stopped her. Agatha stood up, shook off her wet hands, and put her mittens on one at a time. “You are so ungrateful. Here I am helping you and you act like this. Shame on you.”
“Did he ask you? What happened?” I said.
“What business is that of yours?” she said.
“If you leave, it’s my business,” I said.
She huffed, then flicked up her hands. “No. I’m not marrying him. I told him no. Feel better?”
“He asked you today?”
“No, I gave my
answer
today. Now stop meddling. You get so doggedly determined. Sometimes I’m not surprised that things end up dead around you.”
A mean-spirited remark was what I called that. I took off at a good clip.
Agatha ran in front of me and put out her arms to halt my progress. I stopped when I saw the tears on her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Georgie. We’ve got the store, right? There’s always that.”
“You and me?” I said quickly.
“You and me,” she repeated. I did notice she stated it with little excitement. But the fact she said it at all made me happy.
The male pigeon made Grandfather Bolte happy.
I
was
in trouble, though. I do not recommend icy puddle water for cleaning up on blue-sky February days. When we got home, Ma took one look at me, grabbed the pigeon from my right hand, and told me to get out of those clothes. She wrapped me in two wool blankets and set me in a chair by the kitchen fire. Even with the heat of the fire, my teeth chattered.
Still, a blue tinge never stopped anyone from being in trouble. Ma turned my coat over in her hands. “How could you be so careless?” she said. I saw Agatha smirk.
Grandfather Bolte saved me by walking into the room and seeing that bird. He held it like I’d brought back a brick of gold.
“I swear,” he said. He ran his hands over the long tail feathers and started asking me questions: Where had I shot this pigeon? How many did I see? He wanted to hear every last detail. He listened closely.
Then he gave me a wide smile. “One shot?”
I nodded.
He put his hand on my head. “Figures it was you that got this bird.”
Ma glanced between the two of us. “You spoil that child,” she said to Grandfather Bolte.
Grandfather Bolte smiled at me again, and began to pace. He grabbed a packing slip, turned it over, and scribbled. Then he threw down the pencil and continued his pacing.
He paused briefly in front of me. “Anybody see you bring this bird here?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
He clapped his hands. “Good … good.”
The next thing I knew, Grandfather Bolte had his coat on.
“Where are you going?” said Ma.
“Cooper for barrels,” said Grandfather Bolte.
“Can’t that wait until after dinner?”
“Let me be, Dora,” he said. He jammed on his hat, and slammed the door behind him.
Ma looked startled. Agatha and I glanced at each other, smiles creeping onto our faces. We always thought it was funny when Ma became Grandfather Bolte’s little girl. Ma spotted our grins, and pointed a finger at me. “Don’t think I’m done with you.”
First, Ma made me pluck that pigeon. Second, I was to clean my coat. (I would wear it until worn, no matter the stain.) Third, I was given two weeks of extra chores.
As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one in trouble. Grandfather Bolte ordered so many barrels that it causedconsternation. At one point, I heard Ma say “gamble” and “risking everything” before I was found too close to the door and sent back to work.
But that wasn’t the last of Grandfather Bolte’s spending. I found that packing receipt he’d been scribbling on. It was a list of things pigeoners bought. It was a
costly
list too, like he
knew
those birds would nest in our woods. Ma was right on that score: buying all that was gambling, and worse than card gambling. A person may become skilled at predicting cards, but not at foretelling nestings. There is no sure way to anticipate a pigeon’s preferences in terms of place. Soon as you do, they’ll nest
“Did he ask you? What happened?” I said.
“What business is that of yours?” she said.
“If you leave, it’s my business,” I said.
She huffed, then flicked up her hands. “No. I’m not marrying him. I told him no. Feel better?”
“He asked you today?”
“No, I gave my
answer
today. Now stop meddling. You get so doggedly determined. Sometimes I’m not surprised that things end up dead around you.”
A mean-spirited remark was what I called that. I took off at a good clip.
Agatha ran in front of me and put out her arms to halt my progress. I stopped when I saw the tears on her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Georgie. We’ve got the store, right? There’s always that.”
“You and me?” I said quickly.
“You and me,” she repeated. I did notice she stated it with little excitement. But the fact she said it at all made me happy.
The male pigeon made Grandfather Bolte happy.
I
was
in trouble, though. I do not recommend icy puddle water for cleaning up on blue-sky February days. When we got home, Ma took one look at me, grabbed the pigeon from my right hand, and told me to get out of those clothes. She wrapped me in two wool blankets and set me in a chair by the kitchen fire. Even with the heat of the fire, my teeth chattered.
Still, a blue tinge never stopped anyone from being in trouble. Ma turned my coat over in her hands. “How could you be so careless?” she said. I saw Agatha smirk.
Grandfather Bolte saved me by walking into the room and seeing that bird. He held it like I’d brought back a brick of gold.
“I swear,” he said. He ran his hands over the long tail feathers and started asking me questions: Where had I shot this pigeon? How many did I see? He wanted to hear every last detail. He listened closely.
Then he gave me a wide smile. “One shot?”
I nodded.
He put his hand on my head. “Figures it was you that got this bird.”
Ma glanced between the two of us. “You spoil that child,” she said to Grandfather Bolte.
Grandfather Bolte smiled at me again, and began to pace. He grabbed a packing slip, turned it over, and scribbled. Then he threw down the pencil and continued his pacing.
He paused briefly in front of me. “Anybody see you bring this bird here?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
He clapped his hands. “Good … good.”
The next thing I knew, Grandfather Bolte had his coat on.
“Where are you going?” said Ma.
“Cooper for barrels,” said Grandfather Bolte.
“Can’t that wait until after dinner?”
“Let me be, Dora,” he said. He jammed on his hat, and slammed the door behind him.
Ma looked startled. Agatha and I glanced at each other, smiles creeping onto our faces. We always thought it was funny when Ma became Grandfather Bolte’s little girl. Ma spotted our grins, and pointed a finger at me. “Don’t think I’m done with you.”
First, Ma made me pluck that pigeon. Second, I was to clean my coat. (I would wear it until worn, no matter the stain.) Third, I was given two weeks of extra chores.
As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one in trouble. Grandfather Bolte ordered so many barrels that it causedconsternation. At one point, I heard Ma say “gamble” and “risking everything” before I was found too close to the door and sent back to work.
But that wasn’t the last of Grandfather Bolte’s spending. I found that packing receipt he’d been scribbling on. It was a list of things pigeoners bought. It was a
costly
list too, like he
knew
those birds would nest in our woods. Ma was right on that score: buying all that was gambling, and worse than card gambling. A person may become skilled at predicting cards, but not at foretelling nestings. There is no sure way to anticipate a pigeon’s preferences in terms of place. Soon as you do, they’ll nest
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