Gee, Dad, did you have to squeeze it out of me? You make me feel like a Boy Scout shooting for a merit badge.
“Oh, so that's it,” said Mr. O'Toole. “Hmmm.”
A call from Ben the next day revealed some good news. Chuck's ankle had not been sprained. It had just twisted enough to make it painful. “Chuck will be ready to play in a couple of days, Kevin,” Ben said.
“Gee, that's great, Mr. Switzer,” said Kevin. “Then we can play out the match on Saturday?”
“That's right. Saturday. Four o'clock O.K.?”
“Four o'clock will be fine, Mr. Switzer. When will the winner play the winner of the Murphy-Monroe match?”
“A week from Saturday. Also at four o'clock.”
“Thanks, Mr. Switzer,” said Kevin. “Mom!” he yelled, after hanging up. “That was Mr. Switzer! Chuck's ankle wasn't sprained after all! It was just twisted! We're going to play off the match on Saturday at four o'clock!”
“Good,” said Mrs. O'Toole, coming into the kitchen from the dining room. “And I'm not deaf. At least, not yet.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Maybe Dad will get there in time after work to see at least one set. He thinks you're pretty good, you know.”
“He does?”
“Uh-huh.” She smiled and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “He hasn't been able to see you play much, and was surprised how well you handled yourself in those games against Chuck.”
“I wish Chuck hadn't hurt his ankle,” he said dismally. “If I beat him now, everybody will say he was handicapped.”
“But he won't be,” said his mother. “He'll be as good as if nothing had happened to him.”
“I know. But everybody won't see it that way, Mom.”
She squeezed his shoulder and kissed him on the forehead. “Don't worry about it. And don't think about it when you're on the court with Chuck. Play to win, and you will.”
He grinned weakly. You're something, Ma, you know that? You're really something.
He went out on the porch where he kept Charlie safe and warm in a box, and found him asleep.
“Hey,” he said, giving the top of the box a rapid tattoo. “Are you going to sleep all day?”
Charlie jerked awake, shook his head and focused a sleepy eye on Kevin. “Dummy,” he said. “You ruined a beautiful dream.”
Kevin laughed. “Sorry about that. What were you dreaming?”
“That's my business.”
“Boy, you're sure friendly this morning. What can I get you?”
“Steak,” said Charlie. “With all the trimmings.”
“Rare, medium, or well done?”
Charlie cocked his head around and focused his other eye on Kevin. He chuckled.
“You know, Kevie, if I didn't know you better I'd think you were really serious.”
Kevin laughed again and ran a hand over Charlie's velvet-soft head.
“Corn coming up, Charlie,” he said, and walked away to get Charlie's lunch.
11
THE TENNIS MATCH CONTINUED where it had left off, with Chuck Eagan leading Kevin four games to three.
The eighth game started with Kevin serving. His first try was good, and so was Chuck's return. As the ball shot back and forth over the net, Kevin took notice of Chuck's moves. Nothing in the way Chuck got around and batted the ball indicated that he had injured his ankle at all.
But I can't ignore the fact that he has injured it, Kevin told himself. Chuck can be a hard-headed kid at times. Maybe he still feels a little pain but won't admit it.
Nonetheless Chuck won the game, game-30. It was 5-3 now, in his favor.
Kevin came back hard and took the next two games, making it 5–5. The next game went to deuce then advantage for Chuck. And finally a win.
What am I doing wrong? Kevin asked himself. Chuck isn't that good to be beating me like this.
He glanced briefly at the top of the post at the southwest corner of the court. It was an automatic move. Charlie's wing had not healed up well enough yet for him to fly around to tennis matches to offer sage advice to a certain nephew.
Nephew? Am I still considered his nephew even if he's in the form of a pigeon? Man! What a nutty relationship!
Chuck won the next game to capture the set, 7–5.
“Charlie said that Chuck was weak in his serves and backhand shots,” Kevin said to Ginnie. “It didn't look like that to me.”
“You've been giving him the points,” said Ginnie, speaking like an authority. “Most of his points were won on your poor returns.”
