by Kathi Appelt
Captain hopped up and down. “C’mon! c’mon!” he cried.
But there was another sound that he didn’t notice. A sickening sound.
Sssnnnnnaaaapppp!
Dogie and Keeper walked up just in time to see Dogie’s chair fold onto itself and crush the ukulele. A final ping from a snapped string emanated from under the canvas and wood.
Keeper stared in disbelief.
“Oh!” whispered Dogie as he pulled the ruined instrument out of the folds of the canvas chair. Keeper watched as Dogie picked up the broken ukulele and held it in both hands in front of him.
They both just stood there, not saying a single verb, noun, or even a syllable. And when Dogie finally tried to say something, to reassure her that it would be all right, the only thing he could say was, “It-it-it’s okay, K-K-K-Keeper.”
But Keeper knew it wasn’t okay. In fact, she couldn’t imagine anything ever being okay again.
And it was her fault. If she had told Dogie straightaway about the crabs and the bowl and the broken plants, none of this would have happened. Dogie would not have set his ukulele down on the chair, and he’d still be able to sing his song for Signe. She knew that he needed the ukulele to sing. For some reason, when he sang with his ukulele, his stutters disappeared.
How could Dogie sing at all now?
Keeper grabbed her finder dog by the collar and turned toward the haint blue house, the last thing in her ears Dogie’s voice saying, “K-K-Keeper. It’s ok-k-kay.”
Except it wasn’t. Not at all.
38
Now Keeper had to find Meggie Marie.
Somewhere in the universe.
Somewhere in the sea.
39
Speaking of the sea, an itty-bitty gnat of doubt buzzed by Keeper’s head. Dogie had told Keeper that The Scamper was pondworthy, not exactly seaworthy.
“P-p-pondworthy,” he had said after months and months of work.
Of course, she wasn’t really planning to take it all the way out to sea, only to the sandbar, which, though it was technically in the sea, wasn’t very far in the sea. See Step I, which does not say anything about the sea, only the sandbar.
Keeper stuck her thumb in her back pocket and felt the notebook paper, right there, her perfect plan.
Then she concentrated on the word “worthy.” What difference did it make whether it was on the pond or in the sea, especially if the word “sea” was not in her plan? “Worthy” was enough. The Scamper was worthy.
Keeper had watched Dogie restore the boat from a battered old craft that someone had abandoned on the beach to the shiny red vessel she sat in now, had watched him sand the old wood until it felt like satin, then cover it with bright red paint—so many coats, she lost track.
Then one day she had tagged along behind him as he dragged it from the space underneath his house where he had worked on it, across the grass, and down to the Cut. Once there, he waited for her to climb aboard, then pushed them out onto the water.
Signe had not approved. Signe never approved when it came to being in or on the water. Signe was a lot like BD in that regard. “L-l-landlubbers,” Dogie called them, with a chuckle.
Keeper had no idea who her real father was, but it didn’t matter because Dogie had always been right next door. Dogie, who gave her new T-shirts all the time. Dogie, who kept the ancient green Dodge station wagon running. Dogie, who played the ukulele for her and Signe every night after dinner and who called her his “waxwing.”
Dogie, who had been there when she was born. As long as she had Dogie next door, Keeper did not need a father. Nope. Dogie had been there her whole entire life, all ten years, every day. He even had his own pet name for her: “Good’un.”
Dogie was like a bear, tall and broad shouldered, huge compared to Signe, who was wiry and compact, not much taller than Keeper now.
When Dogie invited Signe to come too, on that first launching of The Scamper, she had crossed her arms and refused. “I’m perfectly glad to stay here,” she’d said, pointing down to the ground. Keeper knew that Signe did not love the water like she and Dogie did. Keeper knew that Signe would never, ever climb aboard The Scamper. Not in a million years.
“We’ll k-k-keep th-the boat here,” Dogie had said, “here” meaning the Cut. “It’s a p-p-perfect boat for this p-p-pond.” Then he had added, “It’s s-s-safe here.”
