The Pigeon With the Tennis Elbow (8 page)

The third set started, and it was pretty clear that both players were under stress. Their shots were landing low, striking
into the net a great deal of the time. It seemed that the game would be determined by who had the most, or the least, balls
striking the net first.

After a 40–40 deuce, and then advantage for Kevin, he gained the next point and took the game. Chuck won the second. Then
Kevin took three in a row, making it 4–1, his favor.

Hey! Is this really me? You ought to see me now, Charlie! I'm really on!

He took it easy in the next game, reserving
his energy while Chuck burned up his. Chuck won it, but he looked too tired to play effectively in the next game, and seemed
not to care in the last.

The fans exploded with a standing ovation this time as Kevin won the set, 6–2, and the right to play Roger Murphy.

His pleasure in the win, though — coupled with kind words from his proud father — lasted only until he arrived home. Something
had happened while they were all at the tennis match.

Charlie was gone.

12

L
OOK,” KEVIN SAID,
picking up a small stick and a shredded piece of gauze from the box which Charlie had occupied as his home for over a week.
“He must have chewed this off.”

“Think his wing was healed enough for him to fly?” Ginnie said.

“It must have been,” said Mr. O'Toole. “Don't forget, Chuck Eagan had started giving Charlie first aid right after he had
shot him.”

“Yeah, that's right,” said Ginnie, and looked at Kevin. “Well, what are we going to do? Search for him again?”

“No,” Kevin answered thoughtfully. “This
time it's different. This time we know he was safe here. He went away on his own. If — if that's the way he wants it, that's
the way it'll be.”

He felt a lump in his throat and turned away so that no one could see the look on his face.

Darn Charlie! He could've told me that he didn't want to stay here! At least that his wing was better! I hope he gets hurt
again.

Oh, no, no! Please, God, forgive me! I didn't mean that!

Mrs. O'Toole made supper — stuffed peppers with sweet sauce, tossed salad and Italian bread — which Kevin ordinarily would
devour like a hungry bear. Not so this evening. He ate only enough to take the edge off his hunger.

“You can't let that pigeon worry you so that you won't eat,” his mother said. “He's probably just trying out his wing.”

“I think he'll come back,” Ginnie said with that girlish intuition of hers. “If he was just an ordinary pigeon, maybe he…”

She stopped abruptly as Kevin shot her a hard look.
Careful, Gin. You say anything to Mom and Dad about Charlie's being a reincarnation of Dad's great uncle Rickard O'Toole and
they'll think that we're both ready for the nut house. They might even want to get rid of Charlie — if he does come back to
us — and you know we can't let that happen. So be careful of what you say. O.K.?

“What do you mean, ‘if he was just an ordinary pigeon’?” said Mr. O'Toole. “What is he if not ordinary? Lots of pigeons become
pets.”

“Well, I mean — you know…”

“I guess it's because I never had a pet before,” Kevin broke in quickly. “Anyway, let's change the subject. I don't want to
talk anymore about Charlie.”

“I'll split a pepper with you,” said Ginnie, as if that was her wish, too.

“Not me,” replied Kevin. “I've had enough.” He excused himself from the table and went outside.

“Hi,” a voice said just as he was ready to
walk down the porch steps. It was a familiar voice. A
very
familiar voice.

Kevin looked down, goose bumps popping out on his arms. There sat Charlie on the bottom step of the porch, mouth open and
puffing as if he had just flown a thousand miles.

“Charlie! Where have you been?” Kevin cried, clattering down the steps and picking Charlie up into his arms.

“Careful of that wing,” cautioned Charlie. “I started to town, but I remembered I wanted to watch you play Chuck Eagan. Anything
wrong in that?”

“No. But your wing couldn't have been well enough,” said Kevin. “You didn't make it, did you?”

“No. But I could have.”

“What happened?”

“I was perched on a tree, see, taking a rest, when some kid started throwing stones at me. One of them hit my bad wing. Fortunately,
I was able to fly to another tree and out of his
sight. But I was sure I'd never make it to the match, so I walked all the way back.”

“Walked? Oh, Charlie!” Kevin cried, squeezing him lovingly. “You're a real nut, you are!”

“Hey, watch it, will you?” complained Charlie. “It's the same wing that I had tennis elbow with when I was a human. Guess
the darn thing will give me trouble no matter who I turn out to be!”

The match with Roger Murphy started at four o'clock on Saturday. As far as Kevin was concerned it was
the
match. The Big One. The All-Important One. Roger would think he was King of the Universe if he beat Kevin.

Both the O'Toole and Murphy families, plus the usual tennis fans, were at the match. And up on the corner pole, as if it had
become his regular reserved seat, sat Charlie, his wing healed and in fly able condition.

Roger won the toss and chose to serve. Although there was no wind, Kevin chose the north court. Roger's first serve, a hot,
blistering
drive, shot over the net and struck the court just in front of Kevin. Dumbfounded at the solid, accurate blow, Kevin was caught
off balance and sliced the ball off to the right, giving Roger his first point.

Kevin felt tight as a drum as he waited for Roger to serve again. He just couldn't loosen up. This time Roger's serve went
wide for a fault.

His next shot was a softer blow that Kevin returned easily. Then, after an interim of long, back-and-forth taps, Roger socked
the ball hard cross-court, far out of Kevin's reach, for his second point. 30-love.

