The Small Adventure of Popeye and Elvis

by Barbara O'Connor

  “So,” Popeye said, “where are the dead dogs?”

  He leaned forward.

  Waiting.

  Waiting.

  “Uh-oh!” Starletta snapped her fingers. Then she jumped up and ran around the side of the house.

  Popeye and Elvis raced after her. When they got to the front yard, Starletta was marching in circles in a plastic swimming pool with Yoo-hoo boats swirling in the water around her. Beside the pool, a garden hose spewed water, flipping and slithering around the yard like a snake. Starletta’s feet slapped the water, sending waterfalls over the sides of the pool, spilling into muddy puddles in the yard.

  “I told you she was cuckoo,” Elvis whispered.

  But Popeye didn’t think Starletta was cuckoo.

  He thought she was eccentric.

  eccentric: adjective; unconventional and slightly strange

  “Where are the dead dogs?” he asked again.

  Starletta swished the stick in the pool, splashing Popeye and Elvis. “In a dead dog place.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Someplace.”

  “Someplace where?”

  “Someplace.”

  “Show us.”

  “I only go there on Wednesdays,” Starletta said.

  Popeye’s thoughts raced. What day was today? Was it Wednesday?

  No.

  It was Tuesday.

  Dang!

  “Today is Wednesday,” Elvis said, winking at Popeye.

  Starletta spun around and glared at him, her fists jammed into her waist. “You must think I’m stupid, little Elvis boy!” she hollered. “You think I don’t know what day it is?”

  Elvis shrugged.

  “Will you show us tomorrow?” Popeye said.

  Starletta poked the stick at the boats, making them bob up and down like sailboats in the ocean. “Maybe.”

  “But I might be gone tomorrow,” Elvis said. “Soon as Dooley and them dig our motor home out, we’re leaving.”

  “What motor home?” Starletta said.

  Elvis told her about the stuck-in-the-mud Holiday Rambler. But Starletta stayed firm.

  “Only on Wednesdays,” she said.

  Popeye scrambled to think of some way to convince Starletta to show them the dead dog place on Tuesday instead of Wednesday.

  But he couldn’t.

  All he could do was hope that the Holiday Rambler stayed in the mud for another day and that Dooley didn’t have a miraculous change of character and turn into someone who could be counted on.

  20

  POPEYE AND ELVIS raced down the path that ran beside the creek. If Popeye didn’t get back to the house before Velma got home, he was going to be a goner.

  When they left the woods and made their way through the field toward the house, Popeye muttered “please, please, please” under his breath.

  There was one thing he definitely did not want to see: Velma’s car in the driveway.

  There was one thing he definitely did want to see: the Holiday Rambler still stuck in the gravel road.

  They raced around the shed in Popeye’s backyard.

  There was the driveway.

  Velma’s car was not there.

  Popeye let out a whoop.

  He and Elvis high-fived each other, gasping to catch their breath and grinning.

  Then they ran down the road and around the corner.

  There was the Holiday Rambler.

  Tilted.

  Stuck.

  The boys high-fived each other again. Then Popeye dashed home to lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling until Velma got home.

  Dooley had not let Popeye down. He had not had a miraculous change of character. He had not turned into someone who could be counted on. He had, in fact, disappeared with his friend, Shifty. Velma had driven all over Simpsonville and all over Fayette and everywhere in between looking for them.

  “. . . don’t know where I went wrong,” Velma muttered under her breath as she cut the crusts off Popeye’s cheese sandwich.

  Popeye sat at the kitchen table and traced the ivy pattern on the vinyl place mat with his finger. Tomorrow was Wednesday. The day that Starletta went to the place where dead dogs live. How was he going to convince Velma to let him go back to the creek with Elvis tomorrow?

  How?

  How?

  How?

  Velma dropped the sandwich onto the paper towel in front of him.

  “Um, Velma?” Popeye said.

  Velma sank into the chair across from him and lifted her eyebrows.

