The Night Flyers

by Elizabeth McDavid Jones

  Pam’s face burned with shame. Why did she let Henry get to her? Why couldn’t she learn to rein her temper in? There was no excuse for losing control, no excuse. She wanted to beg Miss Merrell to forgive her, but her tongue was cotton in her mouth; it wouldn’t move. All she could do was shake her head.

  Pam’s palms smarted where Miss Merrell had switched them, but inside she felt numb. Being sent home early was worse than staying after school; she had to bear everyone staring at her as she walked down the aisle between desks to the cloakroom. They’re all feeling sorry for me, she thought. She wanted to run out, like Henry had done, but she made herself take slow, steady steps and hold her head high. Pam had disgraced herself again—twice in less than a week. What would Mama say this time?

  Henry was waiting for her outside. “My pa’s gonna fire your mother when he hears what you did,” he yelled. Then he sprinted across the school yard and leaped over the fence. Pam watched him disappear around the corner of the red brick courthouse. Everyone in the drugstore would know about her crime in a matter of minutes. Would Mr. Bagley really fire Mama? How would they survive with no money coming in? Would she be forced, after all, to make a deal with Arminger?

  She dragged along toward the drugstore, wrapped in gloom, until she noticed a crowd milling around in front of Purdy’s Grain and Seed. Crowds in Currituck usually meant news. When President Wilson asked Congress to enter the war already raging in Europe, a special-edition Gazette came by steamboat from Norfolk and half the town gathered to hear Mr. Bagley read it out loud. It had been a Saturday, and Pam was in town with Papa getting groceries. Pam hadn’t paid much mind to all the stir; Europe was too far away from Currituck for her to care. Then like a twister the war had yanked Papa clean away and set him down way across the ocean right in the middle of it all.

  Maybe something important had happened now, something that had to do with the war. Pam hurried across the street to see what the commotion was.

  “What’s going on?” she asked Mr. Connor Eagles, who was standing at the back of the crowd. Mr. Connor was over seventy and had a wooden leg, his own lost in “The War,” meaning the War for Southern Independence; to his mind, there’d been no other war since.

  “Folks is gawking at the motor truck. Seems to be no end o’ such newfangled contraptions. You wanna have a look-see, li’l missy?” Mr. Connor was hard of hearing, half blind, and had long since given up on trying to put names with faces. He pushed Pam to the front of the crowd. “Let this li’l gal get up there and see that foreigner’s motor truck.”

  Foreigner! This was Arminger’s truck! Pam’s pulse pounded. Her eyes darted through the crowd, but she saw no sign of the mysterious stranger. She couldn’t help gawking, like everyone else. The truck was huge. It looked like a farm wagon hitched to a locomotive. People were touching it timidly as if they thought it might bare its teeth at any moment and bite. Though Pam had never seen a real motor truck, she was more interested in its cargo than in the machine. Dozens of sacks of grain were stacked in the bed of the truck. What did Arminger plan to do with so much grain?

  Pam was craning her neck to try to make out the printing on the sacks when she saw Arminger come out of the Grain and Seed with another sack slung over his shoulder. He looked right at her and grinned. He had seen her!

  Into Pam’s mind flashed memories of the whispered rumors, of Arminger’s strange behavior, of Mama’s warnings. Sudden panic gripped her. She had to get away! She turned and slipped back through the crowd. She heard him behind her, pushing through the press of people. He was coming after her! “Excuse me, madam. Excuse me.” His s’s hissed, and Pam had an image of the serpent in the Garden of Eden tempting Eve: “Did God ssssay …” A needle-sharp fear twisted inside her.

  Pam dived through the nearest doorway, which happened to be the dry goods store. Had Arminger seen her go in? She winced as a bell above the door tinkled, announcing her entry to the owner, Mr. Dozier … and to Arminger. Quickly she ducked behind some bolts of cloth standing upright on a rear counter.

  Mr. Dozier had his back turned, stocking shelves, and didn’t bother turning around. He was known for his lackadaisical attitude toward customers. “Can I help you?” Pam heard him mutter. There was no way he could see her way back here, but she hunkered lower behind the counter. She willed her heartbeat to slow down, sure its hammering would give her away. A cold sweat ran down her neck.

