The Small Adventure of Popeye and Elvis (7 page)

avuncular:
adjective
; of or relating to an uncle Popeye figured that Velma had probably chosen that vocabulary word because she knew it would come in handy someday.

It did.

The avuncular atmosphere in the house was not too good.

Dooley sat on the couch staring at the blank television screen while Velma ranted, her bony arms flailing.

“. . . high time you got your act together . . .”

“. . . make yourself useful for once in your life . . .”

“. . . next time, don't call me . . .”

She went on and on about how he'd better round up some of his bum friends and help the Jewells get their motor home out of the mud. Then she ended with a big, loud “had it up to here,” slicing her hand over her head exactly the way Prissy had demonstrated earlier that day.

Popeye stayed in the kitchen, peeking into the living room every few minutes. He couldn't decide whether or not to check in with Velma before going back in the woods with Elvis. If he did, he might have to lie, which didn't seem like a good idea.

All things considered, he decided to just go on back outside.

Elvis was waiting by the shed with Boo.

“What'd she say?” He pulled a tick off Boo and flicked it into the weeds.

“She's still yelling at Dooley.”

“Then let's go.”

The two boys headed up the path toward the woods with Boo strolling along behind them. When they got to the creek, they both let out a whoop.

A yellow, brown, and blue Yoo-hoo boat floated in the creek. The water had begun to spill around the edges of the dam and trickle on down into the creek bed below it, but the boat sat safely wedged among the rocks.

Elvis scooped it up and opened the note.

The boys read:

 

“7 7 7 7 7 7 7”

 

Elvis stamped his foot. “Now I'm getting mad,” he said. “This ain't nothing but a bunch of jibbertyjibe.”

But Popeye wasn't so sure. Why would someone send jibberty-jibe down the creek in perfect little Yoo-hoo boats? The notes must mean
something
.

“Maybe the number seven is a clue,” he said. “Like, go seven feet to the seventh tree and pass seven bushes or something like that.”

“Or maybe, walk seven miles for seven hours seven days a week for nothing,” Elvis said, tucking the note back inside the boat.

“Let's try one more time,” Popeye said.

So they scooped up the pile of leaves where the other boats were and added this one. They carefully covered them again, then started off up the side of the creek.

Before they had gotten to the first spot they had marked with an X, they found another boat.

 

4 and 20 blackbirds

 

Elvis picked up a small branch from the side of the creek and snapped it in half by cracking it over his knee. Then he hurled both pieces into the woods.

Hard.

“I can't figure these dang notes out,” he said. “Not one of ‘em means
nothing
.”

Popeye read the note again.

It must mean
something
.

But what?

He refolded the note and put it back inside the boat. “Maybe we should look for some blackbirds,” he said, glancing up into the trees.

Elvis shook his head and stomped off up the side of the creek, kicking at rocks and branches
and leaves and muttering stuff under his breath.

Popeye flattened the boat and tucked it into the pocket of his shirt. “Come on, Boo,” he said, running to catch up with Elvis.

They walked in silence. Popeye kept a close eye on the creek, searching among the rocks and tree roots for another Yoo-hoo boat.

“There's one!” he hollered, lying on his stomach and reaching down into the water to scoop up the boat. He unfolded the note and read it out loud:

 

“Dead dogs live here.”

 

Dead dogs?

Popeye and Elvis looked at each other, wide-eyed.

“That does it,” Elvis said. “I ain't going back until we find out who's sending these boats.”

Popeye read the note again, “Dead dogs live here.”

This was the best note yet.

He flattened the boat, tucked it into his pocket with the other one, and followed Elvis up the side of the creek.

They hadn't gone far when Elvis stopped and pointed. “A path!” he hollered.

A narrow path led from the creek through a tangle of scrub pines and pricker bushes. They had walked right by this spot last time, not even noticing the path.

“Let's see where it goes,” Elvis said.

“I don't know,” Popeye said. “There might be poison oak and snakes and stuff in there.” He could feel Velma hovering in the air around him, pointing out the dangers that lurked under every leaf and rock.

Then, just as he was worrying about how to turn around and go home without looking like a baby, he spotted something along the edge of the path.

Indian pipes!

Clusters of little white plants that looked like smoking pipes popped up out of the rich, moist soil along both sides of the path.

“Look!” Popeye said. “Those are called Indian pipes.”

Elvis squinted at the plants. “So?”

“Indians smoke pipes!” Popeye grinned at Elvis. “That note was a clue about this path.”

The boys let out a whoop and high-fived each other.

“Come on!” Elvis hollered as he trotted up the path and disappeared into the woods.

Popeye raced off after Elvis with Boo trotting along behind.

POPEYE AND ELVIS made their way along the narrow path that snaked its way through the woods. Clusters of the little white Indian pipes were scattered among the ferns and moss. Before long, the path grew wider and rocks neatly lined the edges on both sides.

