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Dove Keeper

Bob Strother

    The new girl showed up in Ms. Wilson’s homeroom class on a hot September morning in 1958, three weeks into my junior year at Hamilton County High. A transfer, the teacher informed us, from nearby Red Bank, Tennessee. Due to her late arrival, the new girl was forced to sit in the first row of desks—a zone most students avoided like the plague—and, as it happened, directly in front of me. Her shoulder-length hair was so blond it was almost white, and fine enough to stir with whatever meager and infrequent breeze found its way in through the open classroom windows.
    When she was introduced as Peggy Fulks, a spate of laughter erupted from the back row of desks, populated mostly by members of the varsity football squad.
    Ms. Wilson looked up sharply. “That’ll be enough of that,” she said. “We’re glad to have you join us, Peggy. I hope your experience here at Hamilton High will be a good one.”
    Peggy smiled at the teacher, and then to my surprise, she turned in her desk and cocked an eyebrow at the back row.
    When the bell rang for classes, I sat for a moment and watched Peggy gather her books and glide toward the hallway. She wore a thin white blouse and a tight black skirt that cupped her bottom like a pair of hands. From one corner of the room, the football boys ogled her, grinning and snickering. In another, a gaggle of girls smirked, rolled their eyes, and whispered in each other’s ears.
    I felt sorry for the new girl, wondering how I might feel saddled with such an unfortunate last name. I imagined it wouldn’t so bad for a boy, might even be an asset.
    When I reached the door, Peggy stood in the middle of the hallway, students scurrying past her in both directions. She looked first one way then another. I angled through the current of kids and stopped at her side.
    “I’m Joe Maynard,” I said, “from behind you in homeroom?”
    “Hi, Joe.” She showed me a scrap of paper with 138 scrawled on it. “I don’t know where to look for my locker. Can you help?”
    “Sure.” I pointed down the hall. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”
    At her locker, she dumped some books and kept a math text and three-ring binder. “You’re a life saver, Joe. Maybe we’ll have some classes together.” She squeezed my arm. “I’ll have to find a way to thank you.”
    I was about to reply when I spotted Sophie Reed walking down the hall toward us, books clutched to her chest, talking with her best friend, Nancy Edgerton. Sophie was the girl of my dreams, both literally and figuratively. I had fallen deeply in love with her my freshman year in first-year algebra class. Fabulously gorgeous, smart, and popular, she was as yet unaware of my undying and unrequited affection. Something I vowed every year, every month, and every week to remedy, only to chicken out at any and every potential opportunity.
    She caught me staring and awarded me a little finger wave.
    I waved back, dropping my history book and notes in the process. By the time I picked them up, both she and Peggy were gone.

...

    In the weeks that followed, my life went on pretty much as usual. I continued to mope around in the hope Sophie would suddenly recognize me as her soul mate, the football boys still stared and snickered when Peggy walked past, and the upper crust girls still whispered behind her back. Peggy and I did have one other class together—The History of Western Civilization—and we sometimes sat together in study hall, where I helped her with the Applied Math course she was taking.
    “I’ll never be able to go to college,” she said, “so I can’t see why I should kill myself taking algebra.”
    “You could do anything,” I said, filled with youthful ignorance, “if you wanted it bad enough.”
    She looked at me with a weary smile that seemed to suggest both resignation and regret. “You’re good at math, Joe, but you don’t know everything.”
    As the study hall period neared its end, Sophie flounced prettily into the room with a sheaf of mimeographed papers for the teacher. Peggy watched me staring longingly and said, “When are you going to ask her out?”
    “I ask her out every day in my dreams, but I don’t think it’s ever going to happen.”
    This time her smile was genuine and her green eyes danced with amusement. “You could do it if you wanted to bad enough.” She placed her hand on mine. “I bet you could go out with anybody you asked.”
    I must have blushed because I felt my neck and cheeks getting hot, but then the bell rang and Peggy and I rushed to make our last period classes.

...