  “Um . . .” Popeye said again.

  Velma lifted her eyebrows a little higher.

  “Never mind.” He took a bite of his sandwich.

  Velma swatted at a fly that had landed on the sugar bowl. “That crazy family’s been cooped up in that beehive trailer for five days,” she said. “If I was that poor woman, I’d be in the loony bin by now.”

  She rolled up a crossword puzzle magazine and smacked it on the table. “Got him!” She scooped the fly into her hand and tossed it in the sink. Then she shuffled around the kitchen, putting away the bread and mayonnaise and muttering about all those wild kids and that poor woman who oughta be in the loony bin.

  “But then, I reckon she must be needing groceries,” Velma said.

  Popeye felt a little flutter.

  There was an itty-bitty crack in Velma’s hard shell.

  He had seen it happen before.

  But his years of experience with Velma had taught him to keep quiet and leave her cracked shell alone. He tossed the last of his cheese sandwich under the table for Boo.

  “You think she needs groceries?” Velma said.

  Crack.

  Popeye shrugged.

  “Go on up there and ask her if she needs groceries.”

  Crack.

  Popeye hurried to the back door. “But what if she does need groceries?” he said.

  “Then I guess I’ll have to give her a ride over to Bi-Lo,” Velma said. “Heaven forbid Dooley get his-self home and do something useful.”

  Bingo!

  Velma’s hard shell had cracked wide open.

  Popeye jumped off the porch and trotted toward the road. “Come on, Boo.”

  “And Popeye . . .” Velma called from the back door.

  Popeye stopped.

  “If you see Dooley, tell him to start digging,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When Popeye got to the Holiday Rambler, Calvin and Willis were up on the roof throwing acorns at Prissy, who darted gleefully from side to side in the road, her springy curls bouncing and her tap shoes clickety-clacking on the gravel.

  “Missed me again,” she hollered up at them.

  “Hey, Popeye!” Calvin yelled down from the roof. “Catch!”

  An acorn smacked Popeye in the arm, leaving a small red circle.

  Popeye rubbed his arm. “I need to ask your mom something,” he said, climbing up on the step of the motor home and knocking on the narrow metal door.

  “I told y’all to stay outside and I mean it,” Glory Jewell yelled through the open window.

  “It’s me. Popeye.”

  The door opened. Elvis’s hair stuck up every which way like he’d been sleeping. He yawned and scratched his stomach.

  Popeye stepped inside. The motor home was hot and dark and smelled like something burnt. Furman Jewell sat in the diner booth, watching television. Walter and Shorty were sprawled on the fold-down bed, playing a card game that involved headlocks and knuckle noogies. Glory sat in her big plaid chair up front, fanning herself with her spiral notebook of country-western songs.

  “Velma wants to know if you need groceries,” Popeye said. “If you do, she’ll drive you to Bi-Lo.”

  “That woman is a saint,” Glory said.

  As soon as Velma and Glory turned off the gravel road onto the highway, Popeye and Elvis raced behind the shed in Popeye’s backyard to hide from Prissy and Calvin and the others.

  Boo sat beside t
hem, resting his big head in Popeye’s lap, leaving a slobbery wet spot on his shorts.

  “Okay, now listen,” Elvis whispered. “We’ve got to get back to Starletta’s tomorrow.”

  Popeye nodded.

  Tomorrow was Wednesday.

  Tomorrow would be their only chance to see the place where dead dogs live.

  If they didn’t go tomorrow, there wouldn’t be another Wednesday for a whole week, and surely the Holiday Rambler would be long gone by then.

  “We’ve got to figure out some way to get there without Calvin and them following us,” Elvis said.

  Popeye nodded. “Or Velma getting mad,” he said.

  connive: verb; to plot, scheme, or be in cahoots

  He and Elvis were going to have to connive.

  21

  BEFORE POPEYE MET ELVIS, he had never been very good at conniving. But now here he was, sitting behind the shed, conniving up a storm.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “What if Boo gets lost in the woods?”

