The Grasshopper Trap (19 page)
Read The Grasshopper Trap Online
Authors: Patrick F. McManus
The next morning the Americans finally got to go fishing. They got into two long, narrow, very tippy boats, and Indian guides took them far upriver very fast. The Old Man thought that maybe the reason the boats seemed so tippy was that the river was full of piranha. He remembered once seeing a film in which a cow waded into one side of a piranha river and came out the other side as a loose assortment of naked bones. The Old Man worried a great deal about the boat tipping over and wondered if he could swim to the near bank and survive to the extent that he could at least be identified by his dental X-rays.
The Cuiabá River was broad and languid and about the color of chocolate milk. The steep banks on both sides were backed by jungle. There were jaguars in the jungle but they were seldom seen because they come out only at night, and only a fool would want to be in the jungle at night. The Old Man was no fool.
Mac Beatty was in the bow of the Old Man's boat. It was good to have Mac in the bow of the boat, because otherwise the Old Man might have been there and the alligator might have got him. The Indian guide did not see the alligator on the bank and started to drive the boat in right beneath the ten-foot reptile. Mac did not see the alligator either, because he was busy fitting together his fly rod. Since the guide spoke only Portuguese, the Old Man yelled at him,
“Naranja sopa, por favor! Naranja sopa!”
Later he learned this meant, “Orange soup, please!” which may have explained why the guide looked puzzled and continued to drive the boat toward the alligator.
“Naranja sopa, por favor! Naranja sopa!”
Later he learned this meant, “Orange soup, please!” which may have explained why the guide looked puzzled and continued to drive the boat toward the alligator.
The alligator charged out over the top of Mac and bel-lyflopped into the water beside the boat. Mac instantly filled the air with karate chops but the alligator got away unharmed. Afterwards, Mac kept looking up to see what was about to jump on him, and that night he stepped on the frog with his bare foot.
Mac was a great fly fisherman and enjoyed the fight the big piranha put up against his light tackle. The guide thought Mac was crazy. He then demonstrated to Mac, Ted Kaphan, and the Old Man the proper way to catch fish. He baited a 10/0 hook with half a piranha and hurled the eighty-pound line and chunk of lead out into the river. Presently he jerked on the line and brought it in hand-over-hand very fast, clubbed the big fish, and dragged it into the boat. He had landed the fish in thirty seconds. He could not understand why the Americans liked to play with their fish.
The Americans caught many fish that morning, including piranha, dourado, pintado, piraracu, and others they could not identify. Ron Hart had told them the Pantanal rivers also held cachurro, peacock bass, filhote, and fish even Ron didn't know. The Old Man followed his practice of
catching the fewest and smallest fish, so as not to embarrass his companions, but even his fish were big and strong and fought well, and after four hours the Old Man's arms ached from catching fish. Ron had said that the Cuiabá was by no means the best of the Pantanal's fishing rivers, and that there were many others much better, but the Old Man was satisfied with the Cuiaba and even elated. It beat the heck out of ol' Delroy Heap's beaver ponds.
catching the fewest and smallest fish, so as not to embarrass his companions, but even his fish were big and strong and fought well, and after four hours the Old Man's arms ached from catching fish. Ron had said that the Cuiabá was by no means the best of the Pantanal's fishing rivers, and that there were many others much better, but the Old Man was satisfied with the Cuiaba and even elated. It beat the heck out of ol' Delroy Heap's beaver ponds.
At noon the guides took the Americans back to the fishing camp, where they ate piranha soup, which was very good and had just a tiny bite to it.
Then the Americans fell into their beds and slept for two hours straight, until Paulo awoke them and said it was time for the farewell party.
“What farewell?” Stoudt croaked. “We just got here!”
“Yeah,” Kaphan said. “We're supposed to fish for three more days!”
“I'm just getting the hang of catching all these weird fish,” Sipe said. “We can't leave now.”
But Paulo said there had been a change of plans. The Americans had to be rushed back to Cuiabá for a round of parties. There appeared to be no end to Brazilian hospitality, and the Old Man thought he had never met a friendlier and warmer people. Still, he wanted to fish. By the time he returned home, he would have traveled a total of fourteen thousand miles to fish a total of four hours, which was not nearly enough. Hemingway would not have left after only four hours of fishing.
