There's something about clothes hanging on a clothesline in fresh country air. It does a body good sometimes just to lie down on the grass and watch them. The faded dungarees and work shirts, the calico and Sunday dresses, the white shirts and parchment-colored underwear, looking all the world like ghosts lazing away at a picnic. During that late spring of 1937 and for as long as I could remember, my mother hung them out in the same manner, with large wooden pins pulled from a little sack that slid along as she moved down the line. I'd never paid the slightest attention to domestic concerns, at least those I could avoid. No, those activities fell far beneath the attention of a ten year old. But that May afternoon I realized, as I waited on Cotton, that I was partial to bed sheets flapping on the line. They start out limp and crumpled in the morning and over the course of the day crisp up into something almost alive. And when mom tucked me in with them at night, well there's a smell and feel that the telling doesn't quite do justice.

Granted, watching clothes dry isn't exactly an activity I normally concern myself with. But on that early afternoon as the wind found its way up from the bay I had more than a few minutes to idle in reflection. It was a golden afternoon, a Saturday to boot, and I had little else to occupy my mind, except Amelia, and her Electra, of course. I had been daydreaming about that silvery Lockheed and Miss Earhart's recent historic flight from California to Miami.

We were supposed to be fishing already, Cotton and me, but he was eternally late. Normally we'd be at the bay before dawn with a string of fish by this time of day, but that morning we both had chores. It was a fine time of year, that too-brief period between Easter and Mother's Day when a body's finally allowed a brief respite from obligations to church and family. Ma and Pa had finally stopped carrying on about my spiritual and scholastic deficiencies long enough to catch a few days peace. My main passion besides fishing was listening to the radio. It was an exciting time in the world even if things were slow around here. What with talk that Joe Louis might get a chance for the heavy weight title and Amelia planning to fly that Lockheed around the world, there was plenty to be excited about. And of course the Yankees and the Giants going at it, looking all the world like they'd end up in the World Series again like they did last year.

It wasn't even June yet but in our little town of Moon Mullet the humidity had caught up with the heat the last two weeks. That set the honeysuckle and lilacs blooming with such a vengeance you'd think the air'd been doused with French perfume. Strangely, I wasn't annoyed by Cotton's tardiness. Instead I enjoyed the breeze and took it in, felt the sun warming my face and passed the time peaceful even as I listened to Lindy barking in the distance. He was a good old hound, a Bluetick, always under foot and his presence so constant I hadn't realized he'd even been gone. He was probably after a squirrel or chasing those blamed ducks on Miller's pond.

The air gusted with life and my eyes were drawn again to the sheets as they danced on the line. The wind gave them a heave, like a giant up in heaven blowing out candles on a birthday cake. It caught the sheets underneath and after a loud whump, they billowed like a sail on a schooner and were off running. They galloped with a whiffling sound, practically horizontal at times so constant was the wind. The overalls and Pa's long handles on the clothes line caught the wind too. Lord knows they needed it.

Lindy's barking stopped and I was grateful for the silence.

And then came Cotton. He was fit to be tied. "Whatcha laying around here for?" he spouted impatiently. "We got some fishing to do!"

I didn't move for a sec. Just laid there and gave him the hairy eye. "You took your sweet time about it."

"My mom," he sighed. "Again. Held me up 'cause she can't find her blamed pin cushion for pete's sakes. And my dad jumped in on me, too saying I lost his ball peen hammer. As if I give two shakes about either. Let's get going."

He looked put out and asked, "You got the grubs, didn't you?"

"A few," I answered and stood, reaching for the can and my fishing rod.

"Then, let's git," he said, "Daylight's burnin'."

We turned to go but just then something caught our eye.

"You see that?" Cotton exclaimed.

Our eyes widened. A pair of overalls got yanked off the clothes line and fell in stages, like an old man dropping to his knees. Two shirts tore off the line right after and met the same fate.

"And that?" Cotton added.

"Whatthe?" we both said together.

But then we saw the culprit or at least a part of him. Whatever it was had a long skinny arm and a hairy one at that. And attached to it was a little hand. And that skinny little hand yanked one of the sheets to the ground.

"Don't that beat all," I mumbled to Cotton.

"Let's git it!" he whispered quietly and moved in his best stalking pose.

I followed suit and watched as another shirt and sheet got yanked to the ground. We had to be right on top of the thing but somehow it disappeared before our very eyes.

"Shhh" Cotton whispered. "There, under your Pap's shirt."

We tiptoed to the shirt. Cotton pulled his fishing knife from its sheath. "Watch this," he mouthed silently.

He leaped forward and violently stabbed through Pa's shirt. The knife went clean through and struck the grass beneath with a crunch. The lump he stabbed was just an air bubble fluffed up. He pulled the knife out of the ground and hoisted up Pa's white shirt sporting a gaping hole and savage mud stains.

"That's Pa's best Sunday shirt!" I said.

"Shhh" Cotton said again, wishing all the world he could undo what he'd just done. "Where'd that thing go?" he said aloud.

The next second his question was answered as the devil himself flashed from beneath a sheet, jumped a foot in the air and slugged Cotton hard in the groin. Then the little beast took off running on four legs, fast as the wind.

The sight and suddenness of the assault set me laughing hysterically.

Cotton doubled over and cried out in pain. "That thing kicked me in the balls!"

My side ached from the sight. "No, he didn't, Cotton," I was laughing so hard my eyes teared. "He punched you! That thing slugged you in the balls." I was falling down laughing. "With a right hand that could put a hurtin' on Joe Louis!"

Cotton didn't think it was funny one whit. He stood holding his crotch till he realized he looked a fool. "Where are the blamed dogs when you need them?" he said. "Call 'em and let 'em chase that thing down will you?"

I whistled and called. "Lindy! Come here, boy!"

In a minute the dog was at our side, panting hard, no doubt from chasing those ducks.

"You really wanna go after it?" I asked Cotton. "After what he just did to you?"

He looked at the thing's vanishing point, then at his tackle box. And then at Pa's mud stained shirt with a stab mark through it.

"Nah. Let's get outta here before your Ma comes around and finds us. We can say we were fishing if they ask anything. What do you think that thing was anyway? Looked like some kind of raccoon or swamp cat, but bigger and scrawnier."

"It was a monkey, Cotton. Like in Tarzan. A little monkey sucker-punched you right in the family jewels." I started laughing again.

Cotton scratched his head. "He sure packed a powerful...hey, maybe we should go after it. I bet he's worth something," his thinking coming back as the swelling came down.

"You sure you want to tangle with that thing again just yet?" I asked. "I think if we're gonna catch it we better have a plan."

"Well let's don't tell anybody about it. Odds are nobody'll even notice it's around.

© RDBrooks 2015

Cover art painting by William Skilling (1892-1964)