Pinky Pye (20 page)

Now of all these interested and excited people Uncle Bennie alone looked sad and far from ecstatic. In fact, he looked the way he always looked when he was just barely able to hold back his sobs. Finally, brokenly, he said, "All my pets, my pets named Sam. The owl ate them up. They were fine until the owl blew in."

For a moment everyone was silent. Thoughtlessly no one had realized the gloom into which, naturally, this answer to Uncle Bennie's question of the last two weeks—what happens to my crickets?—would cast him.

"They was all going to sing to you tonight," said Uncle Bennie. "I thought they had a plan and was all gathering in a eave to sing, like a choir."

Rachel was the first to hit on a way out of the misery. "Just think, Uncle Bennie," she said. "Just think. Your nice little crickets kept this famous owl, who has been in the newspapers, alive for two weeks. And this famous owl is going to be in a zoo where everyone can go and see him. And everyone will remember that if it wasn't for you no one would know what this sort of little owlie looks like because he would be dead. You kept him alive."

Uncle Bennie looked long at the owl, who scowled back at him. The owl said, "Who, who!"

"He's thanking me," said Uncle Bennie, feeling a little better. "They're dead and he's alive. That's fair, isn't it?"

Uncle Bennie began to take more and more interest in the little owl, who frowned at him, unblinking and stern. It was as though his crickets had turned into an owl. "You know," he said to himself. "Things do change into other things, they do."

"The whole series of extraordinary events must be written up for
The Ornithologist
," said Mr. Bish, slapping his knee. "You must do it, Pye."

Papa gave a slight cough. "It will be written up," he said. "But not for
The Ornithologist
." And he would say no more even though beseeched.

"So that's where my chopped steak went today," said Mama, glad to have light on that subject, which had continued to baffle her. She was glad also that her husband had not turned into a mean man, just a teasing one.

Owlie made an attempt to say something. "Sounds more like a raven," said Mama.

"I think his voice will come back," said Mr. Bish, "now that he is over his fright. But he better sleep in the eaves again tonight, in his cage, safe from cats and dog."

In the dusk they could see Gracie, up on her little roof again, body turned inward as usual, from habit; but her face was looking grimly down at Owlie. "It's a wonder that big old cat didn't try before tonight to get up to the alcove, since she has apparently known about Owlie all along," said Mr. Bish.

"Gave up trying to catch birds years ago," said Papa, "with that bell. She contents herself with watching and crunching, pretending she's eating a bird. But Pinky may try and get up to the eaves again."

"Well, Owlie will be in his cage, so owl can't eat kitten and kitten can't eat owl," said Mr. Bish.

Pinky cast a winning, wistful, sad glance at them. Then she swung by her two front paws from a rung of a chair. Mr. Bish had become very interested in Pinky. He thought her mailbox entrance and her ascent to the eaves fabulous. A description of the string bean game that Mama had given him this afternoon while on safari piqued his curiosity, and he said he wished he could see this played. Pinky was in a good mood for the string bean game because what Mama termed "night madness" in cats and children had overtaken her. She first leaped wildly after a little moth and then she leaped from one lap to another. Next she crawled upside down on the underneath side of Mr. Bish's canvas chair. Mr. Bish yelled, "Ouch!" and jumped up, so it was a good time to go indoors.

Rachel played the string bean game with Pinky, which caused Mr. Bish to marvel, for he had never before seen the like of it. After this Pinky settled down on Rachel's cot and winked one eye at Rachel. Pinky was practicing the deception of being through for the night. But those who knew Pinky best, Papa and Rachel, were not taken in. The tip of Pinky's tail gave a twitch as she saw Mr. Bish shove his owl cage with Owlie in it up into the eaves.

"Oh-woe," said Pinky quietly.

