Twice Melvin

by James Pumpelly

  Casting of doubt is exactly what Melody intends, her willing factotum enjoying a burst of creativity. Combining actual mechanical mastery with imagined poetic proficiency, Simon Farley is timing his entries and exits with caution; each success in the home, vehicle, or business he bugs, but another proof of his bird-like dexterity, something Melody praises as his “sense and sensitivity” (leaving to his pride and prejudice any comparison he draws with Jane Austin). And with Melody back in Boston before the bugs are spread, no one suspects her involvement.

  No one, that is, save Artie. After suffering one of Thelma’s harangues, he rings Melody to complain:

  “Called me a ‘busted garter’,” he grouses, “said I let her down…said she should have known better, should’ve known a man wouldn’t finish anything he started except-”

  “And did she mention the recent rash of bug infestations?” Melody redirects.

  “Some folks think it’s a commie plot, that there’s a commie bugster loose among us. Maybe connected to the college…a foreign professor. But Thelma suspects Simon,” Artie’s slurp from his flask betraying a nagging guilt, “thinks Simon’s out to un-credit her, ambush her Thanksgiving march. But who is planting all these bugs round here, Mrs. Morrison?” he asks through a muffled burp. “I know it isn’t y-you.”

  “Melvin’s memorial march, did you say?” Melody evasive. “Do you think she’s canceling the march?”

  “On the contr-r-rary. Says if no one shows, she’ll ma-arch herself…something ‘bout your minister…’bout his organ recitals.”

  “Reverend Rolundo?” Melody incredulous, the idea as intellectually aberrant as a theosophist. “He’s not a musician, Artie. No one would come to hear him.“

  “R-right…same as Thelma says…says when the rever-r-rend gives his organ r-recitals, he’s the only one that-”

  “Oh my god!” Melody exclaims. “To a hammer, everything’s a nail. In all my effort to protect Melvin, I’ve opened Pandora’s box; Thelma’s anger, like the spark of a flint, lying asleep until the first strike of friction!”

  “That’s it, Mrs. Mor-r-rison,” the whisky ever lower in Artie’s flask, “that ‘stroke of fiction’ thing you said there…that’s what Thelma’s holler-r-ring ‘bout…says she’s gonna r-r-rewrite hysterectomy…says there’s an abortion in ever-r-y chapter.”

  Melody knows nothing of Charlene’s intent, Charlene’s refusal to consider an abortion responsible for two engagements: one to George and the other the cause de jour, the march to Melvin’s remembrance. But Artie’s mention of abortion prompts Melody’s remembrance of George - her call to the firm confirming the connection, as she’s referred to the tavern:

  “Just befriending a Godhard blonde,” George bemoans, befuddled to be bedeviled. “What’s up? I mean…what’s up with you?”

  “A call of curiosity,” Melody rejoins, “thought you might have the latest on Thelma’s march…whether she’s getting any-“

  “I don’t think so,” George interjects, “I mean…I…w-what were you asking?”

  “Whether Thelma is getting any support for her march. Do you think she’ll succeed?”

  “Not if I c-can help it,” George pants, “and I’m not alone with my wish. There’s a dozen or more ladies here who would sooner turn wish to reality than see Thelma turn tricks of her own.”

  “Well, as a matter-of-fact, it’s Thelma’s tricks I’m curious of, George, not yours. For unlike you, once I’ve passed the bar, I won’t be returning every day-“

  “One such trick a naughty reference to you, Melody,” he interjects, ignoring her slight, “a stretch of wanton imagination if ever I encountered one. It has to do with your dinner the other night; or, as Thelma put it, ‘The intimate evening Melody spent, at her mother’s farm, with that lecherous Rhodesian beast, Tenklei – and, mind you, while her mother was blithely attending the ladies’ missionary auxiliary at Rolundo’s parsonage. Just imagine what went on out there!’ she railed, ‘a grief-weakened, sex-starved widow at the mercy of that ravening fiend!’ I warned her that if ever I heard such depraved innuendo again, I’d sue her for defamation.”