    In late October, I inherited a beat-up ’53 Chevy from my aunt that I drove to and from school when I had the money to pay for gas. It was on a Thursday afternoon I turned out of the school parking lot and saw Peggy walking down the road loaded with textbooks. I slowed the car, pulled over to the shoulder, and rolled down the passenger side window. “Need a ride?” I asked.
    Peggy propped her books on the door and leaned in. “Thanks, Joe, but I can walk. It’s not that far.”
    “How far is ‘not that far’?”
    She shrugged. “Couple a miles, I guess.”
    “Hop in,” I said. “I got nothing else to do.”
    She got in and placed her books on the seat between us. “My mom usually picks me up, but she’s been sick a lot lately.”
    I couldn’t help observing how her skirt rode up just above her knees when she sat. There was a crispness in the air that promised an early winter, but her legs—long and smooth— were still honeyed by summer. I briefly chided myself for noticing such a thing when my heart belonged to another. “Tell me where to drive, my lady. Your chariot awaits.”
    We talked easily while I drove. I wondered why it as so easy to chat with Peggy but so hard for me to approach Sophie. After a while Peggy said, “That’s the driveway over there.” She pointed to a graveled and rutted turnout off the main road. “Just let me out here. I can walk the rest of the way.”
    “No sense in that,” I said, turning into the drive over her continuing protests. “The sooner I get home, the sooner I have to start doing homework.”
    I rounded a curve in the driveway and Peggy’s house came into view. Dumb as I was, I understood immediately why she’d suggested I let her out. The small house was constructed of concrete block, painted a sickly, pale green. The front porch—hardly more than a stoop— had part of the railing missing, and the rusty screen door hung by one hinge. Several roofing shingles were gone, showing black tar paper sheeting underneath.
    “Home sweet home,” she said softly.
    We sat there in silence for a moment, her brow creased. Then the frown softened and her eyes lit up. She grabbed my hand and said, “C’mon, Joe, as long as you’re here, there’s something I want to show you.” We left the car and she placed her books down on the crumbling front porch. “It’s around back. Follow me.”
    I did, and picked my way through foot-high grass and weeds to the rear of the house. Sitting a few yards from the back door was a five-foot-high structure made of wooden two-by-twos and chicken wire—a square cage mounted on four posts, with a small door in the front held shut by a metal hasp. Inside, half a dozen fat birds perched on dowels attached between the sides or pecked at seed in aluminum pie plates placed along the bottom.
    “What is that, a pigeon cage?” I asked.
    “It’s a coop, not a cage. And they’re Rock Doves, not pigeons. I brought them with me when we moved here.” Peggy stepped over and stuck a finger inside the cage. One of the birds hopped toward her. She stroked its head, then reached inside and grasped the bird with both hands. After reclosing the coop door she brought it over and showed it to me, still stroking its head. Its eyes were like tiny obsidian beads of glass. A pulse beat firmly in its neck.
    “These are my babies. This one’s named Joe.”
    “What?” I said. “Did you—
    A quick, jerky grin played at the corners of her mouth. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out.”
    “What do they do?” I asked.
    “Mostly they just sit around and eat.”
    “Huh,” I said, not knowing what else to offer.
    “But watch this,” she said, and tossed the bird into the air. It flapped its wings ferociously and climbed quickly into the late October sky.
    I watched, more or less open-mouthed, as the dove soared higher and higher, circling the yard, then expanding its range, and finally disappearing over the treetops.
    I shielded my eyes from the sun, watching and wondering why Peggy would let one of her “babies” escape. After a few moments, I said, “I’m pretty sure that bird is gone.”
    “Just wait,” she said.
    We did, and, much to my surprise, the dove reappeared a moment later, late sun glinting off its wings, and fluttered to a stop within a few inches of Peggy’s feet. She picked it up and put it back in the cage. “They use them in ceremonies, you know, or for funerals. It’s like the dove symbolizes the spirit going off to heaven or something.”
    She came over and stood in front of me, looking up into my face, squinting a little because of the sun. “You know what they say, don’t you? If you love something let it go. If it really loves you, it’ll come back. If it doesn’t—I guess you’re shit outta luck.”
    I thought of Sophie, and was about to say I wasn’t sure if that applied to something you’d never had to begin with when the back door of Peggy’s house banged open and a woman dressed in a ratty housecoat leaned out. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she held a can of Old Milwaukee in one hand.
    “Where you been, girl?” the woman shouted. “I need you to start supper right now.”
    “I’m sorry, Momma,” Peggy said. “I’ll be there in just a minute.”
    The woman glowered for a moment and then turned and closed the door behind her.
    Peggy sighed. “Thanks for the ride, Joe. I got to go.”
    I watched her as she hurried inside. Then I watched the birds for a moment longer. Then I left.

...