  Finally she heard, “Dang wind.” Mr. Dozier thought the door had been blown open by the wind! She figured that meant she was safe … for now. She slumped to the floor and tried to think what to do next. She couldn’t stay put; it was only a matter of time before Mr. Dozier or a browsing customer wandered back and found her. There had to be a back door somewhere. But where?

  Then she jumped half out of her skin as a voice above her head whispered, “Playing hooky, Pam?”

  Pam looked up into the smiling face of Miss Sadie Ritch, the seamstress. Miss Sadie was an old maid, nearly thirty and unmarried, but she gave the girls scraps of fabric to use for doll dresses, and Pam liked her. Only thing about Miss Sadie, she could talk the ear off a mule. She might hold Pam here till kingdom come asking questions, and any minute Arminger could come barging through the door after her. Pam had to cut loose from Miss Sadie and get out of here somehow—and fast.

  “Hey there, Miss Sadie,” Pam murmured, her eyes flicking from Miss Sadie’s face to the door and back. “I was hunting for … Mama promised me a new ribbon for my Sunday hat.” That was the truth, though not the answer Miss Sadie had been looking for. Which made it as good as a lie, Pam thought guiltily. She squirmed. Miss Sadie looked doubtful. A bigger lie helped itself out of Pam’s mouth. “Just came over for recess,” she stammered. “Gotta go now … get back to school.” Pam was disgusted with the ease of her fibbing.

  Pam’s self-reproach turned to alarm as the bell above the door tinkled. “You know Pam Lowder, yah?” It was Arminger! Talking to Mr. Dozier!

  Every muscle in Pam’s body tensed. She lifted a finger to her lips and looked at Miss Sadie. Don’t give me away, she silently pleaded.

  Miss Sadie crouched beside Pam and whispered, “That’s him? The one they say is a German?” Her eyes were alive with interest. “What on earth does he want with you, child?”

  Pam’s words were barely audible and filled with fear. “I don’t know, Miss Sadie. I don’t know.”

  Miss Sadie glanced to the front of the store. She seemed to be studying a rack of ready-made shirts in the aisle. Pam could hear Mr. Dozier talking, then Arminger. “I saw her come in here,” Arminger was saying.

  Suddenly Miss Sadie snapped her eyes back to Pam. “Come.” She pulled Pam into the storage room adjoining the store and pointed to a door that stood open to the breeze. “Through there, child. Run.”

  Pam ran.

  CHAPTER 5

  A PROWLER

  Pam took a roundabout route through town, running all the way. She didn’t feel safe until she reached the drugstore and there was still no sign of Arminger.

  She collapsed on the front steps, gasping for breath. It was only then she remembered her disgrace at school and Henry’s threat to have Mama fired.

  She picked herself up and made herself go into the store. Mama was wiping down the glass doors of the big oak cabinet where Mr. Bagley displayed his wares. On the top shelf were the ladies’ toiletries: jars of cold cream, hairbrushes and combs, nail files, bath powder, fans. Under that were shaving mugs for the men and boxes of cigars and pipe tobacco, and the bottom shelf held soap flakes and toothpaste. On the other side of the cabinet were the tonics and cure-alls: Rexall Olive Oil Emulsion, Rexall Liver Salts, Gold Medal Ephedrine Nasal Jelly, Dr. Miles’ Laxative Cold Cure, Karnac Stomachic Tonic and System Regulator.

  At least Mama still has her job, thought Pam with relief. Mr. Bagley was nowhere in sight.

  “Has Henry been here?” Pam asked Mama.

  “He ran in a while ago, but skedaddled when he found out his pa had gone
out to Slidell. We sold clean out of all those bottles of old Mr. Tripp’s nerve tonic, and Mr. Bagley went to fetch some more,” Mama said. “What you two doing out of school?”

  Pam poured the whole story out to Mama, including the episode with Mr. Arminger. She left out only the part about Henry’s threat. There was no use worrying Mama since Henry hadn’t carried through yet. Mama listened without saying much, but Pam could tell she was none too pleased with any of it. When Pam finished, Mama was silent for a minute. “Well, I hope you’re pure ashamed of yourself.”

  Pam hung her head. “Yes, ma’am. Terrible.”

  “That’s punishment enough then. ’Cept maybe you’re due to copy down some Bible verses ’bout patience and not being provoked to wrath. You got to learn to put up with Henry, Pam. Ain’t no two ways about it.”