  “Oh, noooo!” Melody cries, “how degrading…how humiliating. But it’s true, George; I did have dinner with Vincent,” she rallies defiantly, “and Mother was attending the missionary meeting; but it wasn’t ‘intimate’, to say the least. The purpose of Vincent’s call was his abiding interest in Harvard, not Mother’s soup. In fact, we shared her excellent venison stew by the mere happenstance of his timing. And what’s more, I invited Vincent to pay me a visit in Boston; to come walk for himself the great old paths; advising, if he aspired to admittance, he should experience the university first hand…sit-in on a few lectures…talk to some students…get a feel for the resident spirits, the ghosts of glories past.”

  “Ghosts?” George echoes, his fill of the resident spirits more akin to the glorious present, “is-has-has Melvin-?”

  “He has, George; and I thank you for asking,” Melody ebullient, relating her ‘sign of the cross’ visitation.

  “Then that explains it, Melody,” a sobered George replies. “That explains why every time I try to kiss Charlene, she jumps like she’s seen a ghost. Maybe she’s-“

  “Not the same, George,” Melody rebuffs, “no connection. But if Charlene is seeing ghosts, I suggest you take her out to the hippie commune - the one where you hired your landscaping girls. I hear the founder is a practicing spiritualist; a medium of sorts. Perhaps he can help Charlene - help her identify the phantoms.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” George sighs, “and maybe he could do me some good, too; for it’s been a long, long time since I’ve seen a medium anything.”

  The two natural ways to enter the cabinet of the gods and there foresee

  the course of destinies are madness and sleep. (Montaigne)

  IX

  Thelma’s pillorying of Vincent has Aunt Martha beside herself; a confusing feat, too, placing A.M. on both sides of me. But among us, we’ve figured it out. Thelma’s public pretense is a diversion, a smoke screen to hide her anticipated indiscretions with Simon Farley, her commitment to ruin Mr. Farley too irrational and foolishly fervent to be unfeigned. And after A.M. recalls one of Mr. Gandhi’s tenets - Achievement requires the surrender of alternatives - we employ his key of knowledge to unlock our puzzle.

  Thelma may not admit to “surrender”, but she’s a master of “alternatives”, attacking all of Simon’s, including his alternatives from years gone by, as demonstrated by her attempt to find his mystery girl in Boston. Her tactic is obvious: reduce an unsuspecting Simon’s alternatives to zero, then incarnate what remains; i.e., personify his “achievement”.

  “If Thelma wants a man that badly,” A.M. posits, hovering over the tavern bar, “she should take a survey in here.”

  “The only real man here is George,” I respond.

  A.M. adamant. “Not my point, Melvin. If you’ve learned anything from your mistakes, it should be that happiness is a shy nymph. If you chase her, you’ll never catch her.”

  “Thanks, Auntie, but that doesn’t tell me what you mean by suggesting Thelma’s presence at the bar.”

  “Her manhunt?” A.M. flitting noiselessly to keep George in view. “She would do well to note the women imbibing with George, then go check out the men they’ve left at home. A good list of candidates, if you ask me. Besides, now that we know what Melody wanted with those bugs, it’s a good bet Thelma’s going to have some time on her hands. I’m wagering your march may not happen after all.”

  “As if I care,” I snark. “Whether the whole affair’s a no-show, or the turnout’s minuscule, either failure will be anticlimactic.”

  “Thoughts, dear nephew,” she scolds, “it’s thoughts we deal in here; and yours are not exactly erectile at the moment.”

  “So, what are we going to do about Thelma’s slander?” I pose, attempting distraction from George. “What counter-measures are next?
For I know darn well we’re about to take some.”

  “Vincent Tenklei and Simon the Simple. I’ll do what I can for the former, and can what I did for the latter. Our Simon is in enough trouble on his own.”

  “And let’s not forget Melody,” I append.

  “Melody?” A.M. giving me one of those sometimes-I-don’t-believe-you glances. “She’s in no danger, Melvin. Any calculating scandalmonger can do the math on that one.”

  “The math?”

