The Pigeons' Secrets

C H A P T E R 1

Cries and gasps of terror escaped her as the gigantic eyeball leered only
inches away from her own, penetrating her with a look of disgust. She felt
a puff of air wisp across her face and heard a deafening noise, as though a
jail cell door had been slammed shut, rip through her with each slow blink
of its lid.
“Stop watching me! I’m not a bad girl, I’m not!” the young girl’s voice
cried in horror.
More eyes came forth, all of them glaring at her disapprovingly. There
were hundreds of pigeons now, each with condemnation beaming from
their big round eyes, moving closer and closer toward her.
“Stop looking at me like that! Stop it!” Her anger punched through her
teary voice as the judging birds inched nearer to her before engulfing her,
tangling themselves in her long brown hair, scratching her face with their
claws and beating her violently with their wings.
She wildly flailed her arms about, trying to defend herself against the
attack, roaring in between screams, “Why me? Stop it! I’m not the bad
one!”
Eleven-year-old Marianne Letto sprang from her pillow and frantically
looked around her through the veil of tears in her eyes, still screaming and
waving her arms through the air. As the room began to come into focus,
fear became frustration, and Marianne recognized that the realness of the
damning pigeons was only a nightmare, and they were gone—for now.
The warmth of the light from the sunny August day flooded her room
through the open window that looked upon her white wicker bed and sent
a calmness over her, lessening the trembling in her body and lightening
her heavy breaths.
She wiped her long face, drenched with sweat and tears, and looked at
the clock on the bedside table that matched her bed. The green LED illumination
read 8:48 AM.
She removed her sweaty and still slightly shaking body from between
the sheets, changed her clothes, and slipped on her shabby Nikes.
She didn’t check her appearance in the full-length mirror attached to
the back of the bedroom door as she opened it to exit.
Down the short hallway to the only door on the left, she entered the
bathroom.
The bright and sunny décor of the room did not cheer her, though, as
she avoided looking at the image of herself in the medicine cabinet mirror
over the sink. She reached for the faucet, turning the chrome knob that
read “HOT.” Sticking a finger in the stream of water that poured from the
spout, she checked the temperature. It was cold. Leaving her finger in the
running water, she stared blankly into the sink bowl—bits of the nightmare
still trampling through her head. Her facial expression became a
frown as it dawned on her that Gran hadn’t come to comfort her this time.
Gran always rushed to her aid after hearing the screams.
Doesn’t she love me anymore? Doesn’t she care about me anymore? Marianne
wondered.
Marianne knew that Gran couldn’t stop the nightmares from returning,
but she did feel some comfort when the buxom sixty-four-year-old
woman, who always smelled of something baking, sat next to her on the
bed, wrapping her plump arms around Marianne, hugging her tight and
assuring her that everything was okay—that she had only been dreaming.
Gran would always say, “There’s nothing here now honey. Look—just
me—and I’m not going to let anything hurt you.”
With that said, Marianne always wished that it could be true—that
Gran could protect her.
Gran was always persistent in her attempts to have Marianne expose
even the slightest bit of information about the nightmares that tortured
her, so that she might be able to determine the cause. Marianne wanted
nothing more than to be able to do just that, but she knew that if she
revealed anything to Gran—anything at all about the dreams—she would
be in big trouble afterward.
Marianne jerked her hand out of the sink and shook off the pain that
engulfed her wet finger. Engrossed in the thoughts of Gran, she had not
noticed that the temperature of the water had risen so high, causing this
agony in her finger.
She turned on the cold water and reduced the hot. After washing her
face and brushing her teeth, she still refused to look at herself in the mirror,
only drying her face in a towel and then turning to leave the room.
As she stepped into the small hallway at the top of the staircase, she
paused to listen, trying to determine the whereabouts of Gran. She heard
no voices or movement in the house. She quietly cascaded down the stairs,
which emptied into the foyer. She didn’t see Gran in the living room.
“Gran?” she called as she lumbered past the back of the sofa toward the
kitchen, presuming Gran would be baking something, as she usually was
when she wasn’t in the gardens. However, the kitchen was empty too,
although an unfrosted cake sat on a wire rack atop the counter by the
stove, most likely cooling. Gran has been here, but where is she now? She
wouldn’t have left me here by myself.