The gnat of doubt buzzed a little louder in Keeper’s ear. She waved her hand in the air to swat it away.
Later Dogie built the small pier that jutted down into the shallow water.
Signe’s pier.
Whenever Keeper went out in the boat with Dogie, Signe would take her yellow deck chair to the end of the pier and sit. She always wore a life vest. “Somebody has to be the lifeguard,” she told them. Keeper and Dogie thought that was hilarious. They knew that if Signe ever got in the water, someone would likely have to rescue her, not the other way around. “I’ve been in the water twice,” she reminded them, not joining in the hilarity. “And I’m still here, aren’t I?”
The first time Signe had gone into the water was on the day Keeper was born. It was not in the pond; rather, it was in the surf, right in the Gulf of Mexico. Signe had told Keeper about that day so many times, Keeper could almost picture it. “Yep, that was my first swim,” Signe told her. Then she added, “Yours too, Sweet Pea.”
Signe never talked about her second swim. “Twice is enough” is all she would say.
But Keeper didn’t think too hard about Signe swimming. Instead, she had concentrated on learning about the boat.
Out there, Dogie had shown her how to use the oars to steer, how to lean on either side to get the boat to respond to her. It was a fine little boat. She loved the way it rode just on top of the water, but low enough to see a few inches down, to see the sparkling sun perch that made their home there, and on mornings when she got up early enough, she might catch a glimpse of the stingrays when they slipped in on the high tide.
Keeper thought stingrays were beautiful, flying through the water, their wide wings rippling like echoes of the currents. They looked like angels. Water angels. She had never seen a real angel, but she imagined that they might look like the gray-brown stingrays that slid beneath The Scamper.
They were most definitely cooleoleo.
“J-j-just beware of their tails,” cautioned Dogie. She knew all about their barbed tails, but when she saw them, just beneath the water’s surface, she still thought of angels.
Then Dogie added another caution, but this one had nothing to do with the stingrays. “D-d-don’t ever get t-t-too close…” He didn’t finish his sentence, just pointed to the narrow ditch that cut between the sand dunes, allowing the water from the tides to run back and forth, filling up and emptying the pond. That’s why it was called “the Cut.”
Keeper knew that if she got very near the ditch when the moon pulled the tide back, it would take her right out with it, right out into the sea.
Tonight she was counting on it. Step H.
Keeper looked up. There it was, the very thinnest top of the moon, peeking out of an almost invisible bank of clouds.
“It’s about time!” she told it. And as if the moon had heard her loud and clear, it sent another rolling wave underneath the boat and lifted it just below the edge of the pier, knocking against it with a resounding thud. The rope hung down as loose as could be.
It was a sign. Time. To. Go. And with that, Keeper gave a good, hard tug on the loosened knot that held the boat to the pier.
Step F. Check!
F for “free”!
They were free, free, free! And as if The Scamper were majorly happy to finally be cut loose from the dock, she trembled from nose to stern. Open water! Keeper stood right up and did a little happy boat dance, right there under the rising moon.
But instead of heading toward the channel like Keeper had planned, The Scamper yawed and lurched in the opposite direction, right toward the salt grass marsh, the exact place Keeper d
idn’t want to go.
40
“Noooooo!!!!” Keeper shouted. “No no no no no!”
She was not going to go in the wrong direction, not after all this waiting, no way, no how, no-sirree-bob. She was not going to get stuck in that mucky marsh full of giant snapping turtles, and not just any snapping turtles, but alligator snapping turtles. Uh-uh! Pass the beans and stir the corn, there was no way she was going to let her boat—Dogie’s boat—float into that swamp, and then she’d for sure have to call for help, which would mean she’d be in even deeper trouble than she already was.
“No no no no no no!” she said again.