Kevin managed to score a point on a lob, but that was all he got in that game. Roger won it, game-15.

Roger continued to play in excellent form and took the next two games to make it 3-love. Then Kevin took one. But that was
all he did take in that first set. Roger won it, 6–1.

13

H
E'S STANDING PRETTY FAR
away from the net,” Charlie said as Kevin stepped quietly toward the pole and pretended to rest there. “Try hitting the ball
easier and getting it just over the net. That ought to tire him out a little, too.”

The strategy worked — for a while. It was when Kevin was leading, 40–15, that it seemed to him that Roger had caught on. He
got closer to the net, and then the game turned into a catastrophe. Roger's blows sent the ball in every direction he seemed
to want it to go. The game went to deuce, then advantage for Roger, then a win.

“He's just having a good day — so far,” said
Charlie as Kevin moved under the pole, knelt, untied and re tied his shoelaces. “The way you've got him running he won't last
out the next two games.”

But Roger not only lasted out the next two games, he won them. Roger 3, Kevin o.

“Work on his forehand,” Charlie suggested. “I told you he's weak in that department, just like old Wally was.”

If Roger was, he didn't show it. He led love-30 before the game hardly got under way.

And then Kevin began to experiment with his own strategy, just hitting the ball over the net without any fancy plays.
Sorry, Charlie. You might have been a champion, but your suggestions just aren't working out. I've got to do this my own way.

Gradually the picture — the
game
— began to change. Kevin began to pile up points. From the expression on Roger's face he seemed to think that suddenly he
was playing with somebody else. His own serves began to draw faults. His shots began to hit the net or go slicing out of bounds.

Kevin won, and won again and again. He was leading 4–3 when, after an advantage for Roger, Roger scored on a net shot, giving
him the game. 4–4.

Kevin won the next game, too. But Roger crept up on him in the next and won it. 5–5.

“He's tiring, Kevie,” Charlie's chest puffed out proudly as Kevin paused beside the pole. “He's tiring fast. Keep after him
and you'll have him eating dust.”

Charlie's observation seemed accurate. Roger lost the game. 6–5, Kevin's favor.

Make this be the last game of this set. Please make it be the last.

It was. Kevin won it on a top-spin drive to Roger's backhand side that Roger wouldn't have been able to reach with a ten-foot
pole. The set went to Kevin, 7–5.

During the ten-minute intermission Kevin saw a pigeon fly over the court and swoop down toward Charlie. As it hovered near
him, Ginnie said, whispering, “Charlie's got company!”

“I've noticed,” Kevin whispered back. “I
wonder if it's one of his friends from the church steeple.”

“Maybe one of the World War One fliers,” Ginnie said.

About two minutes later the stranger flew off, finding a perch on a tree not far from the tennis court.
He's going to wait for Charlie,
Kevin thought.
Oh, well. What can you expect? Pigeons want to be with pigeons, don't they?

The third set started.
Well, man, this is it. The last one. Who's going to win it? You or Murph? If you do, you'll make yourself and a few people
—
and a certain pigeon
—
real proud of you. If you don't, you'll blow Roger's head up so big he won't be able to put a hat on. As for Charlie, he'll
be one of the most disappointed pigeons around that church steeple. It's up to you.

It was Kevin's serve. He was nervous. His first serve, a hard-driven ball, slammed into the net for a fault. His next was
good. Roger lobbed it, and Kevin returned it, making sure of one
thing and one thing only —
that the hall would go over the net and stay within bounds.

Roger played the ball well, driving it back to the empty space across the net. Kevin bolted to the spot, knocking the ball
back with a clean, solid drive.

As the game went on he made no spectacular plays, nothing that anyone had reason to shout about. It was Roger who was the
aggressor, hitting the ball hard, trying to wallop it out of Kevin's reach. But most of his hits resulted in errors, and they
kept piling up until there were just too many. Kevin won, game-love.

He played the next game in the same easy, deliberate way. And won that, too. Then Roger changed his tack, as if he realized
that his aggressiveness wasn't doing him any good. He won, game-30.

And, as if he had discovered the winning formula, he took the next one, too. Game-15.

It was tied up now, 2–2.

Roger's serve. A fault. His next was good, a hard, curving drive that sailed directly at Kevin. Kevin, trying to keep loose,
swung at
the ball and
missed it completely.

His heart sank. His knees went weak.
What's happened to me? I was on top of him the first two games. Since then he's been on top of me. Where have I slipped?

“Pull yourself together, Kevie.” He heard a distinctive voice coming from the top of a pole. “Settle down. You've got the
makings. I know you've got the makings.”

Thanks, Charlie. But right now I don't seem to know where they are!

Roger won the game with no trouble. Roger 3; Kevin 2.

It was now the sixth game. And Kevin's turn to serve. Carefully, he stepped behind the baseline, tossed up the ball, rose
on his tiptoes and drove the ball hard toward the opposite side of the court. Fault! The ball hit just outside of the sideline.

He tried again. Another fault as the ball plowed into the net. Love-15.

He lost the next point too, on a soft hit that Roger socked back at him into his backhand corner. Love-30.

Settle down. You've got the makings. I know you've got the makings,
Charlie had said.

O.K., Charlie. I'll try harder. That's all I can do.

He made his serve good. And then he played the ball as safely as he knew how, without trying anything fancy. The only time
he deliberately swatted it in front of, or behind, Roger was when the space was wide open.