“Then I'd better make sure of my returns. Right?”
“Right.”
Chuck served as the second set got under way. Kevin returned it neatly. Then Chuck's stroke, a bullet drive, carried far to Kevin's right side. Kevin bolted after it, leaning far over to hit the ball just before it struck the court. The ball loped over the net, bouncing just in front of it. Chuck started after it, then stopped, knowing he could never reach it in time. Love-15.
Though tense and anxious, Kevin kept up the good start and wound up winning the game.
He went into the next one with fever pitch. I cant go home and tell Charlie I blew this match and wont be playing Roger, he thought. He'd probably leave me and never come back again. Y've got to win it.
He did. He won the next one, too. Chuck made a bid by taking two games, but that was all. The ovation, as Kevin won the set, 6–2, was no overwhelming thing. You'd think that the crowd wasn't too surprised about it.
“One more to go,” Ginnie said.
“I wish you wouldn't say that!” Kevin snapped.
“Sorry,” she said and lowered her eyes.
Man, take it easy! It's just an old tennis game. You don't have to bite her head off.
The third set started, and it was pretty clear that both players were under stress. Their shots were landing low, striking into the net a great deal of the time. It seemed that the game would be determined by who had the most, or the least, balls striking the net first.
After a 40–40 deuce, and then advantage for Kevin, he gained the next point and took the game. Chuck won the second. Then Kevin took three in a row, making it 4–1, his favor.
Hey! Is this really me? You ought to see me now, Charlie! I'm really on!
He took it easy in the next game, reserving his energy while Chuck burned up his. Chuck won it, but he looked too tired to play effectively in the next game, and seemed not to care in the last.
The fans exploded with a standing ovation this time as Kevin won the set, 6–2, and the right to play Roger Murphy.
His pleasure in the win, though — coupled with kind words from his proud father — lasted only until he arrived home. Something had happened while they were all at the tennis match.
Charlie was gone.
12
LOOK,” KEVIN SAID, picking up a small stick and a shredded piece of gauze from the box which Charlie had occupied as his home for over a week. “He must have chewed this off.”
“Think his wing was healed enough for him to fly?” Ginnie said.
“It must have been,” said Mr. O'Toole. “Don't forget, Chuck Eagan had started giving Charlie first aid right after he had shot him.”
“Yeah, that's right,” said Ginnie, and looked at Kevin. “Well, what are we going to do? Search for him again?”
“No,” Kevin answered thoughtfully. “This time it's different. This time we know he was safe here. He went away on his own. If — if that's the way he wants it, that's the way it'll be.”
He felt a lump in his throat and turned away so that no one could see the look on his face.
Darn Charlie! He could've told me that he didn't want to stay here! At least that his wing was better! I hope he gets hurt again.
Oh, no, no! Please, God, forgive me! I didn't mean that!
Mrs. O'Toole made supper — stuffed peppers with sweet sauce, tossed salad and Italian bread — which Kevin ordinarily would devour like a hungry bear. Not so this evening.
He ate only enough to take the edge off his hunger.
“You can't let that pigeon worry you so that you won't eat,” his mother said. “He's probably just trying out his wing.”
“I think he'll come back,” Ginnie said with that girlish intuition of hers. “If he was just an ordinary pigeon, maybe he…”
She stopped abruptly as Kevin shot her a hard look. Careful, Gin. You say anything to Mom and Dad about Charlie's being a reincarnation of Dad's great uncle Rickard O'Toole and they'll think that we're both ready for the nut house. They might even want to get rid of Charlie — if he does come back to us — and you know we can't let that happen. So be careful of what you say. O.K.?
“What do you mean, ‘if he was just an ordinary pigeon’?” said Mr. O'Toole. “What is he if not ordinary? Lots of pigeons become pets.”
“Well, I mean — you know…”
“I guess it's because I never had a pet before,” Kevin broke in quickly. “Anyway, let's change the subject. I don't want to talk anymore about Charlie.”
“I'll split a pepper with you,” said Ginnie, as if that was her wish, too.
