The Night Flyers

by Elizabeth McDavid Jones

  By the time Pam had finished showing Arminger around the loft, the moon had risen. “It’s late,” she told him. “I best be calling my birds and getting in to supper.”

  “I’ve kept you too long. Will your mother be worried?”

  “No,” Pam said, without a second thought. She realized that she wasn’t worried either. Not at all. She had a feeling Arminger could be trusted.

  “That’s good,” he said. His th sounded like a d, and his d sounded like a t. He took a long draw on his cigarette and blew the smoke into a cloud that was swallowed by the darkness. “Because there’s one thing more I’m curious about. Granted, I don’t know that much about pigeons. But I’m an observant fellow, and I particularly notice animals. I’m fond of animals—all kinds—and I think you are, too, Pam, yah?”

  Pam nodded, but she was perplexed. What was he leading up to? There was more than his speech that was peculiar about this man.

  For long moments he stood silent, puffing on his cigarette. Curiosity screamed inside her head for him to finish what he’d started to say, but courtesy demanded that she wait until he was ready.

  Finally he continued. “One thing I’ve noticed about birds, Pam, and maybe you have too, is that they never fly at night. Except for owls, of course.”

  Understanding flooded Pam’s brain. “Oh, you’re wondering why my pigeons are night flyers,” she said.

  “Exactly.”

  The words rushed out of Pam’s mouth. “Papa’s really a herring fisherman. The farm’s to feed us, y’see, and fishing brings in the cash money. Like with most folks around here, we do a little bit of everything to survive. Sometimes Papa had to be out all night on the water, and he knew Mama worried about him. So he trained the pigeons to carry messages home to her through the dark to set her mind at ease. When the birds trap back through the trapdoor into the loft, it rings that bell”—Pam nodded toward a bell hanging under the eaves—“and Mama can hear it from the kitchen.”

  “Uh-huh.” Arminger’s eyes were bright with interest. “And how did your papa train them to fly in the dark?”

  “He started out training ’em to trap into the loft like you would ordinary homers. Then the morning flights was made earlier and earlier and the evening flights later and later till both was being done in the dark. Thing was, Papa had to toss the birds hard into the air when he let ’em go for their training flights. Else they’d have followed their instinct to roost in the dark rather than fly.”

  “And you helped him with all of this?”

  “Ever since I was little. Shoot, I could barely walk when Papa had me out here cleaning nest boxes and measuring grain. The older I got, the more he let me handle the birds and help with their training, till I reckon I was doing near as much as him. Then, when he went off to soldier last fall, he gave me the loft to manage on my own.” Pam’s voice cracked when she mentioned Papa’s leaving. She coughed quickly, hoping Arminger hadn’t noticed. She didn’t want him to think she was a crybaby. Arminger treated her as an equal, practically. No one else had ever done that. She wanted to hold on to the feeling.

  “And you’ve done well, very well indeed. I’m sure your papa will be proud of you when he returns from the war.” Arminger paused. His jaw worked back and forth. “I’ve got an offer for you, Pam.”

  The roar of the cicadas suddenly rose, or was the roaring only in Pam’s ears? She knew what Arminger’s offer was going to be, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.

  “I want to buy your birds, Pam, all your trained birds. I’ll give you two hundred dollars for the lot.”

  Two hundred dollars! A fortune! Pam’s mind raced. With that much money, Mama could stop working. They could hire a man to help out with the heavy farmwork, which would mean no more being beholden to Henry Bagley. Two hundred dollars for her pigeons!

  Pam gazed up at the sky, where the shadows of her pigeons winged across the moon. Pride welled inside her. All the hours she and Papa put in training and caring for those birds had paid off. They were the strongest and smartest homers in the county, and she knew it. Yet they were more like friends to her than animals. How could she sell bold Caspian and perky little Odessa, his mate? Or the proud Orleans and his silvery hen Verdun? How could she sell any of her best birds?

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Arminger,” Pam told the man.

  “Why not?” Arminger’s voice had an irritated edge. “It’s a solid offer. You won’t get more money anywhere else.”

