“My what?” I break in, sloshing my coffee as I lift it from the tray.
“You heard her correctly,” George interjects, a slight twitch at one corner of his mouth signaling anger. “But I’m here to tell you that rascal said nothing-“
“Oh, he didn’t, did he?” Dot.Com screams. “Well, he’s said worse than that to me! He’s told me that nothing times nothing is a loss. My loss. And what’s more, that he has the solution to my problem – even offered to prove it mathematically.”
“How could he do that?” George’s pall of anger fading to curiosity. “How could-“
“Knowing him,” I cut in rudely, “he was probably going to demonstrate with a ruler.”
“A ruler?” George echoes.
“No, silly,” Dot.Com reproving me with a withering glance, “all he needed was a pencil and a blank sheet of paper.”
“Oh no!” George looking away as though any shame might be his own, “what was he doing, sketching a silhouette?”
“Just figures,” Dorothy replies, missing the implication. “He just wrote down…well, here, let me show you,” she says, reaching for George’s ever-present legal pad, and a pen from his unruly collection protruding from a chipped pottery mug, “it’s easier to demonstrate than explain,” her chosen pen inscribing neatly across the pad:
0-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-0
“First, he wrote down these digits,” she continues, “then he asked me to name my worst symptom.”
“Symptom of what?” I ask, recalling math had never been her strong suit.
“The worst symptom of the problem he claimed…he…he surmised…of the problem he-he knew damn well I have!” she blurts. “So, I said, I-I can’t sleep nights after…after Melvin and I have…after…well, you know what I mean. And then he just printed what I’d told him…wrote it out under the digits like this,” Dorothy’s hand at work again:
0-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-0
S-L-E-E-P-N-I-G-H-T-S
“’There’, he said, ‘I’ve printed your symptom: you can’t sleep nights after…after…you know what I mean. And now I’m going to give you mathematical proof of the cause. It’s a lack. A shortage. A deprivation - the remedy of which your Melvin is unable to provide.’”
“This, I’ve got to see!” George stretching over his desk to better view what Dorothy’s inscribing, “a shrink with a streak of Einstein, no less. A very dangerous combination, if you ask me; a veritable formula for-”
“Will you shut up?” I cut in, well aware he’ll take no offense since I’m the one about to be slaughtered. “Now,” I say, employing my most commanding tone, “Dorothy, you may continue…but with all due restraint, please.”
Which she does, accepting my directive with atypical acquiescence that leaves me questioning her sanity.
“Yes…well…then he instructed me to choose three digits from his list. ‘Any three’, he said, ‘and in any order. And write them down.’ So I did, choosing…oh, it really doesn’t matter which three I selected-“
“It matters to me,” George says earnestly, craning to read what she has on the pad.
“Not what I meant,” she corrects, printing some numerals under the first row of digits and letters. “Doc told me it didn’t matter which three I chose. The answer is always the same.”
“That’s impossible,” I object, unaware as yet where she’s leading us.
“The answer to my problem, Melvin, my problem,” she counters, continuing her illustration. “Now, let’s just take the three digits I’ve picked at random here, seven, six and five, and then reverse them, subtracting the lesser number from the greater like so:
765
my original choice; and now reverse it and subtract:
765
- 567
198
the remainder gives us a new three-digit number, one, nine and eight. Now, we repeat the process, reversing the new three-digit number; only this time we don’t subtract. Instead, we add, like so:
198
891
1089
giving us a four-digit sum; which, by the way, will always be the same unless your original three-digit choice has two zeros - a flawed formula Doc said I had already experienced by teaming up with you, Melvin. But true or not, to complete his deduction, we multiply this sum by forty:
1089
X 40
43560
giving us the digits four, three, five, six and zero; these five digits - and in this order - always the result, regardless of your original three choices.
“But now to Doc’s proof,” she continues, George’s quick mind beating her to the dramatic conclusion, his resounding “Damn!” coming just as I, too, realize what the answer will invariably be.