  “Sure. She has a child on the way, conceived not long after your funeral. And your funeral was within a month of the Rogue vs Way win. There isn’t enough lechery in Plainfield to suspect her of anything but the way of the Rogue she admits to.”

  “Ok.” I nod, as though I follow her rambling non sequitur. “Vincent I understand, but not Mr. Farley. If memory serves me correctly, it’s Simon Farley you want your hooks in, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she snips, apparently annoyed with George for not rallying after his long-distance talk with my wife. “Yes, Melvin, your memory always serves you correctly here; and yes, it was See-MOAN I was out to spite. But seeing as how Thelma is about to do it for me, the least I can do is help.”

  And if ever a body needs help – excluding my own - it’s Simon’s. A veritable prodigy of industry on his worst days, he has the frazzled-edged appearance of one who doesn’t sleep, his serpent eyes never-blinking, ever-watching, his tenor voice cracking at the slightest provocation. With all of his bugs in place, he’s exhausting himself by listening in on the undiscovered – an improvisation of his own, Melody’s instructions devoid of any reference to spying. Surveillance is now his taskmaster, a despot denying him sleep (Aunt Martha tuning in on his weakened frequency with masterly ease), the sight of Simon, wobbling wearily about on his Schwinn, arousing no suspicion. Nor does his headset, the locals accustomed to Simon’s eccentricities, the least of which is his spacey stare between earphones as he pumps down the river trails.

  “This is so easy it’s almost unfair,” Aunt Martha flitting round Simon, throwing a static field over his bike for the amusement of sparks. “Reminds me of the prophet Ezekiel’s wheels within wheels. And I’m going to make Simon the wheel he thinks he is!” she cries, her glowing form flashing like a pole lamp on power surges. “Simon is about to go a’courtin’!” she squeals, “about to find his elusive inspiration!”

  “Thelma, I presume?” Aping Dr. Livingston’s jungle encounter, I’m getting to the body of things, if only to pick up my spirit. “You mean our Thelma’s about to inspire the beast within?”

  “Yes,” Aunt Martha’s mischievous thoughts clustered like peanuts in brittle, “though the roar of a mouse will hardly intimidate a she-wolf.”

  “Set the traps!” My sudden elation more in Aunt Martha’s diversion than any pleasure said diversion provides; my part as a spectator, in lieu of a specter, affording me needed rest.

  “Not to worry, nephew,” she giggles, pointing to the earphones, “Simple Simon has set his own traps. Just listen in and you’ll learn what I mean.”

  “You did what?” an angry bass bellows, Simon almost falling off his bike as he jerks to turn down the volume, “you told Thelma about our cantata?”

  “But not about your solos, darling,” Helen whimpers, “only about the choruses, the recitatives, the beautiful music we attempt to make. I said nothing about your propensity to solo, sweetheart, I swear.”

  “Rolundo and Helen the organist?” I ask a hysterical A.M., “you have Simon tuned in to a tragedy?”

  “Hey!” she protests, “I had nothing to do with it. Simon set his own traps, remember?”

  “Ah, that he has; but I don’t see where Simon’s entrapped.”

  “Inspiration, nephew,” she chortles, “it’s what inspires him that’ll nab him. As fast as he can peddle back to his barn is how fast he’ll compose an elegy on the clergy, or an ode to a grievance earned,” even as she speaks, the two of us reading Simon’s fast rhyming thoughts to the meter of his hard-pumping legs:

  No ménage a trios

  Had Menelaus,

  Till Helen of Troy

  Bade in a Paris;

  Nor Agamemnon

  His Clytemnestra,

  Till-

  “Leave it to a virgin to romanticize sex,” Aunt Martha smirking at Simon’s lines.

  “I beg to differ, Auntie. My experience proves otherwise. Making love with Melody was the intangible essence of romance, as near to love as mortals can soar; although, I appreciate your ignorance since you departed Earth an old maid.”

  “Old?” she screams, the word obliterating all else I’ve said. “We’ve covered this gaffe before, Melvin. Our word of choice was sensitive, as I recall; sensitive and enchanting.”