Looking around the kitchen for other clues, Marianne spotted the back
door ajar. As she opened the inside door to look out, a sense of relief came
over her as she spotted Gran working in one of her gardens down in the
backyard.
As she watched Gran, it occurred to her that Gran still loved her. Gran
hadn’t dismissed her nightmares this morning; she was simply unaware of
Marianne’s screams from out there. That’s why she didn’t come sit with me
and hug me this time—after the pigeons came.

C H A P T E R 2

The wide rim of the floppy hat shaded Greta Cade’s round face, as she
knelt in the dirt with a trowel in her pudgy hand that sunny Saturday
morning. She hummed along to “Dream a Little Dream of Me” by Louis
Armstrong, which was playing on the small portable radio she toted with
her when she worked. It was always tuned to WLDS, her favorite of the
oldies stations Baltimore had to offer.
She was preparing one of her garden areas to receive the new marigolds
that sat on the ground next to her in green plastic pots. The bright yellows,
oranges, and reds of the marigold blooms would integrate beautifully with
the tiger lilies, zinnias, nasturtiums, and black-eyed Susans she had previously
planted on the small embankment behind the antique wrought iron
bench.
Greta spent as much of her time as she could spare nourishing her beautiful
gardens, trimming, pruning, planting, watering, dusting, fertilizing,
and weeding. She always referred to gardening as her version of Yoga. Not
only was it relaxing to her but also rewarding, given the beauty that
resulted from her labors.
Tap…tap, she heard as she dug the small hole for the marigolds.
“Well, what is this? I’ve hit something…sounds like glass. Maybe
another bottle?” she wondered aloud as she scooped dirt away from the
newly found treasure. Gran liked her treasure chest of a backyard, for she
was always finding new surprises under the surface.
She got her hand under the object and pulled it from the ground. “Yep,
another bottle. Ooh…a cobalt one. This will look great on the window sill
with the other bottles I’ve dug up, once I get it shined,” she said with
excitement. She wiped at the two-inch bottle covered with dirt, trying to
imagine what used to occupy the land that was now her backyard and how
all those bottles had gotten buried there.
The digging was put on hold as she continued to clean the bottle with
the hand towel she carried when gardening, not looking up as Marianne
walked by.
“Good morning, dear. Did you get yourself some breakfast?” Gran
asked, still engrossed in the bottle. She recognized Marianne by the scruffy
Nikes she wore.
“Good morning, Gran. Yes, I got a peach,” Marianne replied before biting
into the peach while sitting on the iron bench to Gran’s left.
“Look at that,” Gran said, still looking at the new bottle as she held it
up for Marianne to see. “Isn’t it pretty? The skull and crossbones are kind
of scary, but the color is beautiful. I’m going to put it on the sill with the
others. What do you think?” Gran said, gazing at the cobalt blue coloring
as she held the bottle to the sun.
Marianne tried, but failed to see the same beauty Gran saw in the dirty
bottle, as she bit into the peach again. She didn’t get to answer the questions
Gran asked.
“My God!” Gran said, at last fixing her eyes on Marianne. “You look
awful! Did you have another nightmare, dear?”
Marianne only nodded her head yes as she turned away from Gran.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Are you okay?” Gran asked with a sorrowful
expression. She removed her glove and reached up to Marianne’s free
hand, which rested in her lap. Gran comfortingly squeezed it.
Marianne nodded her head while giving Gran a quick glance, before the
blank stare returned to her face, “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“I do wish you would tell me what these dreams are about. I want to
help you with whatever it is that’s scaring you. I don’t want you to be
scared of anything. I love you as if I gave birth to you myself, and it breaks
my heart to know something is tearing you up like this. I know it isn’t the dreams about your mother and father, or Granddad again. They stopped a long, long time ago, and besides, they didn’t frighten you like this,” Gran pleaded with Marianne.
“Those dreams you would tell me about; these you won’t. I can tell this
isn’t about any of them—this is different,” Gran said as her mind searched
for possible answers, wishing she could figure out what had been terrorizing
her granddaughter for almost two years now.
Marianne said nothing as she looked down at her shoes, took another bite of the sweet fruit, then watched its juice drip from her hand. She
wanted to cry and to tell Gran about the dreams, but she knew she couldn’t tell anyone.
