Woof Page 15

  “Be good,” said Birdie, and we moved on.

  Just past Night Train’s tree came a quiet little channel with whitish moss hanging down to the water from both sides, pretty much blocking the view beyond. Grammy didn’t turn up the quiet channel, but kept us chugging along in the lake.

  “Hang on a sec,” Donny said. “What’s up there?”

  “Lafitte Creek,” Grammy said. “Nothing to see.”

  “No?” said Donny. “Looks kind of interesting to me.” He turned toward Birdie. “What’s it like?”

  “I don’t know,” Birdie said. “We never go up there.”

  “On account of nothing to see,” Grammy said. “Of no concern to man nor beast.”

  “Mind slowing down?” Donny said. “I’d like to take a picture.”

  Grammy slowed down. We bobbed gently on the water. Donny took a camera from one of his vest pockets, held it up to one eye, closed the other, became part machine again. Click. “Lafitte,” he said. “Wasn’t he a pirate?”

  “Long ago,” Grammy said. “And he was never in these parts.”

  “I don’t know, Grammy. In our packet it said something about Lafitte and Bayou Lafourche, so maybe—”

  Grammy’s voice sharpened. “He was never in these parts, packet or no packet. And this particular creek leads nowhere, just peters out past the first bend. Plus it’s got more mosquitoes than a backed-up sewer. So if you got your picture, Donny—”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  “—we’ll move on to something more interesting.”

  “You’re the captain,” said Donny.

  Grammy turned the boat out into the lake. “Now you can do the part about the changing courses of the Mississippi River,” she said.

  “Uh, well, it’s kind of complicated, but hundreds of years ago, or maybe even …” And Birdie started in on something impossible to follow. It must have interested Donny: He sat quietly, his eyes on the mossy entrance to Lafitte Creek, shrinking in the distance. I lay flat on the deck, just letting the lovely sound of Birdie’s voice flow over me. High above the bald eagle was soaring around, its great white head gleaming in the sunshine. A beautiful sight, yes, but for some reason it made my eyelids heavy.

  When I woke up, we were back at the dock, Birdie tying up at the cleat, Grammy nowhere in sight, Donny standing by the cooler, sipping a soda, and me in the boat by myself. A dream I’d been having—all about a cookout where steak tips kept falling off paper plates—broke into tiny pieces and flew away. Donny went over to Birdie, held out some money.

  “Didn’t you pay Grammy already?” Birdie said.

  “This is a tip,” Donny said.

  “Oh, we don’t do tips. But thanks.”

  “Don’t do tips, huh? How about selling me a map?”

  “What kind of map?”

  “A map of where we just were,” Donny said. “The bayou, the lake, all that.”

  “We only have a map of the whole basin,” Birdie said.

  “Will the lake be on it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good enough.”

  Birdie took the money, started across the dock toward the back of Gaux Family Fish and Bait. I rose, had a nice big stretch, head way down, butt way up, which is the proper way for stretching. After that I gave myself a nice shake, the kind that starts at my nose, goes all the way to my tail, and then comes roaring back. It’s important to wake up right, which is one of my core beliefs. I was trying to think of another of my core beliefs when I realized Donny was watching me. I watched him back.

  He took off his hat, mopped his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm. I got to see those eyes of his plain and unshaded. Nothing smiley about them. Nothing smiley about his mouth, either, not now.

  “What’s your problem?” he said.

  Me? I had no problem whatsoever. But for some reason my tail chose that moment to go all droopy. I got it back up there and pronto. A crazy thought came to me, not my usual sort of thought at all: My tail was kind of my flag. Wow! What a thought! Almost too much for me. I hoped not to have another one like it for some time, or possibly ever.

  “What are you barking at?” said Donny.

  Me? Barking? I took a listen. Yes, he was right! That was my bark, loud, strong, and at the same time very pleasant to the ear. As for what I was actually barking at, why not him? Ol’ Bowser was starting not to be a fan of Donny’s. I amped it up.

  Donny backed quickly away. At the same time, his phone buzzed.

