Pinky Pye (11 page)

Papa's hands were behind his head. He was lounging in his comfortable chair under the green umbrella. Pinky was on his lap and Rachel was standing beside him. All awaited the answer.

Papa's mind was apparently absent, for he did not answer. However, he may have heard, for he looked wise, beneficent, and thoughtful. His blue eyes wandered vaguely to the little roof over the front porch upon which Gracie was straddled, sunning herself, in rapt contemplation of the dusty little window. Maybe she was admiring her reflection.

Mama was hanging out the bathing suits. (One thing she hated was to put on a damp suit, and she gave all the suits a good sunning every morning.) She overheard Bennie's question. She thought he might be interfering with some important thinking going on this minute inside her husband's head concerning a bird, so she said, "Now don't bother Edgar, Bennie dear. We'll find out. Where are the twins? Why don't you run along and play with the children?"

"Oh, I stopped playing with children now I'm four," said Uncle Bennie, and he went off hunting crickets again, question unanswered.

"Do you think we could find a better place than the eaves to put the cricket house in, in the nighttime?" asked Rachel, following him.

They thought and thought, but no place below seemed safe for captured crickets, away from cats and dog, with the exception of the breadbox, and Mama said, "No," to that. "Don't want those roaches in the breadbox," she said indignantly. "And don't want them in any bureau drawers either, hopping out at me," she said, thinking bureau drawers would be the next suggestion.

"Roaches!" exclaimed Uncle Bennie. "They're not roaches, they're crickets, and they're pets."

"No," said Mama.

"We'll try once more in the eaves," said Rachel. "Once more. And we'll tie the thread a little tighter. Let's use blue thread."

So Uncle Bennie resumed his quest, and Rachel lay down on the sand, dropping the fine grains through her fingers. Pinky came and studied the falling sand with grave attention. Mama began to pack sandwiches because all, with the exception of Papa, were going to picnic on the beach.

Rachel worried about Papa being lonesome. But he could, if he wanted to, ride up and down the wooden walks in his wheelchair. He often did this, ringing his bell briskly when approaching a person, and sometimes he took Pinky with him. Pinky would post along beside him, her pink tongue hanging out like a puppy's.

At the end of each wooden walk there was a little platform. From this platform, steps led down the dune to the beach. Sometimes Papa wheeled himself out on one of these platforms, binoculars in hand, to sit there, see the family below, wave signals to them as to what time of day it was, and also study the birds if there were any to study. You would be surprised how many there really were, plovers, sandpipers, gulls, terns ... others.... Papa could even picnic with the family. "Do you want cheese? Or ham?" they would yell up to him, and Bennie would be the messenger boy.

However, today, as on many other occasions, Papa preferred to stay at home, and with his typewriter on his lap, and Pinky, too, he would work, think, study, dream. With Pinky he was not lonesome, he told Rachel, who finally had the courage to ask him. He really liked just to stay at home and work. His complete study of the birds here and the exploration of a sunken forest he had been told about could wait until his foot was well. And that would be soon.

"All right," said Rachel, and she kissed him good-bye and ran to catch up with Uncle Bennie. He was carrying his little cricket cage with him. He had just caught a lovely strong little cricket, and he had to take him to the beach to show him the great and wide ocean.

Papa sat under the umbrella with his wobbly little table over his knees and with the typewriter on it. Pinky leaped on his lap, crying "Woe." Soon they began to play the typewriter game. Tap one key with one paw, catch it with the other.
Pul-ink. Pul-unk.
And then the real typing began.

When you think of it, it is probably because Papa injured his ankle that we have as many records as we do about this summer.
Pul-ink. Pul-unk.

While the family was away at the beach, picnicking, picking up shells, what was being typed under the green umbrella by the typing team of Pinky Pye and Papa?

Meditations of Pinky Pye II,
that is what was being typed.

CAT GAMES

Dear cats: Following are some simple games called Solitaire.

These games, which are in most primers, are good training for the harder ones that follow:

1. The String Bean Game

a. This important game
has
to be played with someone.

b. Now. Go to the icebox, sit in front of it, say "Woe," and Pye, or whoever you own, will come. Pye will understand what you want, for you will have the eager string bean game expression on your face. He will open the door of the icebox and rummage around for the bag of string beans. While he is doing this, you leap into the air with wild enthusiasm. Show that it is almost unbearable for you to wait for him to locate Bean. When he finally has the crispest, longest, and greenest bean and you get a whiff of it, leap higher and higher in the air. Try and grab it out of his fingers.

c. Now. Crouch and wiggle. This means you are ready for the throw. Pye will raise his hand as if to throw, but he will not do this right away, for he hopes to catch you unaware. Of course smart cats are never caught unaware, but we like to let people think they are, for delusion and deception lend spice.

d. Now. He throws Bean. Tear after it as though you have been shot out of a cannon. People are always surprised to see how fast you can get going without having to gather speed. Never let speed get ungathered. Race after Bean, bring it back, and lay it at Pye's feet. He throws Bean again. Race after it again, and if it has gone around a corner, knock recklessly into a wall as you make the speedy turn. Pick it up and trot back with it. Do this again and again. "Hurray!" the people will exclaim noisily. "She retrieves like a dog!" What nonsense! Dogs retrieve like dogs—huff, huff, pant. Cats retrieve like cats and bring variety to the game.

e. Now. It is time for variations, not to let the game grow dull, and you may think up your own. I now hide Bean. Pye then gets down on his hands and knees and searches. As he goes crawling from cot to couch, picking up a corner of this rug, or, flat on his stomach, peers under the icebox, he is a ludicrous and absurd sight. Sometimes I sit and watch his antics. Sometimes I lie beside Pye and peer where he peers, pretend Bean is outwitting both of us. And sometimes, to add zest to the game, as he searches I go leaping madly from table to mantel to bureau and then, upside down, race along the underneath side of a cot. (This last is excellent for sharpening claws.) When, finally, Pye locates Bean, repeat all these maneuvers until Bean grows limp, falls apart and—you eat Bean up!

f. Comment: This game develops the ingenuity of the two-legged ones, who are always searching for things they cannot find.