With the mention of her parents, Marianne tried to remember them, but she couldn’t. She tried to miss them too, but couldn’t do that either.
They had died such a long time ago—when she was just two years old that now she only thought of them as strangers she’d never met. The only
reason she even knew what they looked like was from the photographs of them that Gran had displayed throughout the house. She wondered how
things would be different for her now if they were still alive.
Marianne did remember Granddad though, and she missed him too.
She thought about how the pigeons came to her shortly after Granddad died and wondered, if he had survived the heart attack, would they still
have come anyway?
What have I done to deserve all this punishment? she wondered.
"I do wish you would tell me what’s got you horrified like this…but, I’m not going to hound you over it and drive you away from me. That’s
the last thing I want to do. I guess you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” Gran knew by Marianne’s reaction that she wasn’t going to give in to her pleas, so she dropped the subject.
Marianne was relieved at Gran’s decision, for she knew things would only get much worse for her if she told about the pigeons.
“What a Wonderful World” began to play on the small radio.
“They must be having some kind of marathon or something. They’ve been playing Louis Armstrong all morning,” Gran commented about the new song playing, “But I’m not complaining; I like his music.”
Marianne listened to the words of the song: “And I think to myself: What a wonderful world.” Ha! Wonderful world my foot! What world does
he live in? I want to live in his world, ’cause there sure ain’t nothing wonderful about this one. This world sucks!
Gran put the bottle in the breast pocket of her salmon colored oxford shirt and returned to the digging. She cleaned it as well as she could with
the towel, but would later scrub it more with some soapy water in the kitchen sink.
“Oh dear, what time is it?—10:14. Oh, I have plenty of time,” Gran said checking her watch. “The ladies will be coming over at noon. I still have to frost the cake and some other things to get done before they get here, but I wanted to get these planted before they arrived—you know, to add a bit more color out here. I’m sure this is where we’ll wind up, having tea and cake, as we go over our plans for the church bazaar next Saturday.”
The ladies would most likely be Ellie Maivis, Barbara Byrnes, Virginia Moore, and Zeta Spivey, the other women on the fund-raising committee
at Uncle Paul’s church—or Father Paul, as everyone besides Marianne and Gran called him.
“What else are you and the ladies doing today, Gran?” asked Marianne with a little perk in her voice. “Anything I can do with you?”
“Well, let’s see,” Gran paused, searching her mind. “No, not really honey. We’re just gonna be working out the details for the bazaar.”
Marianne slumped and frowned, holding the wet peach pit in her sticky hand, then straightened back to attention, “Can I go over to Hettie’s
house?” she queried with hope in her voice, her eyebrows arched high.
“Well I don’t see why not; but go shower first…and don’t forget to brush your hair. And make sure you go right to Hettie’s and nowhere
else.”
“Okay—thanks, Gran.”
In cheerful spirits now, Marianne bent to kiss Gran on the cheek before skipping across the lawn toward the steps of the porch at the back entrance
of their house.
Once inside, she showered, brushed her hair, and again changed her clothes before heading off to see her friend.

C H A P T E R 3

The refreshed Marianne kicked at some stones on the sidewalk as she trudged down the hill of Wickes Avenue, off to visit her best friend, Hettie.
She watched the booted rocks ricochet from the tires of the vehicles parked against the curb. An occasional ting would sound when some of the
stones would hit a fender or a hubcap by mistake. Each misguided rock compelled her to check for possible witnesses watching from the houses
she passed.
At the bottom of Wickes Avenue, on the other side of Herkimer Street, was something that sent chills through Marianne. It was DeSoto Park, the
home of the pigeons that demeaned her. She tried not to look into the vast playground, but she couldn’t resist. She had to know whether the birds
were watching her. She looked across the field to the bench where Uncle Paul brought her to sit and feed the pigeons. Marianne trembled when Uncle Paul took her near the pigeons.
There was no sign of the birds around their feeding bench, so she scanned across the rest of the acreage of DeSoto Park, checking for them at
the game tables on the upper level, the cement playhouses shaped like big blocks of Swiss cheese, the monkey bars in the form of a ship—she even looked for them at the top of the hill on Georgetown Road.