  Boo’s ears perked up.

  “And so you and me have to go look for him.”

  “Okay!” Elvis said.

  “But we can’t lie,” Popeye said. “Velma can smell a lie a mile away.”

  “Then how can we say Boo is lost in the woods if he ain’t?”

  Boo lifted his head at the sound of his name and blinked up at Elvis.

  Popeye ran his hand over his prickly buzz cut, feeling his conniving skills getting better by the minute.

  “We won’t use the word lost. We’ll just say Boo is back in the woods and we need to go find him.”

  “Okay!” Elvis said. “But what are we gonna do with Boo?”

  Boo sat up and yawned.

  “Well, I guess we’ll have to put him back in the woods,” Popeye said. “Then we won’t be lying.”

  Boo cocked his head at Popeye.

  Popeye looked away quickly before any qualms could come sneaking up on him and ruin everything.

  That night, Velma was livid.

  livid: adjective; furiously angry

  Her livid voice burst right through the metal walls of Dooley’s trailer and slithered across the darkness of the backyard and into the kitchen, where Popeye stood at the counter spreading peanut butter onto graham crackers.

  “Dooley better get out there first thing in the morning.

  “His no-good criminal friend, Shifty, better be out there, too.

  “They better get out there and help so those folks can leave.”

  Leave?

  That word felt like a punch in the stomach.

  Popeye had been so busy conniving about the dead dogs that he hadn’t even thought about the motor home leaving.

  Elvis leaving.

  All those wild kids leaving.

  He would walk around the curve in the road, and the Holiday Rambler with the shiny lightning bolts and the howling coyote would be gone. He would walk around the curve in the road, and there would only be weeds and gravel and a drainage ditch full of muddy water.

  Popeye knelt down and took Boo’s head in both hands. Boo looked at him with his soft, watery eyes and let out a big dog sigh.

  Popeye explained to Boo again about what he and Elvis had connived. That they were going to take him into the woods, to a really nice spot by the creek. They were going to tie his leash to a tree (a really nice tree). Then they were going to leave him there, but only for a really, really, really short time.

  Then Popeye was going to tell Velma that Boo was back in the woods.

  Which would not be a lie.

  And he was going to tell Velma that he and Elvis had to go get Boo, who was back in the woods.

  Which would not be a lie.

  Then, while everybody was busy trying to get the Holiday Rambler out of the mud, Popeye and Elvis would run back into the woods, get Boo (who would only have been sitting there for a really, really, really short time), and go on over to Starletta’s.

  Then Starletta would show them where the dead dogs live.

  “I promise I won’t leave you long,” Popeye said.

  Boo made a little snorting noise, and Popeye smiled. “You’re a good dog, Boo.” He patted Boo’s head and scratched him behind the ears. “I sure do appreciate you helping me out.”

  Boo blinked.

  “I’d do the same for you.”

  Blink.

  “And I promise I’ll do something real good for you.”

  Blink. Blink.

  “Like cook you up some chicken livers or something.”

  The back door burst open, and the warm night air whooshed in. Velma stomped across the kitchen floor and yanked the refrigerator door open. She rummaged around inside it, moving pickle jars and soda cans, muttering about Dooley eating all the leftover spaghetti.

  “Velma?” Popeye said.

  “What?”

  “Do we have any chicken livers?”

  22

  BY THE TIME Popeye got to the Holiday Rambler the next morning, everyone was gathered around watching Dooley and Shifty and Furman digging and grunting and wiping sweat off their foreheads. Boards and crowbars and car jacks lay scattered in the weeds by the side of the road.

  Prissy, Calvin, Walter, Willis, and Shorty chased each other and jumped over the ditch and fiddled with the car jacks while Glory sat in a lawn chair and hollered at them.

  Velma stood beside the motor home with her fists jammed into her waist, just daring Dooley to quit digging.

  Elvis trotted over to Popeye. “Listen,” he whispered. “We’ve got to be real careful that Calvin and them don’t see us leave or they’ll follow us for sure.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is Boo back in the woods?”