She sat back down fast, snatched up the oars, jammed them in the oarlocks, and started rowing, which wasn’t as easy as it had seemed when Dogie was the one doing the rowing. She pulled extra hard on her left oar to turn the boat around, but the incoming tide, the one she had waited and waited and waited for, seemed to be rolling in with gusto now.
She had untied the boat too soon. She had not waited long enough for the tide to finish rising. How could she have forgotten? It was right there in Step F.
Too late.
No matter how hard she pulled, The Scamper would not turn around.
“Grrrr…” She gritted her teeth. “Turn!” she yelled, but the nose of the boat refused to come around.
As she leaned back and dug into the water, she swore she could hear the snicker-snack of the snapping turtles just waiting for her to float right into their snapping jaws.
41
From his nest in the sabal palm tree, Captain woke up from his seagull sleep. He had an itch just behind his head. With his eyes still closed, he fluffed up his feathers and scratched the itch with his foot. He settled back in and waited to fall back to sleep.
But the itch did not go away. Uh-oh. Not a good sign.
He opened his eyes. Captain was a deep sleeper. With the exception of a storm, only a couple of things ever woke him up in the middle of the night. An itch or a worry.
With an itch, he could scratch it and then fall back to sleep. With a worry, no matter how much he scratched, it wouldn’t go away.
Tonight the itch could not be scratched. What he had was a worry.
But where was it coming from?
He looked toward the dark house. It was all buttoned up, the same as every night.
He glanced across the road and saw Mr. Beauchamp and Sinbad sitting on their porch. He noticed that Dogie and Too’s house, like usual, was dark and quiet. He scanned the night sky. There was the moon, right where it should be. Everything appeared to be the same as usual.
Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Then the worry became a question: Was BD in trouble? The worry itched like crazy. He stood up in his nest and shook his head. He listened. But he didn’t hear BD’s voice. If the dog needed him, he’d howl for him, yes?
He leaned into the damp air.
Nothing.
He fluffed his feathers again, then stretched his wings. He spread his good wing out over the edge of the nest as far as he could. He used the pinfeathers on his wing tip to test the wind velocity.
Sssssssstttttttrrrrrrreeeeettttcccchhhh!!!!
Then he did the same with his bent wing. Ouch! There was always a small achy pinch in that wing. He flapped it a couple of times to shake out the ouch. He looked around some more. His stomach growled.
Ahhh, he thought, maybe I’m just hungry.
It’s a fact that seagulls are always hungry. They are basically hungry twenty-four hours a day. Even when they are asleep, they are hungry. A seagull is an eating machine. Captain was no exception.
He pulled his wings back in and admired the way the moonbeams settled on his bright white feathers and how they made his black feathers gleam. He was a study in black and white. But he didn’t dwell on his appearance since what he really wanted to concentrate on, now that he had established that the worry was just a figment of his imagination… maybe… was his empty stomach.
Since the moon was full, he figured that the little minnows in the Cut would be near the surface of the water, a good time to skim over the pond and pluck up a few. Minnows would be a perfect nighttime snack. Thinking about them made him fluff up his feathers again.
He hopped onto the edge of the nest. Due to his bent wing, takeoffs and landings were not his strong suit. He had to chart his flight plan in advance to compensate for the crooked wing. Instead of flying straight ahead, he tended to list a little to the left. So he flew in wide semicircles. It took him a little longer than other seagulls to arrive at his destination, but he did usually manage to make it… eventually.
He scanned the pond. The beams from the moon sparkled on the water’s surface. Yep, he could practically taste those salty little minnows. Just a quick scoop, and he’d be back in time to sleep some more until breakfast. Ahhh, minnows. Just the thing.
He took a deep breath and… hop… into the sky he flew. He tilted a little to the left, then a little to the right until he gained his balance. Then down, down, down he went, toward the water’s surface. But just as he made his last semicircle, he swooped up short. There was something floating on the pond. Someone floating on the pond. No. Wait. There were two some-ones floating on the pond.
He flew closer. It was Keeper! And BD!! They were out too. Just like he was! Oh, happy day, calloo callay!