“You spell out the letters under the corresponding digits, right?” I ask faintly, pointing to each letter under the numeral sequence of 4, 3, 5, 6 and 0, spelling the word before Dot.Com can do me the disservice:
0-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-0
S-L-E-E-P-N-I-G-H-T-S
George rights himself on one elbow, glancing back and forth, from the puzzle solution to my puzzled face.
“P-E-N-I-S,” I spell out in a loud, oratorical tone - George shaking his head in awe of the trick - or my bravery.
“What would happen if we were trying to determine the opposite? What if we were in search of something you had too much of?” I ask, desperate for an answer other than the one now smudged in blue-brown streaks. “Just for kicks, let’s use your original choice…the digits seven, six and five. Let’s skip all the trickery,” I suggest, a goal firmly in mind, “let’s dispense with all the reversing, the subtracting, the adding, the multiplying - the blasphemous use of the numeral forty.”
“Blasphemous?” George pushing up from the desk to reclaim his chair.
“Right,” I say, holding the floor. “Noah’s forty days of rain, the Israelite’s forty years of wandering, Christ’s forty days in the desert, and forty days after His passion. That quack Brigham is attempting a miracle by association.”
“You’re attempting miracles, too, Melvin,” George says, grinning mischievously, “going from a flood to a desert.”
“Okay,” I grant, “but what I’m trying to show Dorothy is that any deduction can be foisted on the unsuspecting by selecting the facts. For example, Dorothy may have selected the numerals seven, six and five subliminally.”
“You mean that’s all we do? Just use those three digits to find the answer?” Dorothy still sniffling from her earlier outburst.
“That’s right,” I say, returning the injury, “and remember what the question is, too: instead of, ‘What do you lack?’ it’s, ‘What do you have in excess?’”
“OK,” she whimpers, “let’s see…seven corresponds to the letter ‘G’, and six to the letter ‘I’….”
“Go on,” I prod, my rush for revenge prompting me to finish for her, to announce with smug satisfaction, “it’s the letter ‘N’! The letter ‘N’, which gives us the word, ‘GIN’! Now tell me, dear, why your brilliant doctor pal didn’t smell that one when it was right under his nose?”
“I-I never have a drink before an appointment,” she whines, sidestepping my assault, “so how could he smell it?”
“Could…it…be…?” George muses, leaning back in his chair in a contemplative pose, “could it be that Doctor Brigham is suffering from the rigors of his curriculum? some sort of transference syndrome?”
“I don’t follow,” I admit.
“Well…he’s a man, isn’t he?” George goes on pensively, “and by all accounts, should not be subject to the malady in question…but…could he be suffering from penis envy?”
“He shouldn’t!” Dorothy’s face a mottled red as she realizes her mistake.
“But whatever his problems,” George leaving her slip unaddressed, “they’re not why I summoned you here.“
“I know,” Dorothy interjects, reaching for the last tissue in he
r purse. “And a good man you are, too, Mr. O’Malley, to recognize that each of us has faults. I know I do,” her ready admission striking me down in my pride, in my haughty, hypocritical judgment of her few and mostly harmless peccadilloes.
“So why did you ask us here?” I ask meekly; malleable, now, to most any recommended improvement.
“To reconcile,” George says - Dorothy blowing her nose like a trumpet-call to repentance.
“But-but-” I can’t find the words, visions of Dorothy brandishing the rod of correction - and of Miss Taylor, too, as my ministering angel – hushing me like a child; the old hymn Trust and Obey playing gently in the corridors of my mind, lulling me in penitent bliss, in a feeling of try-what-I-might-I-can’t-alter-fate acceptance of peace; a magnanimous peace to succor my blemished esteem.
“When in doubt, sometimes it’s best to do nothing,” George admonishes, perceiving my confusion. “Or let me put it another way: in some situations, withdrawal would be an action. Postponement would not.”
“You’re suggesting a delay of our wedding, aren’t you?” Dot.Com’s query forcing me to stumble across his not-so-well-hidden allusion, “because if you are, now is as good a time as any for me to agree,” she continues (but without the passion of the moment before, I notice), “or better yet, for me to beg your assistance in convincing my future husband to do something with his law degree besides arguing bills over his bar with every woebegone sot of a lobbyist.”