  “Hey,” he said into it, keeping his eyes—now a bit afraid as well as unfriendly—on me. “Just got back, old-timer.” He listened. “It’s a joke. I’ll explain later. And I might have something.” His eyes shifted to Birdie, returning with a glossy brochure in hand. “Gotta go.” He clicked off, put on his hat, smiled at Birdie.

  “Here you go,” she said, giving him the brochure. “And your change. Anything else you need?”

  “That’ll do it.”

  Birdie picked up the cooler. “Thanks for coming on the tour.”

  “Learned a lot,” said Donny.

  “Good,” Birdie said. “C’mon, Bowser.”

  I hopped out of the boat. We headed toward the shop, me and Birdie. I took one look back. Donny was still standing on the dock. He had the brochure open and was making marks on it with a pen.

  BACK HOME, BIRDIE SAT DOWN AT THE computer. I lay at her feet. One thing about Birdie: She seemed to go barefoot a lot of the time. Normally in a human that’s a bit of a turnoff for me, no point in going into the less-than-pleasant sights I’ve seen and smells I’ve smelled. But Birdie was a different story. No surprise there, not if you’re a pal of Birdie’s, which I am. In fact, the number one most important pal, no one else even close. As for her feet—all nice and tan, with interesting chipped bits of polish on some of the nails, mostly blue and white—they smelled of Birdie, just about the best smell out there. Although not in the same class as steak on the barbie, for example.

  All this thought was kind of tiring. Was it possible my eyelids were getting heavy again? Hadn’t I had a nap fairly recently? But some urges just can’t be fought, and I was all set to pack it in, when Birdie said, “Oh, Bowser, I’m scared.”

  Whoa right there! Birdie was scared? What was there to be scared about? I had no idea, but one thing for sure: If she was scared, I wasn’t sleepy. I went into action immediately, first licking her nearest foot, then sitting up nice and tall. She gave me a quick pat, but her eyes were on the screen.

  “If I tell Grammy about the shortcut, and she storms in on the sheriff, and he gets going on the vendetta, Grammy might do something that …” Her voice trailed off. We sat there for a long time. Then Birdie said, “I’m texting Mama. ‘Can U call when U get a chance?’ Don’t want to alarm her, Bowser, but—”

  The computer went ping! And the next thing I knew the face of Birdie’s mom was on the screen. A tired face—maybe even more tired than the last time—but very nice, with alert eyes somewhat similar to Birdie’s, although not like the bright blue sky, more like the sky when clouds block the sun.

  “Birdie?” she said.

  “Hi, Mama.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” said Birdie. “Just saying hi.”

  “Hi,” said Mama. “Now what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, really. I’m just—you know. It’s … it’s good to see you.”

  “Good to see you, too. More than good. Wonderful. I can’t wait to get home. But what’s wrong? Is it about Grammy?”

  “Not really.”

  “What does that mean? Is she sick?”

  “No. Uh, I don’t think so. She had one of those hospital bandages on her wrist but she said it was just some annoyance.”

  Mama smiled, just a quick little smile, there and gone, but nice. “That sounds like her. I wouldn’t worry about Grammy until she stops doing the things she does.”

  “Like what?”

  “Guiding swamp tours, for example.”

  “Oh
, she’s doing that. We went out today.”

  “Full boat?”

  “No. Just one guy.”

  “Ah.”

  “Mama?”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you know about the treasure map?”

  “Treasure map?”

  “The one that maybe got sewn inside Black Jack. Black Jack got stolen, Mama.” Birdie started talking much faster. “First it was supposed to be pirate treasure or maybe from the Civil War, but then there’s all this stuff about Grammy’s dad and some Straker and another guy and the war and … and I don’t know what to think.”

  “Whoa!” Mama said. “Slow down. Black Jack stolen?”

  “The sheriff’s looking into it. I thought old man Straker did it but I guess I was wrong and the sheriff doesn’t think it’s him on account of me going …”

  “You going where?”

  “Uh, it’s just too complicated, Mama. But do you know about the treasure map? Is there a treasure?”

