The Small Adventure of Popeye and Elvis

by Barbara O'Connor

  “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.”

  12

  “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 dollh
ouse 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.

  13

  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.

  14

  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.r />
  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.

  15

  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.