Mama said it was time to call in "the old cat," which, since the advent of Pinky, was how everyone now referred to Gracie. So she went to the back door and mee-owed. Mama knew better than to say, "Here kitty, kitty, kitty," when she wanted a cat to come in. Most cats never come in to that old tune. They just play the game of "Take Your Time." Mama knew you have to mee-ow to get a cat in, and the more variations you have practiced, the more effective your call will be. "Cats come bounding in to a good mee-ow," Mama turned to explain to Mr. Bish, who was unaccustomed to the idea. "At least mother cats or cats that have ever been a mother, and Gracie has (what a mother! someday I'll tell you), will come bounding in. See?"

For Gracie had come bounding in at the third loud mee-ow.

Papa said he didn't know what the neighbors in the next cottage, The Dunes, thought of all this mee-owing. In Cranbury people were used to Mama's mee-owing. Mama said the people in The Dunes wouldn't think, with all the cats and pets over here, anything at all about her mee-owing.

Gracie hopped on Mama's lap and looked up anxiously in Mama's face. "She's never quite sure about the mee-ows, whether I do them or not," explained Mama, and stroked Gracie's thick fur coat. Then she told Gracie what a smart cat she had been with all her watching. Gracie purred at the praise. She did love Mama, at least, which was something in her favor.

"Didn't I tell you that Gracie might lead you to a bird discovery, not necessarily a puffin, but an important bird discovery?" Mama said. "And you wanted to leave her home!" she said reproachfully to Papa. "Where would Owlie be now but for Gracie? Still up in the eaves and undiscovered," she said. "That's where Owlie'd be!"

Pinky did not like the conversation. Who had made the original and famous ascent to the eaves? Gracie? Ho! No. No one but Pinky Pye. That's who.

Here I am at last, in a sleeping bag at last,
thought Rachel, happily wiggling her toes in the soft warm coziness of it. She had been worried for fear she would not have a chance to sleep in the sleeping bag, but she had. When it was time for bed, Uncle Bennie had said, "Who's going to sleep in the sleeping bag tonight? I'm not."

And Jerry had spoken up hastily, before Mr. Bish could reply, and said, "Well, me and Uncle Bennie had our chance last night. It's not fair for us to have the sleeping bag every night." You would think that Jerry had slept in the sleeping bag sixteen times, he spoke with such fervor.

Rachel could hardly stand the suspense. Of course Mr. Bish would want to sleep in his own sleeping bag, having missed out on it last night. But how she wished he would let her. It would probably be her last chance to sleep in a sleeping bag until she was old enough to go on far bird trips with her father, not easy ones like Fire Island. Rather timidly, while Mr. Bish was thinking up his answer, she said, "I would like to sleep in the sleeping bag if it's all right with you. That is, if you are not too tired to sleep in a regular old bed like my cot after that long trip you took today to the sunken forest and catching that big fish and getting your owl back."

Mr. Bish smiled graciously and said, "All right, Rachel. You may sleep in the sleeping bag."

"Oh, thanks," breathed Rachel ecstatically.

Mama smothered a sigh. She would much rather have her children sleeping in beds than in sleeping bags or any other sort of rough-and-tumble contraptions. But she was a perfect hostess, and a guest, she thought, should be in a bed and not on the floor, so she agreed.

Then Uncle Bennie had the idea it would be nice to sleep in a cardboard crate. He became very busy putting bears' blankets in it and a small pillow. He was quite angry when Mama firmly put her foot down against this move. But once he was back in his own bumpy little beach cot again, he was happy to be there. He had had one heroic night in a sleeping bag and that was enough.

"Rachel," he said.

Rachel turned her glowing face to him. "Yes?" she said.

"Did you mean it when you said I am a hero because of my crickets?"

"Yes, I did. Ni-ite."

"Nite."

Uncle Bennie lay on his cot half asleep, half awake, watching as much as he could of other people's preparations for going to bed, a pleasant and restful thing to do. He had been a hero three times in his life now, he told himself. This may not sound like a lot of times, but to have been a hero three times when you are only four is a very good record. Many people go through their whole lives and are never a hero. That's what Rachel had said. The first time he had been a hero was because he was an uncle. The second time was in May when he had recognized Ginger, who had been lost for such a long time, and coaxed him home to the Pyes' house. And the third time was today, saving the life of a little owl by feeding him his best pets.