“C’mon, c’mon!” he cried. It could be minnows for everyone!
42
Down below, Keeper pulled on her oars. With The Scamper’s flat bottom, if she didn’t get it turned around, she’d get stuck when the tide fell, held fast by the saw-toothed grass and the thick, silty muck.
A girl doesn’t grow up on the edge of a salt grass swamp without hearing about the denizens of that same swamp. Not only were there a gazillion snakes and cooters, but the worst were the alligator snapping turtles. And even though she had never had a close encounter with any of them, she knew about them nonetheless.
She’d seen their gnarly beaks and their sawback shells. She knew that if one grabbed on to one of her toes or a finger, it could bite it clean off. Thinking about it made her curl her toes up inside her sneakers.
And what about BD’s toes?
“No toes!” she yelled. She was not going to sacrifice any of their toes to those stupid turtles. Not one single toe!
She tugged on the oars as hard as she could, but the boat still drifted toward the looming banks. As if the tide were playing a trick on her, another wave rolled up beneath her and pushed her farther forward.
Swoosh!
The boat felt like it was flying toward the marsh. Keeper dug her right oar into the water and, with her left, paddled paddled paddled. Dip dip dip.
“Turrrnnnnn,” she called to the boat. She pulled back as hard as she could.
Every muscle in her body felt as taut as the strings on Dogie’s ukulele.
“Turrrnnnnn,” she called again. She clenched her teeth. She was not not not not not going to float into that stupid marsh with those stupid turtles. She dug her oars into the water and puuuulllllledddd.
Then…
slowly…
slowly…
slowly… the breeze sat down,
the tide paused and at last!…
the boat turned its nose away from the marsh.
Finally, she headed toward the opposite shore, toward the ditch on the far side of the pond. “Yes!” she cried. They were moving forward now, straight toward the channel that would take them out to sea.
“Yeehaw!” she whooped.
She stashed the oars, then, one at a time, she flexed her surfboard-waxing muscles. Hooray, she thought, for all that waxing.
A wave of happy rolled over Keeper. But only for a second, for as they floated toward the ditch, they passed the small pier, Signe’s pier, nestled in the shadows. Keeper glanced toward it. The emptiness of it startled her. It was too empty. Signe was not sitting there on her yellow deck chair, watching. Being the lifeguard.
Suddenly, a small memory bubbled through Keeper: Signe reaching for her, pulling her out of the water, pulling her out of some other boat, a long time ago. Signe holding on to her, holding her tight, both of them sopping wet, drenched.
“Just you and me, Sweet Pea”—Signe’s words in her ears, the last thing she heard every night.
The empty pier grew smaller as she drifted away from it. Keeper looked beyond the pier at her house, also growing smaller. She knew that, inside, Signe was fast asleep in the room next to hers. Without even thinking, Keeper reached out toward her fading house, where Signe slept, as if she might tap Signe on the shoulder and wake her up and say, Here I am! But then she felt her mother’s charm bump against her chest. She looked down at it, aglow in the moon’s dim light.
“Pull,” she told the moon, “pull.”
43
With the moon on the rise, Keeper picked up the oars again. Ouch! She dropped them quickly, shaking her hands one at a time. Wow! Her hands felt like a dozen bees had stung them. Dogie hadn’t told her that rowing would hurt her hands so much! Both of them felt raw from pulling on the oars.
When she had first started her waxwing job, she had gotten some blisters from the comb that she used to remove the old wax, but she didn’t remember her hands feeling this achy. She shook them again.
She made a mental note about adjusting Step G, part of which stated: row across the pond toward the channel. Instead, she changed it to: float across the pond toward the channel. That way, she could give her hands a rest before they hit the open water, where she knew she’d have to row again. So she stowed the oars under the seat and let the boat drift.
Anyway, for now, the water was pulling her in the exact right direction. Exactly! Then she remembered. “Time to give Yemaya a gift,” she told BD.