“Not me,” replied Kevin. “I've had enough.” He excused himself from the table and went outside.
“Hi,” a voice said just as he was ready to walk down the porch steps. It was a familiar voice. A very familiar voice.
Kevin looked down, goose bumps popping out on his arms. There sat Charlie on the bottom step of the porch, mouth open and puffing as if he had just flown a thousand miles.
“Charlie! Where have you been?” Kevin cried, clattering down the steps and picking Charlie up into his arms.
“Careful of that wing,” cautioned Charlie. “I started to town, but I remembered I wanted to watch you play Chuck Eagan. Anything wrong in that?”
“No. But your wing couldn't have been well enough,” said Kevin. “You didn't make it, did you?”
“No. But I could have.”
“What happened?”
“I was perched on a tree, see, taking a rest, when some kid started throwing stones at me. One of them hit my bad wing. Fortunately, I was able to fly to another tree and out of his sight. But I was sure I'd never make it to the match, so I walked all the way back.”
“Walked? Oh, Charlie!” Kevin cried, squeezing him lovingly. “You're a real nut, you are!”
“Hey, watch it, will you?” complained Charlie. “It's the same wing that I had tennis elbow with when I was a human. Guess the darn thing will give me trouble no matter who I turn out to be!”
The match with Roger Murphy started at four o'clock on Saturday. As far as Kevin was concerned it was the match. The Big One. The All-Important One. Roger would think he was King of the Universe if he beat Kevin.
Both the O'Toole and Murphy families, plus the usual tennis fans, were at the match. And up on the corner pole, as if it had become his regular reserved seat, sat Charlie, his wing healed and in fly able condition.
Roger won the toss and chose to serve. Although there was no wind, Kevin chose the north court. Roger's first serve, a hot, blistering drive, shot over the net and struck the court just in front of Kevin. Dumbfounded at the solid, accurate blow, Kevin was caught off balance and sliced the ball off to the right, giving Roger his first point.
Kevin felt tight as a drum as he waited for Roger to serve again. He just couldn't loosen up. This time Roger's serve went wide for a fault.
His next shot was a softer blow that Kevin returned easily. Then, after an interim of long, back-and-forth taps, Roger socked the ball hard cross-court, far out of Kevin's reach, for his second point. 30-love.
Kevin managed to score a point on a lob, but that was all he got in that game. Roger won it, game-15.
Roger continued to play in excellent form and took the next two games to make it 3-love. Then Kevin took one. But that was all he did take in that first set. Roger won it, 6–1.
13
HE'S STANDING PRETTY FAR away from the net,” Charlie said as Kevin stepped quietly toward the pole and pretended to rest there. “Try hitting the ball easier and getting it just over the net. That ought to tire him out a little, too.”
The strategy worked — for a while. It was when Kevin was leading, 40–15, that it seemed to him that Roger had caught on. He got closer to the net, and then the game turned into a catastrophe. Roger's blows sent the ball in every direction he seemed to want it to go. The game went to deuce, then advantage for Roger, then a win.
“He's just having a good day — so far,” said Charlie as Kevin moved under the pole, knelt, untied and re tied his shoelaces. “The way you've got him running he won't last out the next two games.”
But Roger not only lasted out the next two games, he won them. Roger 3, Kevin o.
“Work on his forehand,” Charlie suggested. “I told you he's weak in that department, just like old Wally was.”
If Roger was, he didn't show it. He led love-30 before the game hardly got under way.
And then Kevin began to experiment with his own strategy, just hitting the ball over the net without any fancy plays. Sorry, Charlie. You might have been a champion, but your suggestions just aren't working out. I've got to do this my own way.
Gradually the picture — the game — began to change. Kevin began to pile up points. From the expression on Roger's face he seemed to think that suddenly he was playing with somebody else. His own serves began to draw faults. His shots began to hit the net or go slicing out of bounds.
Kevin won, and won again and again. He was leading 4–3 when, after an advantage for Roger, Roger scored on a net shot, giving him the game. 4–4.
Kevin won the next game, too. But Roger crept up on him in the next and won it. 5–5.
