

“Far,” Prissy said, arranging potato chips in a neat circle around the edge of her plate.

“Bar,” Shorty hollered from under the bed, where he had made a little cave lined with blankets. He tossed the crusts from his bread out to Boo, who gobbled them up.

“Jar,” Willis said.

“That's stupid,” Calvin said. “What's she gonna say about a jar?”

Glory was writing a country-western song.

She'd write a little and then sing a little.

Write a little, then sing a little.

Popeye thought writing country-western songs might be another way for Velma to keep from cracking up. He was going to suggest it once her wrath settled down.

“Popeye and Elvis are keeping a secret,” Prissy said, mashing her potato chips into crumbs with her thumb.

“That's their right as American citizens,” Glory said. “What rhymes with
heaven
?”

“Kevin?” Popeye said.

Glory jabbed her pen at him. “Kevin!” she said. “That's perfect! This two-timing truck driver can be named Kevin.” She scribbled something in her notebook. “Thank you, Popeye.”

Popeye beamed.

He hadn't beamed in a long time.

And then he had a sudden flash of longing. Of wanting more than anything to travel the world in this silver dollhouse with Glory and the gang, writing country-western songs and playing cards and breaking rules instead of waking up every day in Fayette, South Carolina.

But, of course, that was never going to happen.
So for now, he might as well enjoy having a small adventure with Elvis.

Now, more than ever, Popeye was determined to find whoever was sending those perfect little Yoohoo boats down the creek.