  “Grammy says there isn’t, and she’d know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because … because your dad looked into this, Birdie.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. He didn’t like rumors. He always …” Mama turned away from the camera. Was she wiping her eyes? I couldn’t tell. She faced the camera again and cleared her throat. “He didn’t like rumors and he also didn’t like—”

  Birdie jumped in. “Loose ends.”

  “Exactly! How did you know that?”

  “Oh, Mama, I wish I knew more. I … I wish he was here. Someone …”

  There were tears in Mama’s eyes now for sure, and she looked very worried. “Someone what?”

  Birdie was hunched in front of the screen, her whole body tense.

  “Someone what?” Mama said again, her voice ending on a wobbly sort of high note, like maybe she was about to get real upset.

  Birdie straightened up, pushed back a bit from the screen. “Nothing,” she said. “I guess I just …”

  “Miss your dad?”

  “More like wish I’d known him.”

  “You do know him, honey. You’ve known him all your life. He’s part of you.”

  “Part of me?”

  “Oh, so much.”

  “You mean I’m like him?”

  “In so many ways.”

  Then came a silence, with Birdie gazing at Mama and Mama gazing back at her. Mama’s tears dried up.

  “Birdie?” Mama’s voice was steady again.

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “If you ever need someone and Grammy’s not around, I want you to go see Mr. Savoy.”

  “Mr. Savoy the librarian?”

  “What other Mr. Savoys do we know?”

  “But I don’t really know him,” Birdie said. “I just met him that one time, when he helped us with the flat tire.”

  Mama’s eyes shifted, like … like they were getting pulled at by some thought inside. Did that even make sense? Probably not. No trusting ol’ Bowser on complicated stuff like this.

  “I’m overdue for a meeting,” Mama said. “But trust me on Mr. Savoy.”

  “Okay, Mama. Love you.”

  “Love you.”

  The screen went blank. Actually, not blank. A very rough-looking customer came into view, one of my kind. I let him have it, barking my head off.

  “Bowser, stop! That’s my new screen saver. It’s you, silly!”

  Me? No way!

  After that we went out on the breezeway and had a little snack, a frozen juice bar for Birdie and a biscuit for me, plus most of the juice bar, which happened to fall off the stick and land practically in my mouth. Birdie looked down at me. She was so worried! I hated seeing that.

  “I just couldn’t do it to her, Bowser.”

  Do what? I had no idea. How about another snack, all over again? That was all I could come up with.

  “Let’s go for a walk. I always feel better if I go for a walk.”

  Me too! On top of all the other good things in my life—too many to remember at the moment—Birdie and I were turning out to be alike in some ways.

  “First, how about we clip on your pretty leash?”

  A terrible idea, and not just because there was nothing pretty about the leash. But we were dealing with Birdie here, people. Clip—and away we went. Was she holding the leash real loose? Check. Was I much stronger? Check. So couldn’t I simply take off at will? Check. So why didn’t I? Why didn’t I even want to?

  We ambled down Gentilly Lane. Right away I felt my very best. Soon we were in the middle of our side of town, with shops, restaurants, Claymore’s General Store, and a bit beyond that, Birdie’s school. “And this here,” said Birdie, as we came to a small white building with a bunch of brightly colored pinwheels on the lawn, all still in the breezeless heat, “is the library. One thing about libraries, Bowser—you have to be quiet.”

  Quiet? I could do that. At times. As for library: That was a new one on me. And one little problem was popping up already—if you had to be quiet, someone in there was already breaking the rules. I heard music distinctly, not just any music, but accordion music, particularly harsh to my ears.

  We went inside. I smelled books, one of the nicer smells out there. Had I ever seen so many books in one place? Maybe only once, at this bookstore the gang knocked over by mistake on a day their GPS was broken, whatever that might mean. No gang here, no people at all, really, except for one lone dude sitting by a window in a bright patch of sunshine, playing the accordion. He saw us and—and stopped playing! What a lucky streak I was on!