After the farewell party the next morning, the Old Man tried to detect sensation in his extremities but could find none. The other Americans, Sipe, Stoudt, Beatty, Hart, and Kaphan, stared forlornly at the river and remembered the great four hours of fishing they'd had there.
“Maybe there's been some mixup and they got it all straightened out and we'll get to fish for another three days,” the Old Man said. “Look, here comes Paulo. He's smiling! I bet he's going to tell us we get to stay here and fish! What do you say, Paulo?”
“Excuse me, let's go.”
Many people go through life without having weird confrontations with birds, but I am not one of them. When I saw Alfred Hitchcock's suspense thriller
The Birds,
I thought it was a documentary. Several times during the movie, my wife screamed.
“Oh, that's so ghastly!” Bun said of one scene.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “It happened to me last week. See that big ugly bird pecking the guy's head? I think I recognize it.”
Bun claims my attitude toward birds is neurotic. She likes birds. Once she hung up a hummingbird feeder outside our kitchen window and filled it with sugar water. For a week or so, even I enjoyed watching the birds slurp away at the feeder while I ate breakfast. It wasn't long, however, until word spread among the hummingbird population that there was a free handout to be had at the McManus house. Soon dozens of hummingbirds were flying holding patterns
over our backyard, awaiting their turn at the sugar water.
over our backyard, awaiting their turn at the sugar water.
I will admit that in the beginning the hummingbirds were orderly and well behaved, as anyone would be who had a sugar daddy like me on the string. After all, I was the one earning the bread to buy the sugar for their sugar water. It wasn't long until matters took a turn for the worse. One day the feeder ran dry and I forgot to pick up sugar at the store on my way home.
“Maybe you should go back to town and get the sugar,” Bun said nervously. “The feeder has been empty all day.”
I was indignant. “Listen, I'm notâI repeat,
not
âclimbing into my car and driving six miles to buy sugar for a bunch of freeloading hummingbirds. They can wait until tomorrow.”
not
âclimbing into my car and driving six miles to buy sugar for a bunch of freeloading hummingbirds. They can wait until tomorrow.”
“But,” Bun said, glancing out the kitchen window, “they're becoming, well, sort of unruly.”
Sure enough, they were. A dozen or more hummingbirds were hovering just outside the window, glaring in at us, their beady eyes aglitter with accusation.
“I don't like the looks of this,” I said. “They're turning into a mob. There's no telling what they might do if they get out of hand. I've seen birds run amuck before. Maybe I will drive back to town for some sugar. Lock the doors and don't let anyone in, particularly if they're only an inch tall and wearing feathers.”
It was a close call. Afterwards, I made sure we always had plenty of sugar on hand. When the hummingbirds went to the Caribbean for the winter, Bun and I heaved a sigh of relief and gave the feeder to the Johnsons, who live a couple of miles down the road. I never cared much for the Johnsons anyway.
The first birds I had trouble with were the family chickens
when I was a young boy. They filled me with a sense of guilt that I never got over.
when I was a young boy. They filled me with a sense of guilt that I never got over.
Every Saturday my grandmother and I would go out to the backyard, capture one of the chickens, and kill it for Sunday dinner. Gram, a stout, tough little old pioneer lady, did the actual killing. My job was to capture the luckless chicken.
“Git that one over there,” she would order. As soon as the chicken saw her pointing at it, it would take off and try to make it to the county line. I would eventually run it down and start carrying it back to Gram, who waited at the chopping block, double-bitted ax in hand.
“Wait! Hold it!” the chicken would say to me. “You're making a terrible mistake! I didn't do anything! I'm innocent! Fred did it. You're mad about what happened last Tuesday, right? Well, that was Fred's fault. I saw him do it. I really did. Wait! Stop! Don't hand me over to that old lady! She's crazy!”
The part I played in these executions gave rise to such profound and enduring feelings of guilt that even as an adult I will often deliberately miss an easy shot at a game bird. Just as I am about to squeeze the trigger, a little voice inside me will plead, “Wait! Hold it!” and I will pull slightly off to the right or left of the target. My hunting companions, an uncouth and insensitive lot, respond to this explanation with raucous ridicule.
