Summer of the Monkeys (10 page)

Grandpa laughed and said, “I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait and see. Now that we’ve got everything figured out, maybe you’d better be high-tailing it for home. And, if this doesn’t work out, I wouldn’t let it bother me. Just remember there never was an animal that couldn’t be caught.”

I was feeling so good I could have hugged my grandpa’s neck, but ever since I had grown up to be a man, I had quit doing things like that.

Just as I picked up the net, I thought of something. “Grandpa,” I asked, “where in the world did you ever get a thing like this anyway?”

Grandpa laughed, then he walked over and sat down in his old rocker. He picked up his fly swatter, reared back, and said, “That’s a long story. It happened way back when you were just a little bitty thing. One year a fellow from the college in Tahlequah came up here and stayed all summer with your grandma and me. He was one of those butterfly professors.”

“Grandpa,” I interrupted, “did you say this fellow was a butterfly professor?”

“I think there’s another name for them,” Grandpa said, “but I don’t know what it is. It’s a big word and would break your tongue to say it. Anyhow, when this fellow came up here, he brought that net with him. All he did that summer was lope around through the country catching butterflies in that net. He must have caught a million butterflies.”

I laughed out loud. “Grandpa,” I said, “what in the world did that fellow want with all of those butterflies?”

“He studied them,” Grandpa said, “just like you would study a book. I never saw anything like it. He would spend hours looking
through a big magnifying glass at the butterflies and then he’d write things down on paper. After he had given them a good looking-over, he would pin them to small white cards. He put those cards in small glass-topped boxes.”

“Grandpa,” I said, “I’ve caught a lot of butterflies, but they’re such pretty little things I never did stick pins in them. I always turned them loose. Why, that professor must have been crazy, or just plain mean.”

“Oh, I don’t think he was a mean fellow,” Grandpa said, “but there could have been something wrong with him. I know one thing—if it hadn’t been for your grandma, I would have run that professor clean out of the country.”

“Run him out of the country!” I said, very surprised. “Why did you want to do that?”

“Because I was going broke,” Grandpa snapped. “That’s why. I came close to losing everything I had that summer. From the day that professor got here until the day he left, I never sold as much as a can of snuff.”

“Never sold anything?” I said, more surprised than ever. “How come you didn’t sell anything? Did this professor have something to do with it?”

“He sure did,” Grandpa growled. “He had everything to do with it. You know, most of my trade is with these Cherokee Indians, and you know how superstitious they are about crazy people. They think if a person has lost his mind he is dead already, and his soul has gone on to the happy hunting grounds. They won’t get close to a crazy man, and won’t come around where one is. The way the professor was carrying on, every Indian in these hills thought he was crazy, and they wouldn’t come within a mile of my store. So—I didn’t sell anything.”

“I know how these Indians feel about crazy people, Grandpa,” I said, “but how come they thought the professor was crazy.”

“Oh, there were a lot of reasons,” Grandpa said. “In a way, you couldn’t blame them. This professor was an odd-looking duck. He
was as long as a fence rail and as bony as a whalebone corset. He had a little beard that stuck straight out from his chin about five inches. It was so sharp on the end you could have split a stump with it. I never saw a man with so much hair on his head, and I don’t think he ever combed it as it was always bushed out like the tail of a scared tomcat.”

I laughed and said, “Why, Grandpa, no wonder the Indians thought that professor was crazy. If I saw a man who looked like that, I’d think he was crazy, too.”

Grandpa nodded his head, and said, “It wasn’t only the way the professor looked. I think the way he acted and his clothes had a lot to do with it. He wore shirts that didn’t have any sleeves at all, and his pants were cut off about to here.”

With his finger, Grandpa made a slash across his legs above his knees.

“Every time the professor got after a butterfly, he would start running and waving that net, and yelling and making all kinds of racket. The Indians saw him loping around through the country and figured that he had lost his mind. If it hadn’t been for your grandma, I would have taken a club to that professor.”

“What did Grandma have to do with it, Grandpa?” I asked.

Grandpa frowned and started digging at the whiskers on his chin.

