Beans jumped to his feet, looked up. “Where?”
Mutto pointed. “There.” He stood. “It’s gone.”
“Which way?” said Beans.
Mutto pointed again. “That way.”
Beans took off.
They caught up to him in an alley half a mile away. He was on his hands and knees, heaving clouds of vapor. “Got away.” He gasped. He got to his feet but stayed in a squat, like a baseball catcher. His eyes scanned the sky. Then turned to Palmer. “The pigeon was flying over your house.”
Everyone was looking at him.
“I never saw any pigeon around my house.” Palmer forced out a chuckle. “I don’t think Mutto knows what he’s talking about. It probably wasn’t even a pigeon. It was probably just a crow.”
Mutto stomped. “It was a pigeon!”
Palmer shrugged. “Even if it was, so what? It was probably flying south or something. What pigeon would ever want to stop off in this town?” He laughed.
“A stupid pigeon, that’s who!” yapped Beans.
They all laughed.
Palmer shouted, “I’m treating at the deli!” and trotted up the alley. He made sure to lead them well clear of his backyard.
Later, closing the door to his room behind him, Palmer broke down and sobbed. It had been a tense, uncomfortable day. The muskrat carcass. Mrs. Gruzik’s scream. The pigeon sighting. He heard tapping. He opened the window, and before Nipper could step in he reached out and grabbed him in both hands and pulled him in. The bird squirmed a little but did not struggle to get free. Palmer ran his wet cheek along the silky feathers. He held him up.
“You are a stupid pigeon. Don’t you know nobody around here likes you? Why didn’t you pick another place to land?”
When Palmer set the bird down, it flew to the basketball rim and perched there, ruffing its handled feathers and holding its head high, prim as you please, as if to say, “Because I like it here.”
From that day on Palmer became even more attached to his pigeon. Sometimes after school he would sneak out with the crowd, past the guys, and run home a different way to get there before Nipper. Once, he and Nipper arrived at the same time, and Palmer, dashing up his backyard, suddenly felt familiar feet upon his head.
He wondered where Nipper went during the day. Did he fly around town, oblivious to the danger? Did he go to the park? Steer clear of the soccer field? Did he fly to other towns? For Nipper’s sake, Palmer knew what he should wish. He should wish that Nipper would find another boy in another town, a town that would not run screaming after him, a town that would not hate him, would not shoot him.
But Palmer could not bring himself to make that wish.
Sometimes, when he let Nipper out in the morning, he would watch the bird eat breakfast out on the porch roof. When finished, Nipper would walk to the front edge of the roof, step onto the upturned lip of the rain spout, and with a chuckle take off. But he would not fly straight away. He would soar up and then circle the house once, sometimes twice. The library book had said pigeons do this in order to fix in their mind’s compass the place they must return to. Palmer preferred to think the bird was reluctant to leave. In any case, Nipper then flew off and was quickly out of sight.
He was never clumsy outside of Palmer’s room.
Although in the days that followed, the guys talked and laughed about the muskrat carcass and Mrs. Gruzik’s scream, they stayed away from Dorothy’s house for a while. But not from Dorothy.
They continued to snowball, treestump and otherwise torment her on the way to and from school. Palmer kept expecting consequences. He thought maybe her parents would show up at his front door. Or the principal would announce that they were all suspended. Or Dorothy herself would blow her top. When something finally did happen, it was not what Palmer had expected.