Chapter Twenty-Five

Sometimes, when Mom has one of her fragile days, she’s more delicate than dried rose petals, and I fear the next hard gust of wind will break her in two. But then there are times like now, when her gentle arms grow strong as iron.

We stay like that, curled up on the hallway floor while thistles tear me up inside, but no matter how I thrash and cry, she never lets me go.

Scotty pulls his heavy blanket from his bed and tucks it around us both, the weight grounding me as much as my mother’s arms. She holds me for a long time, and after awhile, we move to the couch—and that “rest” Hutsi talked about sneaks right up and steals me away.

When I wake, Mom agrees to let me stay home alone during the day only if

#1. I promise to keep the cell phone with me at all times—charged and with the sound on, and

#2. I promise to let Hutsi pick me up before dark for dinner and bed.

With no chores to do, I work on Mr. Collier’s report out on the porch. I start out on the porch swing but end up scooting a chair beside T-Rex’s nest so I can tuck my bare feet under his warm side as he sleeps.

Scuzbag decides he needs some loves too and jumps onto my lap—right on top of my homework.

“Hey!” I wiggle my papers under his feet, but Scuzbag yawns and lies down across my whole notebook. “How am I supposed to write like this?”

Purring, he rubs his face on my hand, ready for the petting to begin. I swirl a finger around each delicate ear and trail down and under his chin for a good, long scratching. Pretty soon, I’ve got both hands rubbing his neck and belly, and he’s starting to drool when Mr. Ferro’s red Dodge turns onto the driveway.

After he parks, and closes and locks the door, he waves. “I didn’t expect to see anyone home.”

“Mom let me stay for the day.”

“How’s your grandpa?” He strolls up the walk and sits on the top step in his jeans and tennis shoes.

“He’s resting and tired, but okay.”

“Excellent. I’m glad to hear it. I came to check the outbuildings again for Royal. Maybe see if there’s someplace we missed.”

I wish it was that easy to find him, but it seems like things have a way of staying lost on the farm. “Go ahead. But we checked them already.”

“I know. But it’s the strangest thing—yesterday, when the ambulance was coming, I swear I heard a peacock cry.”

My fingers still. “I heard that too.”

“And yet he’s not in any of the surrounding trees or buildings. I can’t help but think I’m missing something.”

I like the way he looks across the fields. It’s not like those other guys who looked through the trees and buildings. It’s more like Mr. Ferro sees them and wants to know what they’re made of, right down to the ground. I suppose reporters have to understand things like that.

Scuzbag hooks my finger with a claw to make sure I continue petting him proper again, so I do, and his purr box starts up again, full throttle.

“So, why do you have peacocks if you live in the city?” I think he might have told me before, but it didn’t stick. “I never heard of a journalist with a peacock before.”

“True. I grew up with my parents on the East Coast, but my grandparents had an acreage with an exotic bird aviary on the Tyhee Flats near Chubbuck.” He waves a hand to the west. “Pheasants and peacocks were a labor of love for my grandfather, and after he passed, my grandmother cared for the birds out of love for him. Some of the peacocks are almost as old as I am, but your Royal is one of the newer ones. Grandfather’s records place him at around four years old.”

“Are they happy there?” I always imagined Royal running away from someplace awful, but now I’m not so sure.

“I think so. I’ve contracted with a local vet to be sure the birds receive proper care, but I suspect some neighborhood kids threw sticks at Royal and scared him off.”

“Who would do that?” Anyone who throws things at ani-mals deserves to take a long dive into the manure pile, headfirst.

“I was too focused on watching Royal fly to pay attention to the fleeing kids, but with all the houses packed in around the property now, it could have been anyone. I remember there being fields all the way around my grandparents’ home, but the only field left is theirs. The rest of the peacocks are okay, though. Would you like to see them?” At my nod, he jogs to his truck and returns with a tablet, taps the screen, and passes it to me. “I took some pictures last week to send to the sanctuaries and zoos for possible adoption. You can scroll through them, if you like.”

Two white peacocks sit on a branch while brown peahens lie in the grass at the foot of the tree. In the next picture, a blue peacock fans his tail beside a half-eaten watermelon. I stop on a picture of a giant painting. “What’s this?”

He leans closer. “Ah, Grandmother’s mural. She painted her life story on the side of the garage. Not everything that happened, just the highlights.”

I zoom in on the tablet to see the details better. It starts with a boy and a girl holding hands beside a peacock, whose tail trails up and around them like a picture frame. Behind them, a tractor puffs smoke on its way across a field dotted with peacocks and quail, who fly and peck the earth.

“Your grandma was a real good artist.” I follow the landscape as it escapes from the peacock frame and spills into scene after scene of farm and family.