  “Oh, I know It’s not the money. I just don’t want to sell ’em. That’s all.” Pam was a little irritated herself. How could he think money was the only thing she had to consider? If he was really an animal lover, Pam thought with disdain, he’d understand how I feel about my birds.

  “Well, think about it,” he said. “I’ll contact you later.”

  Then he was gone.

  Pam stood staring into the darkness where Arminger had melted into the night. “Contact me?” she whispered. “Peculiar, that he is.” She wondered if he would reappear just as mysteriously. “Oh, well,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. But she couldn’t shrug away the presence Arminger had left behind.

  Pam rattled the pigeons’ feeding can to call them back to the loft. They dropped from the sky onto the landing board on the roof and wasted no time trapping through the door. She fed and watered them and closed up the loft for the night.

  The smell of sizzling bacon greeted her in the kitchen. Mama was bent over the big black range, pulling a skillet of cornbread from the oven. “Been keeping your supper warm,” she said. “Sit down and eat.”

  “Mattie gone?” Pam asked. She took her place at the table as Mama put a steaming plate of bacon and potatoes in front of her. Pam’s mouth watered furiously, and she realized she was starving. It must be very late.

  “Buell came and fetched her,” said Mama. “He wanted to know if he could borrow some of Papa’s crab pots tomorrow.” She sat across from Pam and bit into a square of cornbread. She didn’t say a word about Arminger’s visit. Pam knew Mama was waiting until she was ready to talk. Mama had the patience of Job, Papa always said. Pam wished she could be more like her mother in that way.

  “The man—his name is Arminger—offered to buy my birds,” Pam said.

  “I figured he would. How much?”

  “Two hundred dollars.”

  “Lordy mercy.” Mama put down her fork. “That’s a heap of money for some pigeons.”

  Guilt was slowly creeping through Pam’s body. Two hundred dollars would go a far piece toward making Mama’s life easier. Maybe it was selfish to think only of her own love for the birds. “Should I sell ’em to him?”

  “That’s up to you, sugar. What’d you tell him?”

  “I told him no. But he said for me to think about it. Said he’d contact me later.”

  “Mmm.” Mama screwed up her face. She was thinking. “If you don’t want to sell ’em, it’s settled.”

  “But we could use the money, couldn’t we?”

  “There’s always a use for money,” said Mama. “We’ve made do so far, and we’ll keep making do. Don’t you fret your head about it. Besides, we don’t really know nothin’ about this … this Mr. Arminger.”

  Did Mama distrust Arminger? If she did, she would never say so, for fear of scaring Pam. Pam’s uneasiness returned. “You think he’s a German, Mama?”

  She was slow to answer. “I don’t know; never known one. I do know the Germans here in America ain’t the same as the ones fighting your papa, never mind all the talk you hear.”

  “You don’t think he’s a spy, though?”

  “Can’t imagine what a spy would spy on way out here in these woods. But wartime means hard times, Pam, and hard times mean no-account characters hanging about where they don’t belong. Who knows where he got all that money he offered you, or if he even has it for sure. Could be he’s a slacker dodging the draft or a deserter from one of the army camps. Could be we’ll never see hide nor hair of him again. We don’t
know You just steer clear of him from now on, you hear?”

  CHAPTER 4

  DISGRACED AGAIN

  Lula’s labor pains came on late in the night, and she woke Pam up with her bellowing. At first Pam and Mama thought they would lose both Lula and the calf, but she finally delivered a healthy baby that afternoon. Pam named the calf Pyrenees, after a mountain range in France. Now that both Lula and her baby were safe, Pam was glad the crisis had given her an excuse to miss school. She dreaded the thought of going back.

  Since they were home in the middle of the day, Mama suggested they visit the Suggses and see what they could do for Iva. The day was overcast, so it was a cool walk through the browning fields to the Suggs place. The Suggs family grew tobacco for Mr. Eugene Swindell. Mr. Eugene lived in a mansion in Norfolk and showed his face in Currituck only twice a year to collect his rent.

  The Suggses’ house was built like most tenant dwellings, in “shotgun” style, with a hallway running from front to back. You could shoot a shotgun through the front door straight out the back, folks joked. The house was dwarfed by a huge live oak that shaded its swept-clean yard. As usual, there was a horde of dirty children playing out front. “Go on in, Miz Lowder,” a voice called from above their heads. Pam looked up; it was Rupert, perched on a limb high in the oak tree, bare feet dangling. “Ma’s in the bed, but she ain’t sleeping.”