    “I don’t know, Joe. You have some stiff competition.” Nancy Edgerton plucked a Lay’s Barbeque Potato Chip from the bag she held and bit off a tiny piece.
    Still not confident enough to actually approach Sophie directly, I had summoned up the courage to sit beside her best friend during lunch period and ask if there was a chance Sophie would go out with me. There was also the possibility that my heartthrob might herself appear at our table with a lunch tray.
    Nancy took another small bite. “I mean, at least half the guys in our class want to go out with her.”
    “Is she actually dating anybody?” I asked.
    “Uh-huh, mostly senior boys, but no one special.” She took a dainty sip of milk and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “Yet, that is. Clyde Rawlins took her to the movies last weekend—The Long, Hot Summer. That Paul Newman is such a dreamboat. Clyde looks a little like him, don’t you think?”
    Clyde Rawlings was the quarterback for the Hamilton High Mustangs, drove a ’57 Ford convertible, and could probably have any girl he wanted. My heart slumped in my chest, but I was determined not to give up.
    “Does she have a date for the Homecoming Dance?” It was still two weeks away. Maybe if I asked her today...
    “Not so far. I mean, she’s got offers, but she hasn’t decided yet who she’s going with.” Nancy leaned closer. “You’ll never know unless you ask. Stop mooning around, staring at her and ask her. But I’ll tell you one thing. It’s not doing your image any good hanging around with that slut from Polk County.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I have a friend who goes to school up there. She says the girl lives up to her name.”
    “Her name is Fulks,” I said, pronouncing it slowly and distinctly. “She can’t help what it sounds like.”
    Nancy got up from the table and gathered the remains of her lunch. “She sleeps around. My friend says everyone at Polk County knew about it. Not to mention her clothes—wearing the same skirt and blouse two or three times every week? Definitely low-rent.”
    I watched Nancy dump her trash and head for the door just as Peggy entered the cafeteria. Nancy glanced at her, then stopped and looked back at me. She mouthed the word “slut” and continued out into the hallway. Peggy spotted me and waved, her face breaking into a smile as she started for the serving line. I gathered up my own tray and left before she could join me.
    Sophie’s locker was not far from mine, and she and Nancy were huddled there when I stopped to get books for my next class. I took a deep breath, tried to slow my thundering heart, and walked over to where they stood.
    “Hi Sophie,” I said, my voice quavering. “I was wondering if you had a date for the Homecoming Dance yet.”
    She reached over and stroked my arm with her soft, warm hand. It was the first time we had actually touched, and it sent chills charging up and down my spine. “Oh, Joe, I do. I’m so sorry. Clyde Rawlings just asked me to go with him and I accepted. But my dance card’s not full yet. I’ll put you down for a slow one, okay?” She exchanged a glance with Nancy and said, “Actually, I’ll put you down for two.”
    I went back to my locker filled with a mixture of hope and despair. I had been too late to get the date, but she was going to dance with me twice. Slow songs. Her luscious body melting into mine. Who knew what might happen after that?

...

    The following Friday, Peggy asked me for a ride home and I somewhat reluctantly agreed. I waited around, sitting in a bathroom stall for a while until most of the students had left, then met Peggy by the doors to the parking lot.
    “My mom’s sick again,” she said, by way of explanation.
    We had spoken little during the week, mostly on account of my avoiding her. We rode in silence for a few minutes and then Peggy said, “If you wanted to, we could go somewhere and park for a while.” A blush of rose lit the flesh under her chin. “And make out a little, I mean. If ... if you wanted to, that is.”
    “Uh, I’ve got lots of homework to do. I’d better not.”
    “It’s all right, Joe. I understand.”
    We continued the drive in silence, and when we reached her house, she got out and closed the door and went inside.

...