  The dude rose, swung the accordion around so it hung down his side, and approached us at the front desk. If I’d had to guess I would have said he was around the age of the sheriff or Birdie’s mom. But I didn’t have to guess so we can live without this part. He had a nice, easy way of moving, light on his feet, unlike so many humans, if you don’t mind me squeezing that in. Not as tall or as powerful a man as the sheriff, although his hands looked big and strong. Also, unlike the sheriff, he wore his hair almost down to his shoulders. What else? He smelled of apples. I got ready to like him.

  “Birdie?” he said.

  “Hi, Mr. Savoy,” said Birdie.

  “Nice to see you,” said Mr. Savoy. He turned to me. “And this must be the famous Bowser.”

  And right away I zoomed right past getting ready to like him to liking him full blast. Was I on a roll or what?

  “Uh, yeah,” Birdie said. “But—but how did you know?”

  He laughed. “Touché.”

  Mr. Savoy raised the accordion over his head and set it on the desk.

  “Play any instruments, Birdie?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. Not really, compared to what can be done on this thing by some people around here.” He dusted off his hands, even though they weren’t the slightest bit dusty, dust being one of those impossible-to-miss smells. “Anything I can do for you? We’re actually not open right now, but I’m happy to make an exception in your case. Is there some book you’re looking for?”

  “No,” said Birdie. An uncomfortable sort of silence fell. I smelled mouse droppings somewhere nearby, otherwise had nothing to offer. “I—I guess we’ll be going,” Birdie said.

  “Sure? You’re welcome to stay.”

  “Thanks, but …” Birdie headed toward the door, me right beside her. She had her hand on the knob when Mr. Savoy called after us.

  “They say your great-grandfather was a great accordion player.”

  Birdie turned quickly. “Yeah? You mean my grammy’s dad?”

  “Right. Maurice Gaux. I’ve been researching the history of music in St. Roch and came across a recording of his just the other day.”

  “He made a record?”

  “Well, maybe not as part of the formal music business, but someone recorded him.”

  Birdie moved back into the library, me right alongside, just the way I liked.

  “Want to hear it?” Mr. Savoy said.
>
  Birdie nodded.

  “What I’ve been doing,” Mr. Savoy said as he and Birdie sat in front of a computer and I made a nice little space between them for myself, “is putting all the local music I can find on digital files, like …” He tapped at the keys. “… like this.”

  A face appeared on the screen, a man’s face but hard to make out on account of it being so blurry.

  “That’s him,” Birdie said. “My great-grandfather.”

  “You’ve seen pictures, huh?” Mr. Savoy said. “I scanned this photo from the St. Roch Monitor, a newspaper we actually had right here in town in those days.”

  Accordion music started coming through the speakers, and even though accordion music hurts my ears, this time it didn’t. A man began to sing.

  “Do you understand the words?” Birdie said.

  “Pretty much. It’s a love song. He’s saying he can’t wait to go dancing with la plus jolie fille de la Louisiane—the prettiest girl in Louisiana.”

  They listened, both sitting very still. The music came to an end. Birdie turned to Mr. Savoy. “Is there more about him?”

  “In old copies of the Monitor? Easy to check, now that it’s in the system.” He tapped at the keys. Birdie waited patiently. Humans have a thing for screens. “Here’s a photo of him in uniform from August 1945, just after the war,” Mr. Savoy said.

  “Who’s the other guy?” Birdie said.

  “Whoever he is, they don’t seem to like each other very much—check out that body language.” Mr. Savoy squinted at the screen. “The caption didn’t scan very well. ‘Two local heroes home safe from the war, Corporal Maurice Gaux and Sergeant …’ Can’t make that out.”

  “ ‘Frank Straker,’ ” Birdie said.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Savoy.

  Birdie gave him a quick look.

  “Just that the rivalry between the two families seems to go way back, Frank Straker being Steve Straker Senior’s great-uncle, I believe,” Mr. Savoy said. “No offense. None of my beeswax. Let’s see what else we’ve got.”

  More tapping, but I tuned it out, listened only for the buzzing of bees. If bees were in the picture we had trouble, which I knew well from experience. Stung right on the nose!