  “I don’t remember enchanting,” I start to say; but grabbing the thought before she can bicker, I check in on Simon as we near his barn, his wheezing enough to wake up the dead. “Give it,” he’s panting, “give it”-

  Give it to me straight

  Whispers Helen,

  Or don’t give it at all.

  Amen.

  Give it to me hard

  Speaks up Helen,

  Make it well worth the fall.

  Give it to me now

  Cries out Helen,

  Drive me over the wall.

  Hallelujah!

  “What did I tell you?” babbles A.M. “He’s gone berserk, composing verse that could land him in court.”

  “I think not,” I disagree, “for once the authorities reckon up Rolundo’s damage, they won’t risk Simon’s inspiration at their own expense. No, they would sooner support the reverend’s right to enjoy an occasional cantata than fault Simon’s raffish rhyme. If this gets out, I can see the reverend taking in a few strays, a few lambs on the lam, The Church of the Good Shepherd gaining fame as a flock of black sheep.”

  “The more the sheep the more the fleecing,” Aunt Martha allows, “but meanwhile, back at the barn….”

  Pacing his loft, his headset a pastiche of themes, Simon is wobbling a two-step to the hi-fi sounds in his earphones. With Thelma from the left and Helen from the right, Rolundo comes front and center:

  “He’s out to get me!” screams Thelma; “You’ve yet to reach me,” cries Helen; “Practice makes perfect,” preaches the reverend, his persuasion having immediate effect, a “Battle me”, “Straddle me” and “Rattle me” following in quick succession, their three-part harmony quickening Simon’s urge, his creative surge, his dirge for the widow Melody:

  A rainbow arcs across the sky;

  I view its hues and wonder why.

  A promise kept it seems to me,

  Would in itself sufficient be.

  But who am I to question God;

  Or scorn His quick avenging rod;

  When with His claiming of a soul,

  He leaves a lamb within the fold?

  Our own Madonna to adore -

  Bereft of Joseph at her door -

  Doth make us all the Magi be,

  To gift the child of Melody.

  For once, I’m moved by this unmoving man; this two-wheeling, word-wielding, would-be poet of Plainfield suggesting my Melody’s sainthood.

  “Not bad for a Plainfield pen, is it?” I ask A.M., Simon’s effort at composition spending his reserves, the little fellow collapsing across his bed.

  “Better than the scalpel he wanted to wield at your funeral,” she remarks gruffly, irritated by our entertainer retiring. “But about that ‘lamb in the fold’,” she mumbles, looking away as though hiding a tear.

  “Yes?”

  “We haven’t much Earth-time left, my dear; not much time to sneak you in.”

  Before I can collect my thoughts on the matter, or offer my sympathy for whatever has robbed her jollity, a peony express comes floating down, a perfumed message, Aunt Martha giving the petaled missive a couple of rapid, third eye scans.

  “We’ve got to go,�
�� she says abruptly, “got an urgent meeting to attend. Melody’s father wants to meet us up at Star View Station.”

  “Melody’s dad? At Star View Station? What’s this about…his translation?”

  “Hardly. He’s returning, not leaving; coming down just to give us some late-breaking news.”

  Before I can question her more, we’re off, our escort of angels like Elijah’s chariot: a fiery flash through a star-studded veil.

  For Gods and men and booksellers refuse

  to countenance a mediocre muse. (Horace)

  X

  On a sea of troubling sleep, Simon dreams himself ashore - a heavenly shore – as in splendor wrought, his fancy finds Valhalla, his Odin, his feast to manly conquest. Such high-flown inspiration is beyond what dreams can embrace, Simon’s vision flinging him off his bed to write while the spirits tarry.

  But too veiled the lady, too short his stay to know her true. Still, he comes away with a certainty, a strange awareness that to be strong he must nourish failure, to be rich he must cherish lack – a lack of words; for more words merely count for less. And so he writes, with soulful economy, what never has he known before:

  Beautiful words are not truthful.

  Truthful words are not beautiful.

  Yet you are both.

  Like the wise, you tarry –

  and are thus ahead.