    The night of the Homecoming Dance a moisture-laden breeze conjured up miniature whirlwinds from the late fall’s dead leaves. I had just washed and waxed my Chevy earlier in the day, but even the threat of impending rain had not dampened my spirits. I was going to slow dance with my Sophie. All sorts of possibilities swirled through my head. Maybe she and Clyde would have an argument. Maybe when we danced, she would finally realize the two of us were meant to be together. My body thrummed with the night’s prospects.
    The high school gym was festooned with crepe paper streamers and banners proclaiming Go Mustangs, Beat Bradly County Bears. Snack and soft drink tables occupied one corner of the room, a disc jockey’s platform another, and shoes were lined up just inside the gym’s big double doors.
    I looked around the huge open space, hoping to catch sight of my future dance partner. Most of the girls were clustered around the DJ’s platform, while the guys—many still wearing Mustangs green and gold letter jackets—scavenged from the snack table. Then the DJ, a local radio personality, hopped up onto the platform and cranked up “The Bristol Stomp.” Almost immediately, the polished wood floor filled with students. While the music reverberated through the gym, I settled back against one of the folded-up bleachers and continued to eye the crowd.
    I found Sophie and watched as she gyrated in and out of my line of sight, wearing a peach-colored sweater and a black felt skirt that swirled around her legs as Clyde Rawlings’ showed off his dance moves. And, every so often, when the DJ announced he was going to play a slow song, my heartbeat quickened, wondering if this dance would be mine.
    At some point, I caught sight of Peggy dancing with one of senior basketball players. They seemed to be hanging out together, and I wondered if she was his date. If so, she hadn’t said anything to me about it, not that we’d talked much since the last time I’d taken her home. I hadn’t even known she was coming to the dance.
    As the evening wore on, my hopes and dreams gradually faded. Not only had I not been sought out for a slow dance by Sophie, she had danced only with Clyde. Sometimes it wasn’t so much dancing as it was the two of them locked together barely swaying to the music. I guessed maybe her dance card had been forgotten.
    Around ten o’clock, I decided to leave. I had stopped by the drink table for a Pepsi when I felt a presence beside me.
    “Things not working out like you’d planned, Joe?’
    Peggy held a cup of punch and wore a pale green corsage on her wrist. She had on a green skirt and matching sweater. I recognized the clothes from school and now realized they were some of the few she owned. But her lips glowed with soft pink lipstick, and in the dim gymnasium lighting, she looked as pretty as I’d ever seen her.
    I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could while trying not to let her see my misery. “Not really.”
    She slid her hand into mine and said, “Come with me.” We walked to the exit and stepped out under the aluminum awning suspended just over the doorway. The rain had started, and in the distance, silver spears of lightening pierced the sky.
    “Where’s your car?” she asked.
    I pointed toward the Chevy parked in the second row.
    She tugged at my hand, and we set off across the lot, shielding our faces from the rain. Peggy opened the door and dragged me into the back seat. We were both breathing hard.
    “Peggy, I ...”
    “You don’t have to say anything.” She took my face in her hands and pressed her mouth to mine, and I could taste the lipstick and the punch and a sweet film of perspiration on her upper lip. Then she was fumbling at my belt and hiking her skirt up over her hips and guiding me inside her. The windows fogged over and raindrops rattled against the car windows like volleys of buckshot. At some point she said, “I love you.” Or maybe I said it. After a while it was hard to know whose voice I was hearing.
    When we were done, she rearranged her clothing and got out of the car. I did the same, but by the time I caught up to her, she was almost to the gym door. The basketball player waited, arms crossed over his chest, under the awning.
    “Where the hell were you?” he asked.
    Peggy said nothing, just swept past him and went inside. He shot me a nasty look before following her. I stood there in the downpour for a while, then walked back to my car and left.

...

    Peggy wasn’t in school the next Monday, or the day after, or the day after that. I wondered if she was ill or maybe just embarrassed by what had happened. On Thursday, I drove down the rutted gravel driveway and stopped in front of her house. The screen door flapped in the wind and knee-high brambles dragged at my jeans as I crossed the yard to the front porch. My knock produced no response. I peered through one dirty window but saw nothing more than a bare kitchen table and two straight-back chairs. The house looked and felt deserted. I went down the cracked steps and around to the rear. The coop was still there, but its small door stood wide open and all the birds were gone.
    In the days following, rumors spread throughout the school. Most of the girls thought Peggy had gotten herself pregnant and been sent away somewhere to have the baby. Most of the guys, I guess, just missed seeing her glide down the hall sparking their fantasies. No one really knew, of course, and as far as I know, no one ever found out.

...

    Sometimes now I go to the park on my lunch break and feed the squirrels and pigeons scraps from my sandwich. Occasionally, a dove will show up, too, and I can’t help but think about Peggy, who probably knew more about life than any of us. For a time, I held out some hope that, like the Rock Dove she’d named Joe, Peggy might one day return to me. But it never happened.
    And I often wonder now if there’s anything more naggingly painful than wishing you had a second chance with someone ... and knowing you never will.

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