"Good night, Owlie," he called. "Good night, crickets," he added, for old time's sake.

Papa said, "We better barricade those swinging doors. Here, Bish," he said, handing him the dictionary. "Put this in front of them, will you? We don't want Pinky, whose middle name is Persistence, paying a night call on that owl of yours, sticking her sharp little claws into his cage. I have a hunch she is plotting a further exploration of the eaves." Papa and Pinky exchanged glances of mutual esteem.

"Pinky Persistence Pye. That sounds like a Puritan name," said Rachel.

Then Papa hobbled over, leaned down, and gave Rachel a good-night kiss. "Well, how's life in a sleeping bag?" he asked. "How's our little ornithologist?"

"Fine," said Rachel. She closed her eyes and prepared to make a speech to herself, her favorite way of going to sleep.

Jerry looked at Rachel. He could see her very well from his narrow cot. She looked blissful.
She
feels the way I did last night when I first crawled into the sleeping bag,
he said to himself. He continued to watch her, and the look of radiance on her face did not fade. She didn't begin to toss and turn and try to find comfortable positions between the knobs on the floor of knotty pine.
She really is loving it,
thought Jerry, growing envious.
I bet sleeping in sleeping bags really is wonderful. I should have tried it again. It probably takes one night to get used to a sleeping bag and after that you probably never want to sleep in anything else. Boys, that is, not girls. Girls probably haven't the sense to feel the knobs the first night. Look at Rachel! Just look at her!

A look of glory was on Rachel's face.

"People..." Rachel began her speech, which she was giving in Pythian Hall in Cranbury to a cheering audience of famed ornithologists and also family and friends in the front rows. "Birdaceous friends..." she said. "Thank you for giving me this nice medal for discovering the owl. By rights this medal should be cut in four parts because there were three other members of the Pye menage (menagerie, Papa says that's short for) who helped with the discovering—Uncle Bennie, Gracie, and Pinky. They're three and I make four. Four pieces of 'pie.' Pie, Pye. Get it?

"It may seem odd to have an owl blown off a ship in a howling wind and zoom right into the tiny porthole window of our cottage called The Eyrie, which means a place for owls. Why not the cottage next door called The Dunes? Fate. Happenstance. But once Mama, that's my mother..." (Here Rachel glanced at Mama, who, in the front row, was brushing away the tears as fast as they fell. Mama was weeping, not because the owl had been blown in by fate, but because Rachel was making such a wonderful speech.) "Well, once Mama had a hard bug zoom right into her ear. She was standing in the open window of Papa's study. And this bug happened to zoom right straight into her ear like a bullet. She had to go to the doctor to have it out.

"So. That's two things that got blown into small places and shows that more often than you think, things do zoom into small places not knowing or being able to help where they zoom. And there is no need for astonishment.

"And so, here I am at last, in a sleeping bag at last." (Rachel was growing sleepy and she forgot she was in Pythian Hall addressing the ornithologists and not on the floor of The Eyrie in a sleeping bag.) "...O-o-oh! What was that?"

"O-o-oh! What was that?" was not part of Rachel's speech in Pythian Hall. They were real words spoken out loud because there had been a big bang and a terrible, heavy thud.

Everybody else waked up and yelled, "Hey! What was that?"

"Just the dictionary," said Papa calmly, and lighted a lamp.

There sat Pinky on the ledge cleaning her paw. Owlie gave a hoarse but really loud cry. It was much louder than the call he had given at dinnertime in answer to Mr. Bish's call.

"By jiminy!" exclaimed Mr. Bish joyously. "His voice is coming back!" Since Mr. Bish was of the type that rarely shouts with joy or anger and who seldom shows surprise even when pulling a large live fish out of the water with his bare hands, you can imagine how very joyous he must have been feeling to have raised his voice so loudly now that people in The Dunes must surely have heard him. It showed how very much he wanted to have Owlie restored to health and singing happily again.