“S-So…y-you agree?” I stammer, the apparent ease with which our pressing engagement can be rescheduled, postponed, or even vetoed, almost more than my traumatized ego can comprehend.
“Happily!” Dot.Com patting my hands like a piano teacher and smiling like a Dickens’ orphan, her tear-smudged makeup enhancing the effect. “I would sacrifice anything to help my man climb up, up, up to his highest goal,” she sighs angelically, her serene remark like a leaden weight to keep me from climbing at all.
“You’re a saint, my dear,” George says foolishly, falling for her ploy, “and a prudent one, too. His mother and I have been wishing the same…with our firm’s hard won reputation, his mother’s political advantage, and - if I must say so myself - my own inestimable New England connections. Of course, Melvin’s not unique among parental disappointments,” George running four fingers through his graying locks. “I’m sure Mary and Joseph wanted their son to be a successful carpenter.”
“And they got their wish, too,” I rejoin, “Jesus ultimately built a kingdom for the entire world.”
“See what I mean!” Dorothy’s black eyes shining with pride instead of tears. “Melvin’s quick - too quick in some areas, I’ll grant you; but quick where it counts. He’ll excel before the bench.“
“And even more so behind it,” George adds proudly, his parental prognostications not without lofty designs. “Imagine, Melvin,” he says with a genuine glow, “imagine being called ‘Your Honor’ by the best of your peers.”
“Yeah, well, my honor’s not for sale,” I mutter, wishing immediately I hadn’t; George redeeming me with his ever-ready wit:
“Oh, it isn’t, is it? Then explain how your restaurant got its injurious moniker. Did you name it Black’N’Blue because the beef is chopped? or the breasts split? or is it more from an inherent dishonesty - serving the ribs up short?”
“All right!” I cry, “I’ll think about it…but I need time.”
“Would six months be enough?” Dorothy asks, her smile almost genuine now with my possible capitulation. “That would move our nuptials to the spring of next year, a more promising, if not more romantic season to wed. And your folks are busy enough with the upcoming election; and then there’s Thanksgiving; and Christmas; and-“
“Don’t mention it,” I interrupt, regarding the previous New Year’s Eve as the seed for my current crop of troubles - albeit, it was my party that attracted Miss Taylor to Vermont, her negative stance on gay marriage far less extreme than her utter denial of my much publicized past life. “One can’t get much more romantic than Saint Valentine’s Day,” I pose pretentiously, wincing as I say it.
“Or Saint Patrick’s Day,” George contributes, his Irish heritage garnering pride, “though Dorothy might deem a leprechaun-green wedding gown too extravagant for her staid, New England friends.”
“But St. Pat’s is in March, isn’t it?” I argue, “…and St. Valentine’s in February?” catching my mistake before I can opt for St. Pat’s.
“Yeah, and besides, I don’t look good in green,” Dorothy giving us the relief of laughter.
“Then, Valentine’s Day it is,” I mumble, pleased enough to have gained the delay.
“And remember your promise,” Dot.Com lectures, turning her cheek to my halfhearted kiss. “You’ve six months to decide which bar you’re going to march by.”
“That’s music to my ears,” I pun; George chiming in with his own:
“Don’t fall prey to syncopation, son. Staggering between bars may mar the music.”
An enemy can partly ruin a man, but it takes a good-natured injudicious
friend to complete the thing and make it perfect. (Mark Twain)
XXX
If there’s one thing I cherish about Vermont’s bucolic charm, it’s the glory of the changing seasons. October is like a birthday party for God, the whole of His botanical creation taking on a festive garb. And if October is the colorful party, September is the dress rehearsal, a lively month of preparation, of crowd-warming events for the swelling tide of tourists drawn north by the harvest moon -
And Vermont’s World’s Fair, famous since 1867.
