Mickey the Monkey

Chapter 7 - Summer's End

Then somehow Mickey the monkey vanished, disappeared into thin air with Raggedy Ann. Some folks who lived outside of town said they'd occasionally hear the faint sounds of a ukulele being played in the woods, but that was all hearsay. Nobody ever claimed to have actually seen him again. We reckoned, like Ezra said, "he retreated to his oaken den, never to be seen again'. Cotton claimed Mickey was just like the Federal Government. "Come down from above, stole us blind, pissed on us and then took off." Cotton wasn't far from right but, in his defense, Mickey was about the most exciting thing that happened that summer. Other than catching redfish and trout and casting for mullet. And listening to the Yankees and Red Sox and Red Skelton on the radio. And eating homemade ice cream and staying out late with Cotton and Lenora, the fine fragrance of honeysuckle filling the summer night air. It seems our games always involved running, like 'around the house' or tag, with all the neighborhood kids chasing each other. Or catching lightnin' bugs and drinking lemonade when someone's mom made a pitcher. And with all the running and excitement, seeing Lenora all perspired and breathing hard, her face flushed and blue eyes sparkling. And stealing glances at her auburn hair that had a shine to it I'd give a hundred dollars to see right now. And tending to each other's skinned knees and wasp stings and sharing moments when it was okay to touch lightly on the leg or arm or hand. That was our tenth summer, the one Ezra said was as good as it's gonna get. Looking back, he was probably right. He was after all, a poet lariat.

After Mickey's escape in mid-June, we followed the progress of Amelia as she made her way around the world. From Miami to South America, then to Africa, India and Southeast Asia. She was probably somewhere over India on June 22nd, the night Joe Louis beat James Braddock, to win the heavy weight title. And then we heard she disappeared while searching for Howland Island. 'Like looking for a needle in a haystack,' they said. One tiny island in the middle of the Pacific. I knew she had to be alive. She was too good, too smart, too beautiful. And the Electra wouldn't let her down. Surely she was hunkered down on some island, waiting to be rescued. Biding her time, catching fish, eating coconuts and building her escape raft. And all the while planning her next flight.

By late August the heat was oppressive and we'd had our fill of it. One late afternoon I was in the backyard with Lindy, thinking about the summer and how fast it'd passed and mulling the fact school would start again the following week. I thought about Mister Stringfellow calling where we lived 'the opposite of Florida'. He's pretty much right about that, but that's okay. I've been to Florida. Twice. And never much cared for it.

As I pondered life late that afternoon, a storm brewed up on the bay, the kind you don't know will come ashore or stay put until it actually decides on it's own. The air stirred strong and there were distant growls of thunder. The wind felt fine and a welcome guest after the oppressive staleness of the previous weeks. I sat on a big rock next to Lindy's doghouse and absorbed the feeling, daydreaming as the wind blew my hair. It gusted so hard it caused the door to the nearby tool shed to fly open and slam shut. Right afterwards I heard a whump and turned around to see the sheets catch sail.

Those sheets.

They took off running the way sheets do. Dancing horizontal and getting a final drying before Ma ran out to collect them before the storm. Or before she hollered for me to do it. I knew they'd be on the bed in a few hours and reckoned I ought to collect them up without being asked.

But I didn't.

Instead I just sat and watched. Ma came out directly and did the job. I watched her and looked at her real close, like those times when you see a person you might never see again. On occasion I look at people like that. She wore a pretty cotton yellow dress that set her figure off well and had on the same white and green apron she wore for years. She was silhouetted by the sunset, flush against the horizon, and suddenly I realized what a blessing it was that I had her for a mother. The moment passed quickly, but even then I knew she was special. I watched her collect the clothes and fell deep into thought. Of all the things that had happened that summer. And all the things that still lay ahead.

The End

Thanks very much for reading. Many of the crazier ideas for this short story resulted from a very fun afternoon of brain-storming with my good friend, Wiley Barnard.

© RDBrooks 2015

Cover art painting by William Skilling (1892-1964)