Lord and Lady Bunny—Almost Royalty!

by Polly Horvath

  The girls were too sick for dinner that night and lay in Katherine’s bunk beds moaning softly.

  “I think we can state with scientific certainty that sugar does not give you excess energy,” said Katherine as she lay greenly panting on the upper bunk. “I can’t think of a time when I felt less like moving.”

  “Well, an entire case of sugar, anyway,” said Madeline. “How’s your book?”

  “Fantastic. Laurie wants to marry Jo.”

  “Has Beth died yet?”

  “WHAT?”

  “Sorry.”

  They got out their flashlights—Mrs. Vandermeer made everyone turn off their lights at nine o’clock so they could start the next day fresh and energetic. Madeline and Katherine always dutifully turned off the light and then read by flashlight until midnight.

  Now as Madeline packed her knapsack, she tossed the Pop-Tart box on the kitchen counter to make room for her nightgown and book. Then she ran to the porch, where Flo and Mildred were enjoying some rose hip tea and arguing about where they could travel on six dollars and twenty-seven cents.

  “Oh well, Madeline will come up with something,” said Flo. “Madeline always comes up with something.”

  Flo and Mildred depended on Madeline for quite a bit. She was their link with the real world. She seemed very adept at navigating it. They often said she was the real grown-up in the family.

  If I could come up with a lot of money, thought Madeline, it would be going into my college education fund, not into a vacation that’s here today and gone tomorrow. But she didn’t say this. She gave them each a quick peck on the cheek and ran to catch the ferry.

  And as it turned out, to everyone’s surprise, it wasn’t Madeline who came up with something. It was Flo.

  Mrs. Bunny, who was in bed recovering from a stirring bout of pneumonia, was signing a stack of copies of Mr. and Mrs. Bunny—Detectives Extraordinaire! It was her first book, and a rousing-good, almost-all-true account of the time she and Mr. Bunny had donned fedoras and helped Madeline find her parents, who had been kidnapped by foxes. The book had been wildly successful in the rabbit market and later translated into English, Marmot and even Fox, although in the fox market it was sold as a horror story. It had done so well that Mrs. Bunny decided to start writing a new one. She did not want to disappoint her fans. She began by making notes for the new book and stopped signing books whenever one of her brilliant observations came to her, such as now. She put down the book she was autographing and picked up the blank book where she kept her writing notes and scribbled:

  Mr. Bunny was not a good patient. He had a tendency to whine. Mrs. Bunny was an extraordinary patient with the temperament of a saint. She only wanted what was best for everyone in her path and made the sickroom a bower of peace and happiness.

  Mr. Bunny, who was hanging out around Mrs. Bunny’s sickbed dropping crumbs in her otherwise nice clean sheets, read what Mrs. Bunny had written and exploded with a snort.

  It caused Mrs. Bunny to jump two feet in the air. This is not high for bunnies, but it is very high for sick bunnies who are lying down at the time, as Mrs. Bunny pointed out.

  “Mr. Bunny, mercy, mercy, you gave me such a start! You should not make exploding noises around critically ill rabbits.”

  “Critically ill, my furry feet,” said Mr. Bunny. “And when did you start saying things like mercy, mercy?”

  “When I became a world-renowned author.”

  “Yes, and that is another sore point, Mrs. Bunny. You did not give me proper credit in that book at all.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Bunny? I did a lovely dedication to you.”

  “ ‘To Mr. Bunny, of course!’ ” quoted Mr. Bunny bitterly. “What you should have said was ‘By Mr. Bunny, of course!’ And right on the cover. All the best lines were mine. We could have written in very tiny print underneath, ‘With some nominal help from Mrs. Bunny.’ That would have been more accurate.”

  “Mr. Bunny, how you do run on. And if you wanted to be listed as a coauthor, why did you not say so before the book was published?”

  “I was waiting for the reviews,” said Mr. Bunny.

  “No guts, no glory,” said Mrs. Bunny, and settled comfortably back into her pillows.

  “And another thing—in the next book, I think I should make up the chapter titles,” said Mr. Bunny.

  “You didn’t like my chapter titles?” squealed Mrs. Bunny in dismay.