He points to a little boy about midway across the landscape, holding onto a woman’s hand. He has a letter in his other hand. “That’s me. Back then, we wrote letters. Now, I mostly do emails, and phone calls, but all my writing started by hand.”

Toward the end of the mural, houses begin to dot the landscape, and a skyscraper with two kids standing on top reaches up to painted clouds.

“Are these your kids?” I point at the girl and boy.

“Yes.”

“Why aren’t they here with you?”

“They have school and obligations at home in Boston. I’m only here for a couple months to take care of my grandparents’ estate and rehome their birds. Besides, my kids prefer to stay with my ex, where the Wi-Fi is good.” He takes the tablet back and gazes at the two figures on the screen a moment before closing it and standing up. “If you catch Royal, please call.”

“Okay.”

It’s not long after he drives off that I’m in my mudboots, walking past the wheat field with T-Rex, on our way to the corn.

Another month, and this wheat will be taller than my knees, with feathery wisps on each head. Then weeks of sun will bake it till the wheat seeds dry in the heads, and the crowns turn to gold. It always looks the softest then, but it’s a trick—the dried heads are the prickliest to the touch.

I can’t help but wonder who will be here to run their fingers through the fresh-cut grain when it’s time for harvest.

If that foreclosure letter Mom talked about is right, it won’t be me.

At the cornfield, I get to work while T-Rex supervises.

Grandpa and me laid out the pipe last week, but we didn’t have time to hook it all up, so the corn’s looking a little thirsty. It’s the only thing I can see that Mateo hasn’t already done.

Line after line, I ease the pipes together and get them to latch. Sometimes the sprinkler birds fall over—and when one goes down, they all do—just to spite me, but I get it done anyway. Mostly, I’m glad to do something useful and finish what Grandpa and me started.

When I get the last line hooked and ready, I walk across the field to the corn pump on the far side.

Nestled in a thicket of quakey trees, the silver turbine pump perches atop a square cement casing, sort of like a shallow well that burrows down into the canal bank. Green pipes run from the pump to the irrigation lines that feed water to the corn.

Leaves and things float on the canal, but an underwater wire mesh keeps most of the junk out of the cement square and away from the pump. The water level seems high enough, so I reach for the power switch to flip it on.

A small splash sounds from inside the cement beneath the pump. At least, I think it’s a splash. Could be I’m imagining it—except T-Rex stands beside the cement, his nose twitching.

“What is it, boy?” Water splashes again, and I warily peek over the cement ledge. With my luck, it’ll probably be a skunk. Below, dark and swirling water circles the intake pipe for the pump, but nothing treads water. Could it be a fish?

Brown leaves on the surface shift unnaturally, as if an impossibly large hand scooped them up all at once and moved them over. I can’t understand what I’m seeing until a dirty, but elegant neck swivels from its place in the corner and something looks at me with bright black eyes.

My peacock!

“It’s you!”

My yell startles Royal, who thrashes to get free, but his long tail is deep beneath the muddied water and drags his whole body down. It’s all he can do to keep his head above water, with his wings spread to the sides like f limsy, sinking rafts.

In the time it takes me to understand what’s happening, the water slips over the base of his neck, submerging his back entirely.

He’s going to drown right in front of my eyes.

I search frantically for something—anything—to prop him up.

A couple of thin branches lie between some trees where Grandpa put weeds he pulled from the canal, but when I hurry around, I see Grandpa’s pitchfork propped against the far side of the cement.

Even better.

I grab it and gingerly lower it into the water. If I can get it under him, he can ride it up like a backhoe. He flaps when it nears him, and when I finally get it into position, he slides off again and again when I try to lift him. The angle’s too steep. I can’t get him out like this.

Tired from fighting my attempts to help him, Royal sinks a little more.

“Oh gosh!” I ease the tines underneath the bird, but instead of trying to lift him, I press the sharp ends of the pitchfork against the cement with all my might. Then I wedge the top of the handle against the other side. It’s not enough lift to get him out, but at least he can stand on it and rest. Once he gets his feet under him, he’s high enough out of the water to draw his muddied wings closer to his body.

If it weren’t for his tail, he could jump out. It’s holding him down as sure as any chain. What did that plate Mr. Ferro gave me say? “The sparrow is sorry for the peacock at the burden of its tail.” I bet Royal’s wishin’ for a sparrow’s tail now instead of the elegant one he’s got. If only he could let go and jump free of it.

Getting him out on my own is impossible, but I don’t dare leave him to go find help. What if the pitchfork falls in? He’s so exhausted, he’d drown for sure. I pat my pockets and find the wishstone in my right, and the cell phone in my left.

