he whittled the branch with his knife, carving the wood into a vaguely simian shape that looked like the sinister fetish doll of a skunk ape-worshipping savage. “You really hate them …” I said. “Don’t you?”
He looked at me sharply. Then tossed his simian carving into the fire, watching as it crackled and burned in the flames, belching fiery ash up into the night sky.
“ Hate , Levine? That’s all a skunk ape knows. All they deserve … Hate .”
“What happened?”
Salisbury didn’t answer at first; I didn’t think he’d answer at all.
Then he told us.
* * *
My father, Robert Salisbury, ‘Bob’ to his friends, plain old ‘Pop’ to me, was a good man—some might say a great man—but a man of mercurial temperament.
When he lost his job at the camping goods store, where he had worked all his life, he was devastated. At home, sequestering himself in his basement den, Pop shunned all human contact, taking his meals on trays that my mother left outside the locked door, and refusing my pleas for us to play catch in the yard. Mother assured me that Pop would soon reemerge from his funk. He always did, she said. Sure enough, she was right.
Three months later, one dead of night, Pop awoke us in a state of great excitement. Rousted from our beds, we assembled in the living room for an urgent family meeting where Pop told us his plans. Much to Mother’s astonishment, he had sold our home and all our worldly possessions, any creature comforts he deemed superfluous to our new lives. The family station wagon had been traded for the used pickup truck sitting gassed and ready to go in the drive. Still wearing our bedclothes, Pop herded us out to the truck, and off we drove into the night. Not wishing to spoil the surprise, Pop refused to speak a word to us, ignoring our many questions and turning up the radio when Mother began to badger him.
After driving through the night, we finally reached an acreage of stinking swampland in the Florida Everglades where stood—or rather sagged—a ramshackle cabin. Ushering us inside the creaking, cobwebbed hovel, Pop welcomed us to our new home. Mother wept what Pop assured me were tears of joy. We were standing—Pop said—in what would soon become the world-famous “Salisbury Skunk Ape Sanctuary,” where visitors from across the globe would flock to observe these remarkable hominids in their natural habitat. And leave their tourist dollars at the café and gift store, he added, smiling slyly at Mother to assuage her concerns. He’d clearly given this a great deal of thought. We were going to be rich.
Pop’s enthusiasm was infectious. I could hardly wait to get started and see my first skunk ape. Pop was appalled to discover we had not been taught about them in school biology class, and vowed to write an outraged letter to the education authorities. I had many questions for him; so too did Mother, though her questions were less about skunk apes, than the lives we’d left behind and our future prospects. She lured him away to a closed room, where I heard her sobbing and pleading with him—then a fierce slap—followed by Pop’s stern reassurances that he knew what was in the best interests of the family.
Despite her initial misgivings, to Mother’s credit she pitched in and tried to make the most of it. We spruced the place up for the tourists, making repairs where required, which was most everywhere. Pop painted a SALISBURY SKUNK APE SANCTUARY sign to display outside. Mother stocked the gift store with pretty handicrafts. Pop and I built an enclosure—akin to a batting cage—in which to house our first skunk ape. And then we set about capturing one.
Every night, Pop and I would roam the swamp with tranquilizer rifles— and real guns, just in case Pop had underestimated the dosage required to incapacitate a skunk ape, and the animal charged us.
And every morning at dawn we would return empty-handed.
When the sanctuary finally opened to the public, we had
He looked at me sharply. Then tossed his simian carving into the fire, watching as it crackled and burned in the flames, belching fiery ash up into the night sky.
“ Hate , Levine? That’s all a skunk ape knows. All they deserve … Hate .”
“What happened?”
Salisbury didn’t answer at first; I didn’t think he’d answer at all.
Then he told us.
* * *
My father, Robert Salisbury, ‘Bob’ to his friends, plain old ‘Pop’ to me, was a good man—some might say a great man—but a man of mercurial temperament.
When he lost his job at the camping goods store, where he had worked all his life, he was devastated. At home, sequestering himself in his basement den, Pop shunned all human contact, taking his meals on trays that my mother left outside the locked door, and refusing my pleas for us to play catch in the yard. Mother assured me that Pop would soon reemerge from his funk. He always did, she said. Sure enough, she was right.
Three months later, one dead of night, Pop awoke us in a state of great excitement. Rousted from our beds, we assembled in the living room for an urgent family meeting where Pop told us his plans. Much to Mother’s astonishment, he had sold our home and all our worldly possessions, any creature comforts he deemed superfluous to our new lives. The family station wagon had been traded for the used pickup truck sitting gassed and ready to go in the drive. Still wearing our bedclothes, Pop herded us out to the truck, and off we drove into the night. Not wishing to spoil the surprise, Pop refused to speak a word to us, ignoring our many questions and turning up the radio when Mother began to badger him.
After driving through the night, we finally reached an acreage of stinking swampland in the Florida Everglades where stood—or rather sagged—a ramshackle cabin. Ushering us inside the creaking, cobwebbed hovel, Pop welcomed us to our new home. Mother wept what Pop assured me were tears of joy. We were standing—Pop said—in what would soon become the world-famous “Salisbury Skunk Ape Sanctuary,” where visitors from across the globe would flock to observe these remarkable hominids in their natural habitat. And leave their tourist dollars at the café and gift store, he added, smiling slyly at Mother to assuage her concerns. He’d clearly given this a great deal of thought. We were going to be rich.
Pop’s enthusiasm was infectious. I could hardly wait to get started and see my first skunk ape. Pop was appalled to discover we had not been taught about them in school biology class, and vowed to write an outraged letter to the education authorities. I had many questions for him; so too did Mother, though her questions were less about skunk apes, than the lives we’d left behind and our future prospects. She lured him away to a closed room, where I heard her sobbing and pleading with him—then a fierce slap—followed by Pop’s stern reassurances that he knew what was in the best interests of the family.
Despite her initial misgivings, to Mother’s credit she pitched in and tried to make the most of it. We spruced the place up for the tourists, making repairs where required, which was most everywhere. Pop painted a SALISBURY SKUNK APE SANCTUARY sign to display outside. Mother stocked the gift store with pretty handicrafts. Pop and I built an enclosure—akin to a batting cage—in which to house our first skunk ape. And then we set about capturing one.
Every night, Pop and I would roam the swamp with tranquilizer rifles— and real guns, just in case Pop had underestimated the dosage required to incapacitate a skunk ape, and the animal charged us.
And every morning at dawn we would return empty-handed.
When the sanctuary finally opened to the public, we had
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