Suddenly, both boys stopped.

Nailed to a tree in front of them was a sign.

 

KEEP OUT

 

Painted in red with big crooked letters.

Boo sat beside Popeye, his tail brushing back and forth in the dirt.

“We better not go any farther,” Popeye said.

“Are you crazy?” Elvis said. “We've come all this way. We can't stop now.”

Popeye looked down at Boo.

Boo yawned.

Popeye shrugged. “Come on, Boo,” he said.

They continued on up the rock-lined path until it curved around a cluster of rhododendrons and ended.

Elvis stopped.

Popeye stopped.

Boo stopped.

They were in the backyard of the craziest-looking house Popeye had ever seen. The middle of it looked like a regular house. Small. Square. White. The bottom half was stained orange from the red-dirt yard around it.

But sticking out from every side of the regular-looking house were crooked little rooms pieced together with old lumber, sheets of plywood, jagged-edged scraps of tar paper, and a metal stop sign riddled with bullet holes.

diverse:
adjective
; showing a great deal of variety

That house was definitely diverse.

“Let's check it out,” Elvis said.

Popeye followed Elvis into the yard of the crazy-looking house with his heart thumping.

Maybe he should turn around and go home right now.

Maybe he should just go sit in Velma's easy chair and listen to the clock ticking away the minutes.

Maybe he just wasn't cut out for small adventures.

But he forced his feet to keep moving.

Blue floral sheets flapped in the breeze on a clothesline.

Four scrawny chickens pecked at pebbles in the dirt beside a kudzu-covered shed.

Big noisy blackbirds perched on a flimsy chicken-wire fence surrounding a small vegetable garden.

And a diverse collection of junk was scattered all around the yard:

A wheelbarrow filled with dirty rainwater.

A bicycle with a bent wheel.

A rusty saw.

An aluminum lawn chair with the seat missing.

A garden hose in a tangled heap.

A bent-up beach umbrella.

“Let's go around front,” Elvis said.

Don't go, Popeye. Don't go, Popeye.

That's what Popeye heard inside his head.

But his feet kept moving, following Elvis up the gravel driveway that ran along the side of the house, past a dented brown station wagon, and around the corner of the house to the front yard.

Then Elvis stopped.

And Popeye stopped.

And Boo stopped.

Kneeling in the yard, scooping dirt into a jar, was a little girl with wings.

THE GIRL LOOKED UP and met the boys' wide-eyed stares with an uninterested blink, then went back to her dirt scooping.

“Hey,” Elvis said.

“Hey,” she said, not looking up.

Her gravelly voice didn't match her delicate look: small and thin, like a twig.

She wore a grimy canvas hat pulled down over her ears.

And wings.

Gauzy yellow butterfly wings, tattered and dirty, dotted here and there with clusters of shiny gold
sequins and attached to the girl by straps that slipped over her arms like those of a backpack.

“What you doing?” Elvis said.

She stopped scooping and looked up at Elvis from where she knelt on the ground. “Scooping dirt into a jar,” she said.

“How come?”

“Because I like to.” She scooped one last handful of dirt into the jar, ran her palm over the top to level the dirt, and screwed the lid on. Then she stood up and wiped her dirty hands on her shorts. Scraggly wisps of red hair clung to her neck beneath the hat.

“Why do you have them wings on?” Elvis said.

She looked over her shoulder at the wings, as if she had forgotten they were there. Then she picked up the jar of dirt, walked past the boys, and disappeared around the corner of the house.

Elvis frowned and shook his head. “She's crazy,” he said.

But there was something about the girl with wings that took the qualms out of Popeye and replaced them with an unusually adventurous spirit.

“Come on,” he said, motioning for Elvis to follow him.

When they got to the backyard, the girl was drinking from the hose, the water splattering mud onto her skinny legs. When she finished drinking, she took the jar of dirt over to the porch. The butterfly wings flapped slightly as she walked. She placed the jar on the edge of the back porch, carefully lining it up next to three other jars of dirt.

“Y'all want a Yoo-hoo?” the girl said.

Popeye's adventurous spirit did a cartwheel. He grinned at Elvis. “She's the one who made the boats,” he whispered.

Elvis nodded solemnly. Then he turned to the girl and said, “Sure.”

“Wait right here.” She opened the squeaky screen door and disappeared inside the crazy-looking house.

Elvis didn't hesitate. He leaped up the steps two at a time and waited outside the door.

Normally, Popeye would have hesitated.

But today wasn't normal.

Today, he leaped up the steps two at a time. But before he got to the top, the girl poked her head out
of the door and said, “That dog can't come on the porch. He looks like my uncle Haywood.”

Popeye looked down at Boo, who sat forlornly at the bottom of the steps, gazing up at him with those watery, sad-dog eyes of his. “Sorry, fella,” he said. Then he went up on the porch to drink a Yoo-hoo.