Summer of the Monkeys

by Wilson Rawls

When I saw my little sister kneeling in the center of that snow-white circle, and that old crutch laying on the ground beside her, I forgot about ponies and .22s. I wanted my little sister to get that old leg of hers fixed up. I wanted that more than anything I had ever wanted in my life. That was going to be my wish.

Jimbo didn’t move or make a sound. He just looked at me and batted his eyes as if he were very sleepy. He was sitting there with his back against the wet, cold bank. All the little monkeys were there, too. They were huddled up against his body as close as they could get—trying to keep warm. He had his long arms wrapped around his little friends as if he were protecting them.

For a few seconds, Jimbo stood there watching Rowdy. Then he did something that almost paralyzed me. He shuffled over to me, caught hold of my overalls, climbed up into my arms, and laid his head on my shoulder. I swallowed a big lump that had crawled up in my throat, and put my arms around his cold, wet body. I started talking to him. “Everything will be all right, Jimbo,” I said. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll take care of you. Let’s get your little friends from under that bank and take them down to where the sun is shining, so they can dry out and get warm.”

When I opened the corn-crib door, we saw Jimbo sitting on top of the corn, eating an apple. The minute he saw Ben Johnson, he dropped the apple and started grunting as he hopped up and down on his short legs. Then he raised his long arms in the air and started toward us. He jumped from the corn-crib door right into Ben Johnson’s arms. Mr. Johnson wrapped his arms around Jimbo and buried his face in his fur. In a choking voice, he started telling him how happy he was to see him, how much he had missed him, and how much he loved him. Jimbo whimpered like a little puppy. I thought Mr. Johnson was going to cry.

“Let’s see,” he said, “two times twenty-eight is fifty-six, and one hundred for Jimbo—that comes to one hundred and fifty-six dollars.” I held out both hands and stood speechless while he stacked the money into my trembling hands. In a voice choked with emotion, I thanked him. I folded the money and crammed it down in my pocket. I heard Daisy say in a low voice, “Mama, he’s really going to be hard to get along with now that he’s rich.”

As I stood there in our barn lot and watched the truck disappear in the distance, a strange feeling came over me. I should have been very happy but I wasn’t. I felt a little sad and a little lonely. “There go the monkeys,” I said. “I wonder if I’ll ever see them again. I hope so—but even if I don’t ever see them again, I know I’ll never forget them. I’ll always remember this as the summer of the monkeys.”

“Son, I wanted to say this before but I didn’t want your mother and Daisy to hear. I didn’t want them to know that you had almost gotten home with your pony. You grew ten feet tall today. I’m proud of you. I’d like to shake your hand.”