“This professor was a talker,” he said. “He could talk a fish right out of the river. Your grandma thought he was the smartest man in the world. He got her all interested in those butterflies, and she wouldn’t listen to my running him off.”

I laughed and laughed and laughed. Great big tears boiled out of my eyes and ran all over my face.

Still laughing and wiping tears, I said, “Grandpa, I sure would like to see one of those butterfly professors. That would be better than going to a circus.”

Grandpa grunted and said, “If I have anything to do with it, you’ll never see one around here. There’s not enough room in the
country for me and another one of those butterfly professors. One of us would have to leave.”

I was still laughing when Grandma hallowed from the house, “Jay Berry, is that you?”

“Yes, Grandma,” I hallowed back. “It’s me.”

“Before you go home,” Grandma said, “you come by the house. I have some things I want to send to your mother.”

“All right, Grandma,” I said.

On hearing Grandma, Grandpa got all nervous. He got up from his chair and started fidgeting around.

Looking at me, he said, “I don’t believe it would be a good idea to let your grandma know too much about this monkey-catching business of ours. When it comes to hunting and fishing and things like that, women can’t see things like men can.”

“I know just what you mean, Grandpa,” I said. “I have enough trouble with Mama and Daisy. Every time I leave the house, Mama thinks I’m going to get eaten up by something; and if I even catch a little old lizard, Daisy thinks I’m the meanest boy in the world. The other day she told me that if I didn’t quit catching things, God was going to send a bolt of lightning down out of the sky and split me wide open.”

Grandpa laughed and said, “Oh, I don’t think the good Lord would do anything like that—not to a boy anyway. He can understand things better than women folks can. I found out a long time ago not to pay too much attention to the women. They don’t mean half of what they say anyhow.”

“I try not to pay any attention to them, Grandpa,” I said, “but it doesn’t seem to do any good. Why, Mama has broken so many switches off our peach trees I don’t think they will ever have any more peaches on them.”

Grandpa laughed and said, “Peaches are pretty good things to have around all right, but they’re not the most important things in the world.”

“They’re not half as important as hunting and fishing,” I said.

Looking at his watch, Grandpa said, “Well, it’s getting late, and you’d better be getting for home. I don’t want you to be out on the road after dark.”

“Oh, I’m not scared of the dark, Grandpa,” I said. “I used to be, but not as long as Rowdy is with me. He can take care of anything that wants to jump on us.”

Looking at Rowdy, Grandpa smiled and said, “Yes, I guess he could. You know, when I was a boy about your age, I had a dog, too. He was a hound just about like Rowdy, and I felt about like you do. As long as he was with me, I wasn’t scared of anything.”

“Why, Grandpa,” I said, “I didn’t know that you had a dog when you were a boy. You’ve never said anything to me about it before. I bet you could tell me a lot of good stories about some of the things you and your dog did.”

With a faraway look in his eyes, Grandpa said, “Yes, I expect I could, but right now with it getting late and with your grandma wanting to see you, I don’t think we have time. Someday after we’ve caught all of the monkeys, I’ll tell you about some of the things my old dog and I got into.”

“Is that a promise, Grandpa?” I asked.

“Yes,” Grandpa said, nodding his head, “that’s a promise. Now, you’d better be on your way. I have to lock up the store and get my chores done.”

I thanked Grandpa again for all the help he had given me, and started for the house to see what Grandma wanted.

I
 hid my net behind a big lilac bush in Grandma’s front yard, walked around the house, and came in through the back door. That was the quickest way to the kitchen and I dearly loved that part of the house. I could never remember a time when I walked into Grandma’s kitchen that I didn’t get something to eat. I had one of the best little old grandmas a boy ever had, but she worried about me too much. She was always worrying about my health and my schooling, and everything else you could think of.

Grandma was a pretty good doctor, too. No germ could escape her eagle eye. About three times a year she would take time out from her work and give me a complete examination. While these examinations were taking place, I’d have to stand perfectly still with my head thrown back, and with my mouth open like any angry turtle.

Grandma would look at my teeth, my tongue, and my tonsils; and way on down into my throat. After she had given my insides a good looking-over, then she’d look me over on the outside. She would peel back my eyelids and look at my eyeballs, peer down in my ears, and punch around on me with her fingers.