  “I did not like some of them. For instance, the chapter titled ‘Mrs. Bunny Worries That Prison Will Be Bad for Her Complexion.’ That chapter should obviously have been called ‘Mr. Bunny Gets a Summons to the Bunny Council But Isn’t in the Least Distressed Because He Is a Very Brave Bunny.’ ”

  “That’s very wordy,” said Mrs. Bunny, chewing on her pencil end. “And also not how I remember things at all.”

  “You’ve been ill,” said Mr. Bunny. “Your memory is no doubt affected.”

  “Well, anyway, Bunny Publishing likes my chapter titles. I would not give them up.”

  “I am not suggesting you do,” said Mr. Bunny. “I am suggesting that on the new book, we each make up a chapter title and readers will have to figure out which title is from whom.”

  “Oh, Mr. Bunny,” said Mrs. Bunny, her ears quivering. “That is a very bold idea. It has never been done before.”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Bunny. “That’s what you have me for. Bold ideas. Remember when I saved the day by having the bold idea to tell the Bunny Council that Madeline was our pet?”

  “Yes, that’s true …,” Mrs. Bunny said slowly. She had to admit, Mr. Bunny did have some remarkable ideas. And if they did not manifest in inventions of some kind, they often worked out. He was a smart rabbit; she would give him that. She would have to think about this. To stall she said, “Speaking of Madeline, why doesn’t she visit? She does not even know I have been near death.”

  “No one knows you have been near death. It would certainly be news to the doctor,” said Mr. Bunny under his breath.

  “What’s that?” snapped Mrs. Bunny, whose illness had not affected her long and fuzzy ears one iota.

  “I was saying that Madeline will come when she can. You know that. It is a very long way from Hornby Island, and she has many busy summer plans, no doubt.”

  “But it’s been AGES and AGES since we saw her!” wailed Mrs. Bunny.

  “It’s been ten days. Get a grip,” said Mr. Bunny.

  “Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Bunny, fidgeting with the bedcovers. “I suppose you are right.”

  “But still,” said Mr. Bunny. “I see your point.”

  “She doesn’t call,” said Mrs. Bunny.

  “She doesn’t write,” said Mr. Bunny.

  They stared in a woebegone fashion at the wall for several minutes. Then Mrs. Bunny shook herself. “I must stop this. This is not like me. It is very like you, of course. But Mrs. Bunny is never of a martyry disposition. Madeline will come when she can. I’m sure if she knew I was recovering from a stirring bout of pneumonia, she would come in a trice. You might have written her and told her how worried you were, but we will let that go,” said Mrs. Bunny. Then she realized she might use this grudge to her advantage in the future and added, “Maybe.”

  Mr. Bunny had indeed at one time been quite worried about Mrs. Bunny. It happened on a Tuesday and it lasted forty-seven seconds. Then the doctor told him that he was quite sure if she kept her fur warm and dry, she would recover rapidly. At which point Mr. Bunny switched to worrying about himself and who was going to make him carrot cakes in the interim. He did not like Mrs. Bunny getting sick. Worrying was a great inconvenience and so was ironing his own shirts. He made her many cups of carrot tea, but none of them managed to reach her without a good deal of grumbling attached.

  “We are out of carrot cake,” he said glumly.

  Mrs. Bunny returned to scribbling feverishly in her writing notebook.

  Whatever Mr. Bunny was thinking had a tendency to come winging out of his mouth with no se
lf-control.

  Then, in a weak-and-cannot-bake-cakes voice, she replied, “There must be some still in the freezer.”

  “Prune cakes. A dozen of them. And that’s another thing. What are we doing with a dozen prune cakes in our freezer? You know Mr. Bunny despises prune.”

  “Never mind that,” said Mrs. Bunny hastily. “That is all explained in the last book. Which you would know if you did, as you claim, read the book all the way through.”

  “I may have skimmed the parts that didn’t have Mr. Bunny in them …,” said Mr. Bunny reflectively.

  “Well, I call that marmotlike,” said Mrs. Bunny indignantly.

