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Christopher after he'd brought me home, my brother was in a heap of little Daughertys, all asleep on

top of him, and he was asleep too, and still holding the book about elephants who wear clothes.

I'm not lying. That's what Mr. Daugherty told me.

Don't tell my brother I know this.

Don't tell him that I know he's not a chump babysitter.

And don't tell him that I think he may be what the Brown Pelican is.

CHAPTER NINE

The Great Esquimaux Curlew
Plate CCXXXVII

IT TOOK A WHILE, but by the first Saturday of May, spring finally decided to stick around. Mr. Loeffler

said it was the latest spring he'd ever seen, but that probably meant it would be the warmest, and he

was right. I didn't even need my flight jacket anymore, which didn't mean that I stopped wearing it.

By that first Saturday, everything had jumped from brown to green, and if you stood in front of the

Marysville Free Public Library and looked at the maples up and down the street, you could watch

their gold leaves unfurl like little flags, waving for all they were worth—which, after a long winter,

was a lot. I pulled the Saturday deliveries past people dragging last year's leaves from under their

bushes, cutting back hedges, digging up gardens by the curbs, and raking, raking, raking like the

Marysville Garden Inspector was going to stop by in the afternoon. It was that kind of a day.

Back at Spicer's Deli, I told Lil that everything looked as green as New Zealand, and she said,

"How would you know?" which I think meant that I hadn't exactly done half of the work for Mr.

Barber's New Zealand project that we handed in together.

But I'm no chump.

"I'll buy you a Coke and show you how green it is," I said.

"Does that mean I'm supposed to go get Cokes for the two of us?"

I shook my head. I took two quarters out of my pocket and laid them on the deli counter. Lil chinged

open the register and slid them into the drawer, and I went over to the refrigerator in back and got two

bottles of Coke, took their caps off, and brought them up front. There was froth at the tops of the

bottles, and Lil could hardly keep from giggling when she took her first sip.

"It always goes up my nose," she said.

She was beautiful.

She walked with me to Mrs. Windermere's, and I'm not lying, everything was even greener than it

had been in town when I was making deliveries earlier that morning. By a lot. The maples, the oaks,

the grass, the ferns coming up beside the road, the fields. Especially the fields, which even smelled

green.

"You were right," said Lil.

She took my hand, and we walked up to Mrs. Windermere's. Slowly.

It was still too short.

At the house, there was a car I hadn't seen before, about a block and a half long. It was so long that

it didn't fit in the turnaround. Half of it was on the grass, gleaming everywhere.

We went to the back and I unlocked the door with the so-secret key and Lil and I brought the

groceries in and put them all away and we started out because we had the whole slow walk back to

look forward to and then Mrs. Windermere came in with Mr. I-Own-the-Gleaming-Car next to her.

"Skinny Delivery Boy," she said.

"Mrs. Windermere," I said, "do you think that maybe you could call me something else?"

"No. Is everything put away already?"

"Yup. We were just going." I reached for Lil's hand.

"And this is..."

"Lillian Spicer," said Lil.

"It's nice to meet you, Lillian."

"Thank you," said Lil. "It's very nice to meet you."

She was always so polite. Did I tell you that she has green eyes? Did I tell you that she's beautiful?

"So is Lillian your girlfriend?" said Mrs. Windermere.

Everything stopped.

Everything.

"Skinny Delivery Boy, you know I never beat around the bush. Yes or no?"

I looked at Lil. She looked at me. She wasn't planning to be helpful with this. I looked back at Mrs.

Windermere.

"Yes," I said.

I looked back at Lil. Smiling.

"Mrs. Windermere," said Mr. I-Own-the-Gleaming-Car.

"And this," said Mrs. Windermere, "is Mr. Gregory, who is supposed to be producing my play at

the end of the month but who is not making much headway."

"Who is making the best headway any producer could possibly make with a writer who is—"

started Mr. Gregory.

"Mr. Gregory likes strawberry ice cream," said Mrs. Windermere.

"I do not like strawberry ice cream," said Mr. Gregory.

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Windermere. "Everybody likes strawberry ice cream. What kind did I

order?"

"Raspberry sherbet," said Lil.

"Oh dear," said Mrs. Windermere. She shook her head. "That's too bad."

"Raspberry sherbet?" said Mr. Gregory.

We all sat down to small bowls of raspberry sherbet, except for Mr. Gregory, who sat down to a

bowl of raspberry sherbet about as big as New Zealand because he hadn't had raspberry sherbet since

he was a boy and he thought he should make up for lost time. I think he might be a good guy. At least,

he looked like he might be a good guy. You can't look like Mr. I-Own-the-Gleaming-Car when you're

eating a huge bowl of raspberry sherbet in someone's kitchen.

"So are all the actors ready for the play?" said Lil.

"That's the problem," said Mrs. Windermere. "Mr. Gregory hasn't cast them all yet."

"You have no idea how difficult it is to find actors for as many parts as we need played for this

script," said Mr. Gregory. "If only a certain writer had been willing to—"

"A certain writer won't," said Mrs. Windermere. "Who do you still need?"

"Helen Burns, to start with," said Mr. Gregory.

"Helen Burns," said Mrs. Windermere slowly.

"To start with," said Mr. Gregory.

Mrs. Windermere looked at Lil. "There she is right there. Skinny Delivery Boy's girlfriend."

Mr. Gregory looked at Lil.

"I'm not an actor," said Lil.