I pull out the phone, my thumbs hovering over the screen. Grandpa can’t help, and Mom’s in town. Neither of them can help us.

I begin dialing.

Mateo’s voice mail picks up after three rings. “Bueno, hablame.”

Short and to the point. But if his phone rang for that long, either he left it on the charger, or he watched it ring and didn’t pick up.

His last words echo in my head—Text you later. An invitation and a challenge.

Fine.

As my thumbs press the letters on the screen, a familiar panic creeps up inside my head, but I shove it down. This time, things are different. This text could save Royal.

I need you at the pump by the corn. Found Royal in the pump hole. Bring something to help. Hurry.

Send.

I watch the road toward Mateo’s house as if he’ll instantly appear, but he doesn’t.

I wait.

And wait.

But as soon as I start to think maybe I should have called Hutsi or someone else, I hear the most beautiful sound that ever was—the growl of Mateo’s dirt bike.

He doesn’t have a net, but he does have his lasso over his shoulder.

“Where is he?” He props the bike up.

“Down there.” I tilt my head toward the hole. “But be slow or you’ll scare him off the pitchfork and he’ll drown.”

He peers down the hole. “Look at all that mud on him. It’s a miracle he didn’t sink.”

“He almost did.” I shudder. “I almost turned on the pump.”

“With his tail feathers down there, he’d have been toast for sure. Good thinking wedging the fork under him like that.”

“It was all I could think to do.”

Studying the hole, he shakes his head. “I thought maybe I could get a rope around him, but I think he’d spook and fall in again. We need a real net. Mr. Ferro had one, didn’t he?”

“Yes! Do you have his number?”

Mateo turns away, his fingers flying on his phone. “On it.”

Ten minutes later, the red Dodge Ram spits gravel down the road toward us and skids to a stop.

The door flies open, and Mr. Ferro jumps out. “Where is he?”

“He’s down there.” Mateo points at the hole. “Paige saved him from drowning. You got the net?”

“Absolutely.” Mr. Ferro slams the door and pulls a net with a long silver pole out of the truck bed.

Together—Mateo using a stick, me holding the pitchfork, and Mr. Ferro working the net—we catch Royal in the net, with the opening against the cement. The only part of him not contained is his sad and drooping tail, which hangs out the side, the feathers all broken and muddy.

“Mateo, can you grab a blanket from the truck, please?” Mr. Ferro asks.

“You got it.” Mateo runs, and I peer at the shivering little body. If it weren’t for the head, I’d never know a peacock was under all that muck.

When Mateo gets back with the blanket, we drape the corner of it over the net and carefully swap the net for the blanket, always keeping Royal’s wings tucked tight against his body. At last he’s in my arms, an extra-muddy bird burrito.

Mr. Ferro passes Mateo the net and adjusts a few things with Royal before taking him from my arms and cradling him against his chest. “Paige, can you get the door?”

“Sure.”

Mateo drops the net in the back of the truck while Mr. Ferro places Royal carefully on the floor behind the seats and tucks another blanket around him.

“I’ll call after the vet checks him out. I can’t believe we found him again.” He flashes a grin at us and then speeds away.

With one more look to be sure nothing else lurks in the water—and a couple of swishes with the pitchfork just to be sure—I pull the lever and start the pump. The loud whine fills the air, and we watch for a few minutes as water leaks from every joint until the line pressurizes.

“So.” Mateo rocks back on his heels. “You texted me.”

“Yeah, and? People text, right? Isn’t that what you guys keep telling me?”

His smile is a slow, mischievous thing, and I want to smile back, but first, I need to set things right.

“I’m really sorry about your mom’s plant.”

“I know.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“Accidents happen.” With a shrug, he walks his bike beside me and T-Rex, waiting now and then as I jam a wire down inside a bunch of clogged Rain Birds and pump the nozzle till mud and grass spit out, freeing the line. Normally we have one or two clogged birds, but today, there are almost ten. Royal musta been fighting for his life a long time to kick this much mud into the lines.

Details about Mom and Grandpa and the foreclosure letter spill out of me as we go, and for once, Mateo listens without interrupting. At last, he says, “So you have to sell or the bank will take it anyway.”

“Mom says if that happens, we won’t have a choice. It’s move or get kicked out. The bank doesn’t care that my family’s been here a hundred years. When it’s money, nothing else matters. And when the bank takes it, it’ll get developed for sure. I don’t know. Maybe Mom was wrong to turn down the people Dolly found last time.”

“Maybe if we bring in a bunch of farmers, someone will want to buy it,” Mateo says.

“Yeah, because that worked so well last time.”

He raises a finger. “All you need is an open house that we don’t sabotage.”