  Pam knew Mama was right. But she still wondered how Henry could have known Arminger wanted to buy her pigeons. She asked Mama.

  “Why, Henry was here the whole time I was talking with Mr. Arminger, the first time he came in asking after your pigeons. Henry run over from the schoolhouse during recess. He was up at the soda fountain, begging his pa for Coca-Cola, but I s’pose he could’ve heard most of what was said.”

  Mama stopped her cleaning and looked earnestly at Pam. “Listen, honey. About Mr. Arminger. I’m afraid I scared you the other evening. Ain’t no cause to fret if he speaks to you first. Just don’t be over-friendly till we know him better, hear?”

  Pam nodded. “What about all the talk about him?”

  Mama chuckled. “Funny how quick that German spy business settled down once he commenced to spending good American dollars. Miz Langley flounced in here this morning singing a total opposite tune. Said Mr. Arminger gave an in-spirin’ address at the community loyalty meeting last night and a heap of money to her Red Cross goose sale. Now she’s plumb tickled he’s settling down in Currituck.”

  “He’s staying then?”

  “Already bought him up a piece of land in the woods upcreek from us,” Mama said. “You recollect old Sanders the hermit? Your papa used to fish and hunt with him years ago. Papa was pretty much the only person Sanders would cotton to, and it was Papa who found him dead in his cabin and buried him, remember?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. Papa took me out to his cabin a few times. Mr. Sanders kept a passel of animals in the house. His coon ate out of my hand, but wouldn’t get near Papa. Mr. Sanders said he could tell I had a rare way with animals.”

  Mama nodded, remembering. “Seems Mr. Arminger is setting up housekeeping in Sanders’ old cabin. The way I hear it, he’s a fisherman from New England, come south with his sons to take up herring fishing. And he’s looking to raise some birds, he says, leghorn chickens maybe. Maybe pigeons.”

  At that moment suspicion flared in the pit of Pam’s stomach. Arminger’s story didn’t add up. “He didn’t appear to know a thing about fishing the other night. Seemed to know more about animals than anything else.”

  “He’s been fishing up north, sugar. I reckon it’s a different business up there.”

  “Don’t it seem peculiar he was buying grain instead of fishing gear?”

  “Likely he already has his gear.”

  “But, Mama, all that grain—like he already had him a mess of pigeons.”

  Mama heaved an impatient sigh. “Pam, leave it be. The man prob’ly up and bought birds from someone else. Yours ain’t the only pigeons in the county.”

  Pam fell silent. She was deeply stung. She hadn’t realized how much Arminger’s admiration had meant to her. Now he appeared to have found other pigeons that suited him. A passel of ’em.

  The wind was blowing steady out of the northeast by the time Pam and Mama got home. Gray clouds hung low in the sky, and the creek was chopping straight up and down. It was prime fishing weather. Bluefish would be running; spotted sea trout would be up the river.

  “Wouldn’t Papa be rarin’ to get out on the water?” said Pam aloud. She was on her way to the toolshed where she stored her pigeons’ food. A voice inside her added, If he was here. Pam’s throat swelled and ached. Nothing was the same with Papa gone. Nothing.

  Then Bosporus came bounding out of nowhere, barking furiously. The wind was bristling his fur and making the hair on his neck stand straight up. He jumped up on Pam and seemed to dance for a minute on his hind legs. Pam laughed. He reminded her of a clown she’d seen once on a circus poster.

  Pam stroked his muzzle affectionately. “You’re in high spirits today. Can you feel the storm coming on?” Bosporus whined deep in his throat and loped to the toolshed. He stood outside the door whimpering.

  “You are some anxious to get them pigeons fed, ain’t ya, boy?” When she opened the shed door, though, she realized it wasn’t high spirits that had Bosporus acting funny. Sacks of barley and oats lay askew, spilling their contents onto the floor. Maple peas and sunflower seeds were scattered everywhere. Some old feeding troughs had been knocked off a shelf. An empty paper sack, blown by the wind from the open window, scratched across the plank floor.

  “So. This is what you were trying to tell me, Bos,” Pam said with dismay. “Someone’s been in here. Escaped through the window, looks like.” She pushed down the sash with a bang. “Who was it, Bos? Someone you—” But she cut herself off. Something was moving down by the barn!