2, The Game of Crouch and Leap

a. Now. When Pye is lying on his bed, resting, pensive, come sidling silently to the doorway. When just your head is peeking in, stop, fix him (see Primer) with your eyes, mesmerize him, wiggling and squirming.

b. Now. Leap suddenly from the doorway to the bed and land right on his stomach. Turn, jump off, and run madly away.

c. Now. When, after a while, Pye, recovered, is again resting, pensive, unsuspecting, brooding about the birds he watches but does not catch, repeat this creepy crouch and leap. Always remember the long stare, which is to alarm. (I know a cat who could stare eight minutes without winking—my mother.) Pye knows you are going to leap, but he doesn't know when. Though a little frightened of the long stare, he loves the game.

3. Cat Tag

a. Now. Come running wildly into the room. Tag Pye's leg with a paw, race away, slide a rug in a heap, and tear through the house. When Pye tags you, spit at him, leap sideways on all fours and, hissing and spitting, prance back and tag him again.

b. Now. After a while Pye will say he is tired and would like to sit and think. That's his deception. Just look up at him with nose pointed, nostrils dilated, eyes big, round, and innocent. He will find you irresistible and play again and again until the game is really over, that is, when
you
grow tired. Then, walk off, shake your paw in boredom, or clean it carefully, sit down, and look into space. "What does she look at so long?" someone may ask, stooping down, peering stupidly where you are looking in air. Must there be something to look at in order to look?

4. The Game of Hide and Hunt

a. Now. Get into closets, bureau drawers, boxes, trunks, suitcases, and find things. Run furtively with what you have found, looking as sneaky as possible, and get underneath something with it, peering right and left for enemies. Hide things. "What has she got now?" people exclaim.

b. Comment: It is incredible how much time people spend in looking for things. "Where are my glasses?" "Where is my pencil?" they ask a hundred times a day. So. The more we hide, the more they can hunt. I help in all ways I can, hiding pencils under carpets, smoothing the carpet back down for the deception, putting paper bags on top of someone's glasses, or a newspaper over a thimble.

5. The Game of Watching

a. Watching is one of the most fascinating and important of all games. This happens to be a house in which watching is held in high esteem.

b. Now. Watch.... (More later. The family comes.)

Uncle Bennie and Rachel were the first to arrive, hot, panting, and thirsty. "Don't run with that grasshopper!" said Rachel.

"I have to give him some tea," explained Uncle Bennie, racing into the kitchen. Pinky leaped off Papa's lap and, hissing and spitting, coming sideways on bouncy steps, she rushed at Rachel. She drew up stiffly before Rachel and then bounced away. "Aw-w-w," came the admiring, marveling, infatuated cry. "If we only had a picture of that!"

When the rest of the family came around the cottage, they had Mrs. Pulie with them. She had dropped by with some mackerel wrapped up in a newspaper, which she had brought the Pyes as a neighborly gesture. She was always doing this, bringing them some clams, a fish, or crabs that she or her husband had caught.

"Isn't she generous!" marveled Rachel.

After she had left, Papa glanced at the newspaper that had been wound around the mackerel. It happened to be
The New York Times
of a couple of days ago, an issue that somehow or another Papa had happened to have missed seeing.

"My sainted aunt!" exclaimed Papa. "Listen to this, Lucy! Are you listening?"

"Yes," said Mama. "I'm listening. I always listen."

"Well, listen then," said Papa. "What do you think has happened now to that little owl of Hiram Bish's. Well, it's lost at sea. That's what's happened."

"Well," said Mama. "I always did think a boat was a silly way to travel with an owl."

"Well," said Papa, "when you think of it, practically any way is a silly way to travel with an owl. But they had to get him to the zoo somehow."

"How did it happen?" asked Rachel.

"Well," said Papa, reading, "you remember that big blow that we had a few nights ago?"

"Will I ever forget it?" asked Mama. "That cyclone, you mean."

"Well, in that big blow, that little owl, it says here in the paper, was blown away, blown off the ship and into the wind and the sea. Hm-m-m. Happened right off Fire Island, it says. How could that be? Hm-m-m. SS
Pennsylvania
lost its bearings in the fog, and when the fog cleared, the ship was off the shore here. Wind almost blew it into shore! What a narrow escape for everybody!"

"Everybody except the owl," said Rachel. "Why wasn't it in its cage? How could it blow away?"

"It says in the paper that Bish's wife, Myra, wanted to go out on deck (she never could resist a storm, I remember Bish telling me), and she decided to take the little owl with her so he wouldn't be frightened all by himself down in the cabin. Of course she couldn't have realized what a very bad blow it was ... until she got out on deck."