Oh God…there they are! She spotted them on the far side of the park, conquering the huge black dolphin statue, which had once been a fountain.
The flock was massive, covering the asphalt dolphin as if they were ripping it to shreds. Her heart jumped, and she hoped and prayed that they
hadn’t spotted her in return. Marianne panicked and started to run. She ran as fast as her legs would take her, for inside her friend Hettie’s house, she would be protected…she hoped.
Against the front door of Hettie’s house, Marianne pounded hysterically.
Her body was shaking, and she was pressing herself tightly against the doorframe, as if she were trying to squeeze through the crack to get
inside. She continuously looked over her shoulder, madly checking to make sure the birds weren’t behind her. She rapped at the door again and it opened. She fell inward, smashing into someone on the other side.
She frantically screamed, “Can I come in?” not yet focused on the person she had plunged into and not yet aware that she was already inside.
It was Hettie’s mother. “Marianne! Oh my God, are you okay?” asked Nina Foston.
The blonde thirty-four-year-old woman was now looking around outside the door as she asked more questions. “Is someone after you? What’s
going on?”
Now shaken herself, the attractive Ms. Nina shut and locked the door with Marianne inside, peeking out the window. However, she saw nothing unusual out there.
Turning to Marianne, Ms. Nina asked again, “Marianne, what’s going on? Is someone after you?”
Marianne was so flustered she couldn’t get any words out of her mouth. Her breaths were too rapid.
Ms. Nina repeated, “Marianne, what’s going on? Please tell me!”
“I…I’m sorry, Ms. Nina. The…the pigeons were after me,” Marianne finally panted.
“What pigeons, Marianne?”
Gasping for air, Marianne replied, “The ones from the park, Ms Nina. They were chasing me.”
“I didn’t see anything out there, Marianne. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m not hurt; I’m okay.”
Nina looked through the window again, checking to see whether she’d missed something the first time, but still saw nothing.
Marianne grew more anxious to be with her friend and asked, “Is Hettie home?”
“No, she’s not here right now,” Nina said, then gave up her search, turning to face Marianne, “She’s out with her father today.”
Marianne’s face dropped. She knew that meant she had to go back outside out where the devil’s pigeons waited for her.
“Can I use your bathroom, Ms. Nina?” Marianne asked, stalling for a little more time.
The phone began to ring as Nina told her she could. Marianne climbed the stairs to use the bathroom, and Nina grabbed the cordless phone from
the table by the recliner.
“Hello,” Nina said into the phone.
Gran was on the other end. “Hello Nina. This is Greta Cade. I was calling to see if Marianne’s made it over to your house yet?
“Oh, hello, Ms. Greta. As a matter of fact, she just got here, and the poor girl was scared to death about something. She just about busted my
door down to get in. I thought someone was chasing her or something.
She got me scared too. I didn’t know what was going on, but she finally told me the pigeons from the park were after her. I looked outside and
didn’t see anything out there, but she’s okay. My heart is still beating a mile a minute, though.”
“The pigeons were after her? Pigeons don’t attack people.” Gran paused for a second, then continued, “I think what’s happened is maybe one got too close to her, and she thought it was after her. She’s been having these awful nightmares for some time now, and she won’t tell me what they’re about. I think she’s become a bit skittish about everything because of them.”
“That could be it, I guess. Well, she’s in the bathroom right now. When she gets finished, I’ll walk her back to your house. Hettie isn’t here for her to play with today.”
“Okay. Thanks, dear.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Greta. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Bye.” Nina replaced the phone in its charger as Marianne returned from the bathroom.
“Marianne, I didn’t see any birds outside, but I’ll walk you back up to your house if you want me to, okay?
“Can we drive up in your car, Ms. Nina?”
A little giggle escaped Nina, then she answered, “No, Marianne; we don’t need to drive up to your house. It’s only a few blocks…and I’ll be with you. Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise.”
“Okay, Ms. Nina.”
Nina made sure she had her keys, locked the door, guided Marianne outside, and then headed down the sidewalk. Marianne unfalteringly
sought after the pigeons, as Ms. Nina escorted her past the dreaded place called DeSoto Park.
Oh no! Marianne screamed inside her head, as she suddenly realized that she had told Ms. Nina about the tormenting birds, and now she just knew
they were going to be really mad at her.
