CHAPTER 3

A SURPRISING OFFER

The image of the Hun on the poster flashed into Pam’s head, and fear clutched at her throat. “Who are you?” she choked out.

“Arminger,” said the man, casually, as if he wasn’t the least bit interested in his own name. He was staring at Bosporus. “Beautiful animal, though I don’t recognize the breed. What is he?” He reached a hand toward the dog. Bosporus growled.

Pam’s answer was guarded. “Part setter. Part wolf.” She emphasized the word wolf. “Why are you here?” She was careful to keep Bos between them.

“Yah, I can see the setter in him, and the wolf, now that you mention it. The strong haunches, the thick shoulders … yah.” Arminger nodded and took the cigarette he was smoking from his mouth. “Gorgeous animal.” He paused a moment, then went on. “But I came to see your birds. Your mother gave consent. I’m new in Currituck, you see, and I’m thinking of raising some pigeons.”

So Mama had given him leave to come see her, which meant she wasn’t worried about Arminger. Maybe I’m fretting over nothing, thought Pam. She glanced at Mama’s figure passing in front of the lighted kitchen window. What should she do if the man did offer to buy her birds? Did Mama want her to sell them? They needed the money badly. Cross that bridge when you come to it, she thought.

The least she could do was show this Arminger around. Besides, it would give her a chance to “talk pigeons,” which she hadn’t been able to do since Papa left. Pam willed herself to relax. “Come on in the loft. You’ll see it’s big for the number of birds I got. Maybe it looks like an ordinary shed on the outside, but inside I think it’s real special.” She held the loft door open and waved Arminger in. “My papa says giving pigeons breathing space makes ’em healthier. So does fresh air and sunlight. That’s why he put in windows on one wall and attached the fly-pen to one side of the loft. An opening between lets the birds go in and out of the fly-pen whenever they want. Except when the weather’s bad. Then I close the opening off.”

Arminger started into the loft eagerly, but nearly tripped when Bosporus squeezed ahead of him. “You let your dog in with your pigeons?”

“I’m training him as my guard dog. I taught him not to act like a dog around the birds. Barking and pigeons don’t mix.”

“I’m impressed,” said Arminger. “A dog learning not to be a dog.”

The words of praise sent a tingle of warmth through Pam’s body. Here was someone who appreciated her skill with animals. So he sounded a little peculiar, the way he talked in his throat and dropped his r’s. That didn’t make him a German. Mama had said so. He was nothing like the Hun on the poster. And he knows animals, Pam told herself emphatically. He can’t be too bad.

Her wariness began to evaporate, and “pigeon talk” simply slipped out of her mouth. “There’s swamps all around here, and the weather’s wet and windy, not the best climate for pigeons. See how the loft is open only on the side that has the fly-pen, and that side’s sheltered by myrtle bushes? Protects the pigeons from drafts, and the sloping roof and overhang keeps even the fly-pen dry as a bone.” She felt like Mattie, prattling on, but Arminger hung on every word. He would be a good pigeoneer, thought Pam. He noticed things most people wouldn’t, like the condition of a bird’s feathers, the keenness of its eye, or just the fact that every bird was different—in coloring, in build, in personality.

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?”