“He's tiring, Kevie,” Charlie's chest puffed out proudly as Kevin paused beside the pole. “He's tiring fast. Keep after him and you'll have him eating dust.”
Charlie's observation seemed accurate. Roger lost the game. 6–5, Kevin's favor.
Make this be the last game of this set. Please make it be the last.
It was. Kevin won it on a top-spin drive to Roger's backhand side that Roger wouldn't have been able to reach with a ten-foot pole. The set went to Kevin, 7–5.
During the ten-minute intermission Kevin saw a pigeon fly over the court and swoop down toward Charlie. As it hovered near him, Ginnie said, whispering, “Charlie's got company!”
“I've noticed,” Kevin whispered back. “I wonder if it's one of his friends from the church steeple.”
“Maybe one of the World War One fliers,” Ginnie said.
About two minutes later the stranger flew off, finding a perch on a tree not far from the tennis court. He's going to wait for Charlie, Kevin thought. Oh, well. What can you expect? Pigeons want to be with pigeons, don't they?
The third set started. Well, man, this is it. The last one. Who's going to win it? You or Murph? If you do, you'll make yourself and a few people — and a certain pigeon — real proud of you. If you don't, you'll blow Roger's head up so big he won't be able to put a hat on. As for Charlie, he'll be one of the most disappointed pigeons around that church steeple. It's up to you.
It was Kevin's serve. He was nervous. His first serve, a hard-driven ball, slammed into the net for a fault. His next was good. Roger lobbed it, and Kevin returned it, making sure of one thing and one thing only — that the hall would go over the net and stay within bounds.
Roger played the ball well, driving it back to the empty space across the net. Kevin bolted to the spot, knocking the ball back with a clean, solid drive.
As the game went on he made no spectacular plays, nothing that anyone had reason to shout about. It was Roger who was the aggressor, hitting the ball hard, trying to wallop it out of Kevin's reach. But most of his hits resulted in errors, and they kept piling up until there were just too many. Kevin won, game-love.
He played the next game in the same easy, deliberate way. And won that, too. Then Roger changed his tack, as if he realized that his aggress
iveness wasn't doing him any good. He won, game-30.
And, as if he had discovered the winning formula, he took the next one, too. Game-15.
It was tied up now, 2–2.
Roger's serve. A fault. His next was good, a hard, curving drive that sailed directly at Kevin. Kevin, trying to keep loose, swung at the ball and missed it completely.
His heart sank. His knees went weak. What's happened to me? I was on top of him the first two games. Since then he's been on top of me. Where have I slipped?
“Pull yourself together, Kevie.” He heard a distinctive voice coming from the top of a pole. “Settle down. You've got the makings. I know you've got the makings.”
Thanks, Charlie. But right now I don't seem to know where they are!
Roger won the game with no trouble. Roger 3; Kevin 2.
It was now the sixth game. And Kevin's turn to serve. Carefully, he stepped behind the baseline, tossed up the ball, rose on his tiptoes and drove the ball hard toward the opposite side of the court. Fault! The ball hit just outside of the sideline.
He tried again. Another fault as the ball plowed into the net. Love-15.
He lost the next point too, on a soft hit that Roger socked back at him into his backhand corner. Love-30.
Settle down. You've got the makings. I know you've got the makings, Charlie had said.
O.K., Charlie. I'll try harder. That's all I can do.
He made his serve good. And then he played the ball as safely as he knew how, without trying anything fancy. The only time he deliberately swatted it in front of, or behind, Roger was when the space was wide open.
He began to score points. He piled one on top of the other, and took the game.
It was tied up, 3–3.
Going into the seventh game Roger went into the lead as he drove one of Kevin's returns into the far corner for a point. He gained another point on a solid drive to Kevin's backhand corner. Then Kevin scored on a soft shot just over the net that Roger wasn't fast enough to reach. He scored another on a hard drive that Roger delivered over the service line, and still another on a drive Roger belted into the net. It went on like this, with Roger making errors and Kevin scoring the points — and finally winning the game.
The Pigeon With the Tennis Elbow Page 5