Searching like a maniac, jumping at every fragment of movement near her, Marianne clung to Ms. Nina’s arm and walked on the side of her that
was opposite the park, hoping the pigeons wouldn’t see her as they passed.
As they turned at the corner and hiked up the hill, her back was to the park, and the hair on her neck stood on end. She felt as if the birds were about to swoop down on her at any second, pecking, clawing, and scratching her to pieces—seeking revenge for that slip of her tongue. She looked behind her; she looked into the yards they passed; she checked the porches of the houses in those yards; she looked above her; she looked everywhere around her. She had to make sure they weren’t following.
Marianne and Ms. Nina reached the top of the hill, and they turned left onto James Street. Half a block down, Nina stopped at the beginning of the alleyway that ran behind Marianne’s house.
“Okay, Marianne, you should be safe from here,” Ms. Nina said.
“Thank you, Ms. Nina.” Marianne waved good-bye and ran down the alley to the gate of her backyard. She could see Gran and the other committee ladies sitting around the patio table in the concave part of the yard, obscured from the Sun under the dazzling orange umbrella that sprouted from the center. She felt that she would be safe under that umbrella, for she would be out of view of the birds there.
Marianne approached the table, and the ladies put their committee talk on hold. She took a place in between the seats of Gran and Zeta Spivey.
Each of the five ladies greeted Marianne, and she replied appropriately in return.
Gran wanted to ask Marianne about the incident she had on her way to Hettie’s house, but decided not to. She thought of the possibility that
Marianne would be embarrassed if she mentioned the occurrence in the presence of company. She made a mental note to inquire about it later.
The eighty-three-year-old committee lady Marianne stood next to who could’ve passed for Rita Hayworth in her younger days—grabbed her
purse from the ground beside her as she said to Marianne, “I was hoping to see you today, Marianne honey.”
With her alligator skin purse now in her lap, Zeta Spivey rummaged through the contents and retrieved a small jewelry box. “I brought something for you. It isn’t much, but I wanted you to have it,” Zeta said to Marianne as she handed her the box.
“Well, Zeta, what is this?” Gran said, inquiring about the unexpected gift to Marianne.
As Marianne opened the blue satin box to reveal the surprise, Zeta answered Greta, “I was going through some old stuff to see what I could
take to the bazaar next weekend, and decided to go through some of my old jewelry as well. I spotted that in the box and thought of Marianne. I
wanted her to have it.”
Inside was a golden butterfly brooch with ruby-colored stones for the head and body, and tiny diamond-like stones lining the edges of the wings.
“Oh, it’s beautiful, Ms. Zeta. Thank you very much.” Marianne’s eyes were as big as saucers as she removed the brooch to affix it to her shirt. She had forgotten all about the pigeons chasing her.
To no one in particular, Zeta said, “Like I said, when I spotted this in the box, I thought of Marianne and wanted to give it to her. I thought, "What good is it doing sitting in my jewel case, not seeing the light of day
anymore?’ I wanted someone to get more use out of it than I am.”
Barbara Byrnes, Ellie Maivis, and Virginia Moore, the other committee ladies, only smiled and watched from their places around the table as Marianne affixed the brooch to her shirt.
With a big smile Marianne bent to hug Ms. Zeta and thank her again for the beautiful gift. As she did, the brooch slipped off her shirt and fell
into Zeta’s lap.
“Oops,” said Zeta as she grabbed the brooch. “The clasp is a little stiff these days, honey, so you have to close it real tight,” she said as she reattached it to Marianne’s shirt.
Marianne beamed as she gazed at the new jewelry pinned to her shirt.
She thanked Ms. Zeta again, and then leapt across the yard to the back stairs of the house.
Inside the house, Marianne sprang up the staircase to her bedroom. She entered her room and closed the door. Looking at her reflection in the mirror on the back of the door, she flipped her long brown hair behind her to reveal the butterfly on her shirt. She ran hers fingers over the stones and thought of how magnificent the brooch was. Then she caught the image of
her face—and it turned sad. This is too pretty for someone like me to wear.
She jumped onto her bed, buried her face in her pillow, and started to cry.

Buy a copy of The Pigeons' Secrets at any on-line bookseller or through my website @ www.rayfawley.com.