  “Marmotlike? What about you taking all the credit for the writing of the bunny book and stocking the freezer with cakes Mr. Bunny does not like—”

  “Never mind cake,” interrupted Mrs. Bunny. “Let us move on. If you got your way what would you name this chapter? I would name it ‘Mrs. Bunny Has an Idea’ because—”

  “Oh, I would probably name it ‘Mr. Bunny Trembles in His Shoes Because Mrs. Bunny Is About to Try to Announce Some Perfectly Dreadful Thing That She Is Going to Force Mr. Bunny, Who Has No Desire Whatsoever to Do It, to Do with Her.’ ”

  “You see, it is just as I feared. That’s very wordy and full of repetition. And our chapter titles would contradict each other. It would only confuse readers in the end. I propose you drop the idea of naming them.”

  “I merely wish to defend my own bunny position on things. Sometimes I think you give the readers a very skewed vision of Mr. Bunny. Mr. Bunny should get to write the parts in which Mr. Bunny stars.”

  “Are there such parts?” Mrs. Bunny wondered aloud.

  “There would be more if Mr. Bunny did the writing, you can bet your fluffy tail on that. And you have to admit, it’s only fair that Mr. Bunny should get to portray himself in an accurate fashion.”

  Mrs. Bunny chewed on her pencil. She could not find a way around this. “Oh, all right. I fear you will get it all wrong as usual, Mr. Bunny, but there is no sense trying to talk you out of it. It will have to be between you and the editor. Now let us move on, because none of that is really here or there. I have an important announcement. As I lie here breathing my last, Mr. Bunny, I am having thoughts.”

  “That would be a first, Mrs. Bunny,” said Mr. Bunny. “A first during your last.”

  “Ha ha. You are a humorous rabbit. Not. As I say, as I lie here on my bed of pain—”

  “Bed of pain? Have I not bought you six new white and fluffy pillows?” interrupted Mr. Bunny. “Just as you requested.”

  “Yes, but you bought them on sale. At Bunny-Mart. They are already squished, Mr. Bunny. If you were lying at death’s door, I would be toodling to Bunnydale’s to get you the very best in downy goodness.”

  “No doubt,” said Mr. Bunny. “But it takes very little to encourage you to toodle, as you call it, to Bunnydale’s.”

  Bunnydale’s was the new high-end department store that had opened in Rabbitville. Mrs. Bunny and all her fellow hat clubbers had been busily putting themselves in debt since it opened.

  “Whatever,” said Mrs. Bunny. “Let’s hear no more about my pillows.”

  “I merely wish to point out that you can’t be in pain on new pillows. It’s unseemly,” said Mr. Bunny. “Indeed, I think it’s a physical impossibility.”

  “I may be in pain because you will not let me finish a thought. As I say, as I lie here beleaguered, aching but sweet and cheerful as usual, I cast back upon my life and the many dreams I had as a girl. Why, I ask myself, why, Mrs. Bunny, have you not done these things you always meant to do?”

  “Uh-oh,” said Mr. Bunny. “Now we’re in for it.”

  “Mr. Bunny, bunnies who are ill need nurturing and many, many compliments. Otherwise they sink into a decline and can never more bake carrot cakes for their bunny pals.”

  This shut Mr. Bunny up.

  Mrs. Bunny smiled bravely and continued. “What has been occupying my bunny brains is that when I am well enough to hop about again, we will want a brand-new profession.”

  “I thought you had already chosen one. I thought we were to be authors.”

  “Writers, Mr. Bunny, need something to write about,” said Mrs. Bunny. “What I had in mind was a series of books in which I could write about our new professions. A book for each profession. My Life as a Bunny-Mart Greeter. My Life as a Neuroscientist. My Life as the Easter Bunny.”

  “There is only one Easter Bunny,” Mr. Bunny pointed out.

  “Yes, but he cannot live forever,” said Mrs. Bunny placidly. “And with each new profession we need new hats.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Bunny.

  At the end of Mr. and Mrs. Bunny’s last adventure, in which they had been detectives, they had tossed out their fedoras. Mrs. Bunny was not sure Mr. Bunny remembered this. He was a little vague when it came to hats.