  “Thank you, Rupert,” said Mama. “Don’t you fall now.”

  “No, ma’am. Ain’t fell once yet.”

  “Where’s Mattie?” Pam called up the tree.

  “Oh, she can’t come out,” Rupert said. “Ma’s got her shelling beans in the kitchen. ’Sides, she’s minding the twins.”

  A baby wailed inside, and Pam heard someone hollering Mattie’s name. Poor Mattie! Never a minute to herself. Pam considered going in to help. Then she thought of the cramped Suggs kitchen that always smelled of sour dishrags. She hesitated as her conscience pricked at her, but in the end she ignored its nagging and went down to have a look at Buell’s pigeons. Buell had started his loft and his rabbit hutches with the idea of making extra money by breeding the animals and selling them. That was about the time his father got drafted, Pam remembered. She didn’t figure he’d had time to do much with them since.

  Buell kept his birds in an old toolshed he had fitted with nesting compartments. The floor of the shed hadn’t been cleaned in a while, and his puny birds—there were only eight—moved about sluggishly. Their grit pan was empty, and their drinking water was cloudy. One blue checkered hen sat lifelessly with her feathers fluffed. She’s dead, Pam thought; then the hen blinked its dull, black eyes. Pitiful little thing!

  Rage rose in Pam’s chest. How could Buell treat his pigeons this way?

  True, Buell had to pull the weight of a full-grown man, but Pam couldn’t excuse him neglecting his animals. At least he could keep the shed clean.

  She marched out to find Buell, talking to herself. “He don’t feed ’em proper, he don’t exercise ’em, he don’t hardly spend no time with ’em. Why does he even bother to keep ’em?” She spied Buell hiding in back of his rabbit hutches, smoking. Figured. Buell was more interested in playacting like he was grown than in taking care of his animals. Pam tried to hold her voice steady as her heart thumped in her throat. “Your mama know you’re smoking?”

  “Reckon I can do what I want. I’m the man around here,” Buell snarled.

  This wasn’t going to be easy. Buell could be stubborn as a mule when he wanted to be. He would never do what she wanted if he thought she was trying to boss him. She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Your pigeons got canker,” she said.

  “They got what?”

  “Canker. That’s why they’re so puny and don’t hardly move around. What do you feed ’em?”

  “Corn,” he said. “What of it?”

  “Animals are like people,” Pam said. “They need all kinds of food to be healthy. I give my birds a mix—peas, seeds, grain. They love oats, but barley’s better for ’em.”

  Buell laughed. “Sister, we don’t eat that good.”

  It was hopeless. How could she get through to him when he wouldn’t take her seriously? In desperation she blurted out, “They’re going to all keel over and die if you don’t—”

  “Buell Leon Suggs!” It was Mattie. “Ma’ll have your hide for smoking!”

  “And she’ll have yours for leaving the twins and sneaking out here to spy on me,” Buell shot back.

  Mattie’s voice was self-righteous. “Ma sent me out here, Mr. Smarty-britches. To fetch Pam. Her ma’s ready to leave.”

  Pam stared at the two of them. Between their bickering and Buell’s stubbornness, it was clear she was wasting her time. She fled.

  The next morning Pam was later than usual getting to school. Four o’clock had come awfully early. She couldn’t seem to drag herself out of bed after missing so much sleep the previous night sitting up with Lula. All the way from the steamer dock Pam could see Nina waiting for her at the school yard fence.

  She kept waving her arms for Pam to hurry, but Pam was dreading school, and her feet felt like wooden stumps. By the time Pam reached the school yard, Miss Merrell was ringing the bell.

  By then Nina was near to bursting. “That stranger come to the schoolhouse yesterday! He asked Miss Merrell where you were.”

  Questions were written all over Nina’s face, but there was no time for Pam to answer. “Tell you about it at recess,” she promised Nina.