“Yeah, yeah,” Retch Sweeney says. “And I suppose you helped your grandma chop the heads off clay pigeons, too!”
I haven't yet told him about the deeply disturbing childhood experience I had with a clay pigeon, because he probably would only scoff. There was also an extremely traumatic
event involving the bull's-eye of a paper target, but I would rather not speak about it.
event involving the bull's-eye of a paper target, but I would rather not speak about it.
Birds have caused me the most problems, however. Take crows, for example. I crawl on my belly over ice and snow and sharp rocks to a place of concealment above a game trail. I crouch there, cramped and freezing, until months later I hear the sounds of deer or elk moseying up the trail. I ease off the rifle safety, curtail my breathing, gently bend my trigger finger to crack the ice from it. Any moment now. Suddenly there is a rush of wings. A crow flies into the tree above me.
“Holy smokes!” he squawks. “There's a guy down here with a gun! What are you doing with that gun? Hey, fellows, there's some joker crouched under this tree with a gun!” Instantly other crows take up the cry, reporting my presence to the world at large. The woods are in turmoil. I manage nevertheless to get off a single shot, but miss, which doesn't surprise me. When it's panicked and angling away from you at top speed, a crow is almost impossible to get in the crosshairs.
A crow once caused my veracity to be called into question. My veracity at the time wasn't of particularly good repute anyway, and the crow didn't help matters. One day when I was about fifteen, I strolled aimlessly out of the house eating a cinnamon roll, and there right in front of me was a crow, perched on top of the family sedan. I was somewhat surprised, since the car was inedible and too big for the crow to steal. Continuing to amble toward the car, I expected the crow to fly off at any second. But it didn't. It just stood there, eyeing me and my cinnamon roll.
When I was right next to the car, the crow still hadn't flown. I became slightly nervous. The crow did a little shuffle
with his feet, and then said in a clear voice, at least clear for a crow, “Hello.” He sounded a bit like George Burns.
with his feet, and then said in a clear voice, at least clear for a crow, “Hello.” He sounded a bit like George Burns.
I was dumbfounded, never having met a bird that spoke human before.
“Hello,” the crow said again, possibly thinking that I was slow-witted or hard of hearing.
I made a quick check to the left, right, and behind me, not wishing to be caught in the act of conversing with a bird, and then said, “Uh, hello.”
The crow, it turned out, knew quite a few words, and we carried on something of a conversation, which, though it fell somewhat short of a discussion of politics or philosophy, was sufficient to cause me no little amazement. I must admit that at first I had difficulty identifying the particular topic of our little chat, but I soon deduced that for the crow's part it involved my cinnamon roll. This was communicated to me less from the words spoken than from the crow's cocking his head to eye the roll. I gave him half of it. He then flew off, and I never saw him again. At least I don't think I ever saw him again, since he bore an exact resemblance to all other crows. Occasionally I would yell “Hello!” to a passing crow, but he would look at me as if I must be mad, talking to a crow.
The crows, however, weren't the only ones to think I was, as my carpenter stepfather put it, “about a half-bubble off plumb.” Immediately after the talking crow's departure, I rushed into the house to report the news. It was a Sunday, and the family was sitting around the dinner table playing cards.
“Guess what!” I shouted. “There was a crow standing on top of the car just now, and it knew how to talk!”
All eyes turned toward me, even as they narrowed to
slits of suspicion and disbelief. Lips tightened in preparation for directing slander at my person. But my mother, a woman who did not casually dismiss odd and rare phenomena as being beyond the realm of possibility, turned to my grandmother and said, “Whose bid?”
slits of suspicion and disbelief. Lips tightened in preparation for directing slander at my person. But my mother, a woman who did not casually dismiss odd and rare phenomena as being beyond the realm of possibility, turned to my grandmother and said, “Whose bid?”
There was the time, too, when a vicious grouse charged out of the brush and broke my arm. I, of course, had seen ruffed grouse charge people before, but it was apparently a new experience for the horse I was riding, or so I judged from its attempt to climb a mature ponderosa pine. The horse was well up into the lower branches, when ⦠But my psychiatrist says I'm to try not to think about it, and he's probably right.
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