  Popeye nodded.

  He couldn’t believe he had left Boo back in the woods all by himself like that.

  He felt like a bad person.

  A real bad person.

  There wasn’t a word in the dictionary bad enough to describe him.

  callous: adjective; having an insensitive and cruel disregard for others

  No.

  Worse than that.

  abhorrent: adjective; inspiring disgust and loathing

  No.

  Worse than that.

  There just wasn’t a word.

  “Okay,” Elvis said, rubbing his palms together and peering out from under his shaggy hair in that solemn way of his. Then he slapped Popeye on the back and said, “Good luck.”

  Popeye walked over to Velma, his heart pounding, his face already feeling flushed with guilt.

  “Um, Velma?” he said, keeping his voice low so Calvin and them couldn’t hear.

  Velma kept her eyes on Dooley and Shifty, who were struggling to get the jack up under the motor home.

  “Boo’s back in the woods and me and Elvis are gonna go get him,” Popeye said.

  Velma’s mouth was set in a thin, hard line.

  “Okay?” Popeye stared down at his feet, the guilt stinging his face like fire ants.

  Silence.

  Popeye glanced up.

  Velma was looking at him, her eyes narrowed into slits, her lips squeezed tight.

  Popeye tried to make himself look like plain ole Popeye on the outside, but on the inside, he was feeling nothing but devious.

  devious: adjective; showing a skillful use of underhanded tactics to achieve goals

  underhanded:adjective; done in a dishonest way

  “What’s Boo doing back in the woods?” Velma said.

  “I don’t know.”

  That was not a lie.

  “How do you know he’s in the woods?” she said.

  “ ‘Cause I saw him go in there.”

  That was not a lie.

  “Why don’t you just call him?”

  “Well, um, he might not hear me.”

  That was not a lie.

  Was it?

  Velma flapped her arm out toward the woods. “All right,” she said. “Go on. But you better get on back here as soon as y
ou find him and don’t be going too far. You hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Well, he did hear her.

  That was not a lie.

  So Popeye turned and walked slowly back toward Elvis, trying to look bored so Prissy and Calvin and them wouldn’t notice.

  Tra la la.

  He made a sly little thumbs-up sign to Elvis and glanced over his shoulder. Prissy was doing cartwheels in the weeds. Walter and Willis were putting boards across the ditch. Calvin was wrestling with Shorty in the dirt.

  Popeye and Elvis walked up the road, almost tiptoeing. But as soon as they got around the curve and out of sight of the motor home, they took off running to Popeye’s house, around back, and through the field to the woods.

  Boo’s tail swished back and forth in the dry leaves as Popeye untied the leash. “See?” he said. “I told you I wasn’t going to be gone long.” He took a piece of beef jerky from his pocket and held it out for Boo, who gobbled it up and swallowed it whole.

  Popeye wiped his slobbery hand on his shorts. “Okay,” he said to Elvis. “Let’s go.”

  The two boys made their way along the creek with Boo trotting behind them. When they got to the Indian pipes, they turned up the path to Starletta’s.

  Starletta’s backyard was quiet. The chickens pecked at the dirt out by the garden.

  “Maybe she’s around front,” Elvis said.

  They ran around the side of the house.

  The front yard was quiet. Yoo-hoo boats floated in the muddy water of the plastic swimming pool. The hose lay in a puddle beside it.

  “Let’s go knock on the back door,” Elvis said.

  Popeye’s stomach did a little flip. “Her mom’s liable to be in there,” he said.

  “So what?”

  There it was again. That So what? that Elvis was so good at and Popeye was so bad at.

  Popeye followed Elvis to the backyard and let out a sigh of relief when he saw Starletta hopping down the porch steps, wings aflapping.

  Elvis didn’t waste a minute. “Today’s Wednesday,” he said. “Show us the dead dogs.”

  Starletta looked him square in the eye and said, “No.”