  She raced outside. Daylight was fading fast. The bullfrogs from the creek were starting to growl, the crickets to sing. Had she really seen anything? Maybe it was just her imagination.

  No, there it was again, a shadow flitting into the barn!

  Her senses alert, Pam crept into the dimness of the barn. She held her breath, waiting, waiting to hear something, anything, out of the ordinary. But there was nothing. Only Lula and Daisy stamping in their stalls. Pyrenees lowing for milk. A mouse scuttling up in the hayloft. She searched the empty stalls, the corner behind the plow and the old wagon, the tack room where Papa kept his crab pots and fishing nets and his hip boots. Nothing.

  Bosporus was lying obediently just outside the barn waiting for Pam. “I could’ve sworn I saw someone,” she told him as she fastened the latch on the barn door. He whined and thumped his tail on the ground.

  That was when Pam noticed the cigarette butt in the dirt. “How did that get here?” She bent to pick it up, but suddenly froze. Her pigeons were squawking!

  Padding as quietly as she could through the growing darkness, she hurried to the loft. The wind had picked up, and it was growing cold. All she could see were shapes and shadows, until she was nearly on top of the loft. Then what she saw sent a shiver down her spine.

  It was Arminger. With Caspian perched on his shoulder.

  CHAPTER 6

  MAMA’S ULTIMATUM

  What are you doing with my bird?” Pam demanded. Her voice trembled with anger. Caspian flapped off Arminger’s shoulder and lighted on hers. Pam felt a rush of affection for her favorite pigeon. She stroked his silky crop with one finger.

  “I came back to try to convince you to sell your birds,” said Arminger. “They seemed agitated, and I found this one loose. Apparently he escaped through that hole in your fly-pen.” He pointed to a gap in the mesh near the base of the fly-pen.

  “How did that come loose?” Pam crouched to examine the hole. Too many fishy things had been happening lately—and they all seemed to happen when Arminger was around. “Looks like it was pried loose.” Her voice held accusation—purposely.

  Arminger made no comment, though Pam didn’t see how he could have missed the meaning of her tone. She pushed the mesh down and secured it with a rock.

  “Your bird”—Arminger nodded toward Caspian—“is very well trained. Responds to your voice, yah?”

  Pam fought the warmth unfurling inside her. She would not be led on by Arminger’s flattery. “My birds trust me,” she said coldly, “and they know who feeds them.”

  “But surely there’s something you do, techniques you use, a certain way of handling, that creates that trust.”
Arminger’s voice was animated. “Night-flying pigeons. “A dog learning not to be a dog. These are not ordinary animals you have here.”

  He flipped a hand toward Bosporus, standing at Pam’s heels. A growl rumbled deep in Bosporus’ throat. Pam scratched behind her dog’s ears to calm him. A whippoorwill sounded in the distance. Pam made no reply to Arminger.

  He was not easily discouraged. “Your dog—Bos you call him—a cross of setter and wolf. A rare union, I would say. How did that come about?”

  “I don’t know, really. I found him in the woods a few months ago, hurt bad. He was just a wee thing, cussed as a snake, but he answered real fast to a little attention. And to Mama’s good cooking.” Pam felt herself warming to Arminger; she couldn’t help it. She’d never known anyone else as passionate about animals as she was.

  “Wasn’t long before he was eating out of my hand,” she went on. “Now he looks after my pigeons like they were his own pups.” She hesitated a moment. Maybe she was giving Arminger the wrong impression about Bos. Her dog was no pansy. The man might think he could get away with something. “I wouldn’t get too near him, though. He can be right hard on folks he don’t cotton to.”

  “I understand. Otherwise he wouldn’t be much use as a watchdog.”

  Pam marveled at the way Arminger echoed her own thoughts. Like he could read her mind. It was almost scary.

  Arminger lit up a cigarette. “I still want your pigeons, Pam. Very badly. At least let me have one pair—that fine cock there, and his mate. I’ll still give you the two hundred. For those birds alone.”

  Pam gasped. A hundred dollars a bird! If she sold her whole loft at that rate—“No!” she cried. She wouldn’t even think about it. “Not Caspian. He’s my favorite bird.”

  “Any pair then. Any of your best-trained birds.” Arminger took a draw from his cigarette. Its orange end glowed in the darkness.