Apologize, Apologize! - By Elizabeth Kelly Page 0,121

I scraped pigeon shit from the loft’s wooden floor.

“Cher Ami.”

“Can pigeons read?”

“No.”

“Oh, is that so? Explain then why they can distinguish all twenty-six letters of the alphabet?”

“How do I know?”

“The answer is obvious—to read directions and the occasional biography. They also enjoy limerick books and how-to manuals.”

Uncle Tom drew up a twenty-eight-day training schedule. The first day, we drove to the farthest tip of Vineyard Haven and tossed them skyward—it took them about two hours to make the twenty-mile flight home. Bingo was the first back at the loft, followed by Bobby and then Patsy. Within a week of training, which included a couple of days off, they were able to find their way home in less than thirty minutes.

Bobby, Patsy, and Bingo were the consistent front-runners.

“We’ve got our three top competitors,” Uncle Tom said as we traveled by boat out into the ocean, where we were getting ready to release them for a longer flight—forty miles.

“Lovely birds, Tom,” Pop said, accompanying us on the trip, reaching for Patsy, cupping him in the canoe of his hands. “Collie tells me you expect great things from them in the race.”

“I do indeed. This is an exceptional group—the finest birds I’ve ever bred.”

Pop and Uncle Tom could be inexplicably formal with each other. I was holding Bingo in my hands and leaning against the deck, listening as they talked— sharing their mutual love for birds and animals, they were practically cooing.

“Six hundred heartbeats per minute for up to sixteen hours . . . their wings beating up to ten times per second.” Uncle Tom was reciting his favorite statistics to Pop, who was listening avidly.

“Who is the fastest bird?” he asked.

“Bingo,” I said.

“What’s his fastest time?”

I said, “Ninety miles an hour—”

“Look here, Noodle, quit interrupting, that’s for me to say,” Uncle Tom said. “I’m the senior coach.”

“Sorry,” I said as Bingo gently pecked the knuckles of my other hand.

“Has Collie been a big help? I’ll bet he has,” Pop said to Uncle Tom, who looked sorely put out.

“No, he has not. Every moment I feel the effects of dealing with a listening-impaired amateur.”

“So, Collie, you seem to be enjoying your stint as a pigeon coach,” Pop said.

“Not really,” I said as I tossed Bingo high into the sky, watching as he powered straight up into the air, followed closely by Patsy and Bobby, all three beginning their mysterious journey home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

IT WAS MY FIRST VISIT TO CASSOWARY SINCE THE TRIP TO IRELAND, and I found the Falcon down at the stable checking out a new foal, born the night before. He seemed mildly surprised to see me, gave me an awkward hug, and then took a few steps in reverse, his back coming to rest against the stall door.

“You’re looking well, Collie. Nice shirt,” he said. “You can’t go wrong with a good white shirt. Where did you get it? Brown and Thomas?”

I nodded. “How did you know?”

“I have an unerring instinct for such things.”

I reached into my back pocket. “Here’s your money clip,” I said sheepishly. “I’m sorry about Pop.”

“That makes two of us,” he said, popping the clip into his jacket pocket. “So, how did you find the old country? Was it suitably challenging and charming?”

I laughed. “Yeah, you might say that.”

“I hope you don’t nurture any sort of sentimental desire to live there,” he said, looking faintly concerned.

“Oh no. No chance of that happening.”

“And you’re feeling better, are you?” he asked, averting his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m okay, Granddad.”

“I understand from Ingrid that you’ve taken up pigeon racing with Tom Flanagan,” the Falcon said, relaxing a little and folding his arms in front of his chest, his head cocked to one side.

“I’m just helping him out. It’s no big deal. He wants to enter some of his birds in one of the big races coming up.”

“You could do worse things with your time,” he said. “The racing pigeon is a remarkable creature.”

“You sound like Uncle Tom,” I said, unable to resist.

“Yes, well, oh, dear,” he said, momentarily set back. “Come and look at our newest addition to the family.” He opened the door to the stall and gestured for me to follow him inside.

“What’s his name?” I asked, reaching down to pet the baby horse, a deep sorrel color.

“Mr. Guppy,” the Falcon said, rubbing the mother’s forehead and offering her a carrot from inside his jacket pocket. “You must bring some of your pigeons to Cassowary. I’d like to see them,” he said.

“Sure. I’ll bring Bobby Sands sometime next week, if