About the only thing Grandma could ever find wrong with me would be a few dirty spots. It made no difference if Rowdy and I had been swimming in the river all day long, Grandma could
usually find a little bit of dirt on me somewhere. I never could understand how it was still there.

I didn’t mind these examinations so much. It was the standing-still part that always got the best of me. I just never could stand still very long.

Grandma was over at her cupboard putting something in a basket when I walked into the kitchen.

She turned, looked at me, frowned, and said, “I declare, Jay Berry, I believe you’re getting skinnier and skinnier. Don’t you ever eat anything?”

“Eat anything?” I said. “Why, Grandma, I eat everything I can get my hands on—you know that.”

“I know,” Grandma said, “but it doesn’t seem to be putting any meat on your bones. Why, you look like a fishing pole.”

I laughed and said, “Aw, Grandma, I know I’m a little skinny, but I don’t look like a fishing pole, do I?”

Grandma smiled and said, “Well, maybe not exactly like a fishing pole, but almost.”

“Being skinny doesn’t count, Grandma,” I said. “It’s being hard that counts, and I’m as hard as a flint rock.”

I pumped up one of my arms and said, “If you don’t believe I’m hard, just feel of my muscle.”

Grandma came over and very tenderly pinched my muscle between two fingers. “Well,” she said, “it is hard all right, but there’s not much of it there. It’s not much bigger than a quail’s egg.”

This hurt my feelings a little bit. Looking down at my arm, I said, “Aw, Grandma, my muscle is bigger than a quail’s egg. If it got any bigger, I couldn’t carry it around.”

Grandma smiled and said, “I’ll bet a piece of huckleberry pie and a glass of milk would help build those muscles a little, don’t you?”

“It sure would, Grandma,” I said. “The huckleberry pies that you bake would put muscles on a grapevine.”

Grandma chuckled and said, “I’m not interested in putting
muscles on any grapevines, but I would like to see yours puff up a little more.”

While I was eating, Grandma said, “How is your little sister getting along?”

My mouth was so full of huckleberry pie I had to swallow four or five times before I had room enough to say anything.

“Oh, I guess she’s all right, Grandma,” I said. “You know how Daisy is, she’s always laughing and singing and hopping around on that old crutch. You couldn’t tell if anything was wrong with her or not.”

Looking concerned, Grandma said, “Jay Berry, I don’t think your little sister is as happy as she lets on. She just doesn’t want to worry anyone. I’ll bet if the truth were known, she’s probably in pain all the time.”

I didn’t like to talk about Daisy’s crippled leg. It always made me feel bad, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Besides, right then I had too many worries of my own to wrestle with. There were those monkeys to be caught, and a chance to get the pony and .22. I figured that was about all the worries I could take care of at one time.

Grandma said, “I know that your mother and father have been saving their money, hoping to send Daisy to the hospital. Do you know if they’ve saved any?”

“I guess they’ve saved a little, Grandma,” I said, “but I don’t think it’s very much. Papa can’t seem to get ahold of much money. He gave up his smoking tobacco, and Mama has been saving her egg money. She doesn’t order anything out of the catalogue any more. They’re saving every dime they can, but I don’t think they’ve saved very much.”

Grandma frowned and said, “Times are so hard it’s a problem for anyone to save money. Your grandpa and I have been putting a few dollars away to help out, but you know how your grandpa is. He does more credit business than he does cash business, and people can’t pay their bills.”

I felt pretty good when Grandma told me she and Grandpa were trying to save some money, too. If they were all saving their money, then sooner or later Daisy’s leg would be fixed up. In fact, I couldn’t see where anyone had anything to worry about but me.

Getting up from the table, I said, “Grandma, I have so many things to do I’d better be getting home. What did you want me to take to Mama?”

Picking up the basket, Grandma handed it to me and said, “I baked some fresh bread today and want to send a few loaves to her. Be careful now, and don’t mash them.”

“I won’t, Grandma,” I said, “and thanks for the pie and milk.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t care for another piece of pie?” Grandma asked.