"No, you would be an actress," said Mrs. Windermere. "And Lillian, every young girl, once she

steps upon a Broadway stage, enjoys the thrill of being an actress."

"Not me," said Lil.

"The right voice. The right manner. Even the right hair. I think she'd be perfect," said Mr. Gregory.

"How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-five," said Lil.

"Have you ever acted before?" said Mr. Gregory.

Lil stood up. "No, and I won't be acting now."

"She's really, really good," I said.

Lil looked at me like she was going to throw the rest of her raspberry sherbet in my face.

"Really," I said.

Lil looked back at Mr. Gregory. She smiled sweetly—sort of. Then she pointed at me.

"Do you have a part for him?" she said.

Mr. Gregory shook his head. "No," he said. "Not for a young boy."

I smiled at Lil sweetly—sort of.

"Perhaps the voice of Bertha Mason," said Mrs. Windermere.

"The voice of Bertha Mason?" I said.

"Can you shriek like an insane woman who has been locked in an attic for a great many years?"

said Mrs. Windermere.

"I've heard Doug shriek like that lots of times," said Lil. I looked at her. She smiled even more

sweetly.

"No," I said.

Lil looked at Mr. Gregory and shrugged. "If he won't shriek like an insane woman who has been

locked in an attic for a great many years, then I won't be Helen Burns."

"Then you're not Helen Burns," I said.

"Fine," she said.

"Fine," I said.

I sure did wish we had gotten out of that kitchen as soon as we put the deliveries away.

"Then that's that," said Mrs. Windermere.

"That's that," I said.

"I'll see you next week, Skinny Delivery Boy," said Mrs. Windermere.

"I'll see you next week," I said.

"Fine," she said.

"Fine," I said.

Lil and I dropped our bowls and spoons into the sink, and we went to the door.

"Goodbye, Mr. Gregory," Lil said.

And that was the mistake. She shouldn't have stopped to say goodbye. It's like those horror movies

where the person about to be mauled to death could have saved herself if she'd taken only one more

step but she stops to be polite or something.

I took Lil's hand. We were almost through the door.

"Gregory," said Mrs. Windermere loudly, "what have you done with the Snowy Heron I gave you?"

I stopped.

"I've already told you: I haven't done a thing with it. I hate birds. And I hate pictures of birds."

"I wonder if we might find a better place for it than rolled up and put away in your closet?"

I turned around.

"Such as..." said Mr. Gregory.

"The Snowy Heron?" I said.

Mrs. Windermere turned to me. "Yes," she said. She turned back to Mr. Gregory. "I wonder if we

might make a present of it to someone."

"The Snowy Heron?" I said again. "Audubon's Snowy Heron?"

"Excuse me, Skinny Delivery Boy. Yes, we could make a present of it to someone who, say, helped

out in the performance."

Mrs. Windermere cupped her chin in her hand.

"Just a thought," she said.

I looked at Lil. "Helen Burns is a great part," I said.

"Wait a minute," said Lil.

"Why don't we all sit down and have another bowl of raspberry sherbet?" said Mrs. Windermere.

You remember the Snowy Heron, right?

If you saw the Snowy Heron, if you saw how beautiful the Snowy Heron was, if you saw how

perfect he looks in Audubon's book, then you would be willing to shriek like an insane woman who

has been locked in an attic for a great many years too.

You would.

It took more than a little bit of convincing to get Lil to be Helen Burns, which really is a great part,

even though she dies. You might wonder how I finally convinced her. It happened on Monday. In

geography. When Mr. Barber announced that we were going to be doing one more Team Project for

the year. It was going to be on the Role of Transportation in a Country's Development. And when Mr.

Barber asked, "Who would like to do the Transcontinental Railroad in the United States?" Lil raised

her hand and said that she would do it with me. "Is that okay with you, Douglas?" said Mr. Barber.

Lil looked at me and mouthed the words
Helen Burns.

"Terrific," I said.

You might wonder who is going to have to do almost everything on this project because one of us

has a
real
part in a Broadway play with
real
lines while the other one just has to stand offstage and

scream like an insane woman who has been locked in an attic for a great many years and that same

one of us did diddly on the New Zealand project and so the one with the
real
part in the Broadway

play figures that the one without a
real
part in the Broadway play has a lot to make up for.

I'm starting to feel like a chump.

But whenever I feel like a chump, I remember the Snowy Heron.

If you saw the Snowy Heron...

When Mr. Barber found out about the Broadway play, he said that since Lil and I were going to be

working so hard to put on this play we only had to turn in a five-hundred-word report on the

Transcontinental Railroad. (I didn't look at Lil when Mr. Barber said this. She couldn't have been

smiling, but I was.) When Mr. McElroy found out about the Broadway play, he wanted to take a

whole period talking about the role of actors in world history but the only actor that any of us could

think of was John Wilkes Booth. "I guess actors aren't so important after all," said Mr. McElroy. "You

can't imagine an actor ever becoming president of the United States, for example," which was true.

We couldn't. When Mrs. Verne found out about the Broadway play, she took a whole period off from

solving equations with at least two unknowns to talk about her own college acting career—which had

a whole lot of lines in Greek that she could still recite and which I'm not going to write here because I

don't even know how.

When Miss Cowper found out about the Broadway play, I thought she was going to walk on air

right there in front of us. She said that she hadn't heard such good news in a long time. We would have

to stop the Introduction to Poetry Unit prematurely, she said, and move directly into the Modern

Drama Unit so that the class could support Lillian and Douglas. Would we please pass forward our