  Talking alone with Nina at recess proved to be impossible. The Currituck children swarmed around Pam, buzzing about the German spy. Even the boys, who normally wouldn’t budge from their baseball game to talk to girls, were full of questions.

  “What business did he have with you, Pam?”

  “Never mind that. I wanna know what business he’s got in Currituck.”

  “Maybe the Germans are planning an invasion. My pa said he’s probably off a U-boat that’s scouting Currituck waters.”

  “Mama come home yesterday from her circle meeting saying folks was talking about Germans putting broken glass in Red Cross bandages. That true, Pam?”

  Pam was starting to feel squeezed like an apple in a press. She was glad everyone had forgotten about the spelling lesson, but she felt uncomfortable talking to them about Arminger, especially since uneasiness was gnawing at her insides. Why was the stranger so eager to get ahold of her pigeons?

  Trying to hold her anxiety in check, she answered coolly. “All I know is what he told me. He’s settling in Currituck and wants to raise pigeons. He came out Monday evening to see mine. That’s it.”

  “‘That’s it,’ she says.” Henry Bagley was holding the rolled tobacco twine the boys used for a ball. He tossed it in the air and caught it. Once. Twice. “But I have a question.” He paused for effect, tossing the ball again. “Why would the spy want to buy Pam’s stinky old birds?”

  Pam’s heartbeat quickened. How did Henry know about Arminger’s offer? And now he had blurted it out to everyone in school. That bothered her immensely, though she wasn’t sure why.

  “My business ain’t none of yours, Henry Bagley,” she countered. No one would’ve guessed that her stomach was churning.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I can answer my own question. I can imagine why the spy visited your pigeons. Maybe”—he leered at Pam—“the man wanted pigeon stew”

  Some of the boys laughed.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Nina whispered fiercely.

  Pam bit her tongue. Henry was goading her. She had promised Mama she wouldn’t let him rile her anymore. Ignore him, Mama had told her. Which sounded easy beside the fire in the front room at home but wasn’t so easy in front of every kid in Currituck.

  Henry narrowed his eyes. “Or maybe …”—he drew the word out—“maybe … he came out to visit because of your pa.”

  A knot jerked itself tight in Pam’s chest. Did Henry also know something about Papa, something she didn’t know? Careful to hold
her voice steady, she said, “What about Papa?”

  “I know some things about him. Suspicious things.”

  Pam eyed Henry. She was willing to bet he was bluffing. If Henry really knew something, with his love for center stage, he’d waste no time in sharing it with everyone. “I don’t think you know anything,” she said.

  “I know his letters come cut full of holes.”

  Relief washed over her. This was Henry’s big news. “His letters are censored, you dunce. The army cuts out names of towns or anything that might give away where troops are moving. What’re you looking at his letters for, anyway?”

  “Hear that?” he said, ignoring her question. “She’s calling me a dunce. Bet she can’t even spell the word.” He laughed.

  Pam felt her face color. Her temples pounded. Fury mounted in her chest. If she opened her mouth to speak, she knew she would explode. She stood glaring at Henry.

  He smirked back at her. “Wouldn’t surprise me none if your pa was a spy too.”

  Henry had pushed Pam too far. Something inside of her snapped. “I’ll give you a surprise, Henry Bagley!” Fists clenched, she swung at him. Her knuckles slammed into his chin, and he reeled backward, lost his balance, and fell. Pam was shaking all over. She couldn’t believe she had really hit Henry. She hoped it would be over, that he wouldn’t fight back, and for a long minute, she thought it was. He seemed stunned by her nerve; he lay on the ground, staring in disbelief. Then somebody snickered—she thought it was Sam—and Henry’s eyes suddenly turned angry. He leaped to his feet and shoved Pam hard. She shoved him back. The next thing she knew they were rolling on the ground, tussling.

  Then Miss Merrell was pulling her off of Henry. Miss Merrell’s eyes flashed. “I’m ashamed of both of you.” To the other children she said. “All of you. Inside now.”

  She grasped one of Pam’s arms and one of Henry’s, but her eyes, hard as stones, were riveted on Pam. “Henry’s behavior doesn’t surprise me. But you, Pam, what’s gotten into you? Fighting like a boy. What do I have to do to get you to behave?”