Hosting the annual event is the quaint village of Tunbridge. Serenaded by a rock-strewn stream, the idyllic, Green Mountain setting is a cultural extravaganza as colorful as Sherman’s fire-blistering march to the sea. And as if to prove the fight is “still in ‘em”, natives young and old wage war under barn-like pavilions in pursuit of coveted ribbons; the crackle of fire, the roar of cannon, the pop of muskets, supplanted by the bawling of homesick cattle, the crowing of cocksure roosters, the quacking of ill-mannered ducks - all under a rippling sky of banners. Everywhere wafts the sounds and scents of life: straw-strewn stalls and wood-chipped malls, flapjacks Bunyun and bloomin’ onion, hotdog broilers and pretzel boilers, horse track dust and corn silk must all melding like a mountain mist to wet one’s curiosity, to spike the nectar of Nature for thrills not unbecoming.
Which is why I contrive to attend the fair: a crisp, sweet, satisfying quaff of cold apple cider not unlike the pleasure of my guest, the West Virginia maiden reaching for my hand like an innocent, childhood friend; an erstwhile evangelist forgetting her mission in the light of God’s greater designs.
The first exhibition sets the tone for the day: an elongated cabin of logs like a clock winding back to a time when men still held for angels. Inside, we find a stoop-shouldered, bonnet-bound organist about as old as the bellows she pumps; her withered hands, yellowed as the ivories, playing the haunting Amazing Grace; her smile as serene as the timeless refrain. Nearby, a grandmother hums approval, spinning wool into yarn, while another weaves yarn on a loom; and a rosy-cheeked lass baking biscuits over the fieldstone hearth, while another dips wicks into molten wax.
“Fifty dips, miss, and a lot of patience ‘fore it grows to an inch in diameter,” she explains, fashioning Miss Taylor a pearlescent taper to brighten some darksome night. Next, we watch a round-faced mother, with a sleeping child, happy to be counted among the privileged as she quilts from a colonial original. And just outside, a two-seater, double-spring sleigh is the dais for a gray-bearded, suspendered senator; the old gentleman soliciting support, declaiming more convincingly than he presumes, “I’m not a radical…I just wanna take Vermont back a little ways, that’s all.”
As do I - far enough to predate my engagement to Dorothy - my dilemma soon forgotten, lost in the softness of Miss Taylor’s hand, her genuine awe of the animals somehow a license to hold, to s
queeze my fingers, as I give thanks to the magical beasts: the Red Holstein ox, its massive bulk weighing in at over 2,500 pounds; the Yorkshire sow, larger than life at a whopping 810.
And on to the hay-munching goats, their short tails at constant attention; the helter-skelter of baby chicks scurrying to the giggles of children; the worried peck of nervous bantams scratching a bed of chips – the rabbits at peace with it all, amazingly asleep in their cages. And then the amusement of a Jersey heifer enjoying a bath as though she has plans for the evening. Outside, a happy gang of tow-headed boys splash in the clear water stream - Tom Sawyers, all, grappling for a retreating crayfish.
The boys make me recall my own rustic youth, my happy-go-lucky, long summer days forgone to a fretting world. (With Miss Taylor at my side, perhaps she’ll wield Becky Thatcher’s magic, reclaim my fairy tale world of the dashing and brave, the occult and the odd.)
Just ahead, a bright carousel dances gaily round a path leading nowhere, as the click-clack of a high coaster car plummets to screams of delight. Behind the roller coaster, and beneath an elm festooned for fall, hides the “hair wrapping” booth of an old Ecuadorian, the wizened woman weaving threads of small colored beads into strands of her customers’ hair, practicing for profit some high priestly rite long borrowed from lost beliefs - a designer bag stashed by her moccasins as misplaced as her ancient trade. Down the path, a “Pearls in the Oyster” jewelry cart plays host to a gem-colored fly, a bedazzling beauty on its delicate perch on strands of slim silver chains. Next, a card-table topped by a turquoise blanket with the latest in Peruvian tunes, CD’s interlarded with a fad from the past: an astounding array of mood rings.
Nearby, a county coterie under a silver maple: old codgers catching naps behind snores, snorts and corncob pipes while their wives lick creamees over a stump - the ladies, too, a side-show to see, all dexterously a’gossip twixt milk canned mums and dahlias - the cozy scene like a slow-burning fire casting comfort over all who pass, warm shadows of the way things were.
Twice Melvin Page 24