  “Remember the gay abandon with which we tossed out our fedoras? In case, we said at the time, we were tempted to don them and do same old, same old. Nobody likes a repeater bunny. We did not wish to get stuck in any RUTS, Mr. Bunny.”

  “We wanted to buy a new hat is how I read it,” Mr. Bunny said.

  “Perhaps. But as you will recall, Mr. Bunny,” said Mrs. Bunny, further pulling herself into a sitting position against the pillows, the better to become emphatic, “we never did shop for new hats. I fell into a decline too quickly. But now, as my strength returns, my mind casts about for some profession for us. Let us bat about a few ideas.”

  “Unless I am a much less clever bunny than I think, my guess is you have already picked a profession for us and by ‘bat about a few ideas’ mean you are now ready to bully Mr. Bunny into adopting it.”

  “Bingo!” said Mrs. Bunny.

  Flo and Mildred were preparing to head over to Zanky’s.

  “Grab a bottle of my homemade dandelion wine,” said Mildred as she gathered her things.

  Flo went to the cupboard. “All gone,” he said sadly.

  “Gone? I told you I was saving a bottle to bring to dinner.”

  “I forgot. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. Zanky makes her own dandelion wine.”

  “Not the point. We have to bring something. It’s only polite. How about some of my carob truffles?”

  This time Flo didn’t even need to go to the cupboard. “Gone.”

  “My organic carrot leather?”

  “Uh. Gone.”

  “Well, this is a pretty pickle. We can’t go over with NOTHING.”

  “Uh, how about this?” asked Flo in desperation, grabbing a turnip from the fridge.

  “You can’t bring a turnip as a hostess present. Honestly, Flo, you knew as well as I did we were going for dinner tonight. You might have …”

  Flo tried to shut his ears as Mildred droned on when suddenly his eyes fell on the box of Pop-Tarts Madeline had left on the counter.

  “Hey, what about these?” he said.

  “Where did those come from?” asked Mildred.

  “A merciful universe,” Flo muttered to himself.

  Mildred picked up the box and read the label. “There’s nothing organic in here at all.”

  “Never mind,” said Flo, taking the box from her. “Zanky will be too busy with her guests to notice.”

  Flo was right. Zanky had twenty-seven dear friends for dinner, and everyone was so busy greeting everyone else that the Pop-Tarts were just tossed onto the kitchen counter, their ingredients unread. But as the evening went on and candles were lit and various Zen practices discussed, folk songs sung and chants chanted, with people settling into a state of happy spirituality, the food began to run out.

  “Hey, what’s this?” asked Meadowbrook.

  “Pop-Tarts,” said Flo, who was standing next to Meadowbrook as she examined the box.

  “Can you eat them?” she asked.

  Flo looked at the box again. “I think,” he said uncertainly.

  “There’s only six,” said Meadowbrook, ripping open the package. �
��And I’m starving.”

  “No one says we have to share,” said Flo. They sneaked out to the gazebo and tried to stuff them in before anyone else came along.

  “WOW!” said Meadowbrook. “These are the best things I’ve ever eaten.”

  “I know,” said Flo. “What’s in them that’s so tasty?” He picked up the box and read the label. “Sugar,” he said in surprise. “That’s the main ingredient. I haven’t had any for years. I’d almost forgotten about the stuff. Was it always this good? I think they improved it. I want more.”

  “Me too,” said Meadowbrook. “Maybe we could, like, swim to the mainland and get some?”

  “No, man, there’s sharks out there. Let’s just chill.”

  They rocked back and forth in the gazebo swing until it made them too dizzy. “So, are you, like, visiting the island?” asked Flo.

  “Yeah, we can only stay for two days. We’re at the campground and it costs sixty bucks a night for a little ten-by-ten site.”

  “Wow,” said Flo.

  “Yeah,” said Meadowbrook. “Quite a racket.”

  “Wow,” said Flo.

  “I mean ripping off the tourists that way. I think camping should be, like, free.”

  “Oh, like, totally,” said Flo.

  “We couldn’t have even afforded the campground, but Sunset and I got a gig with our marimba band last winter on a cruise ship. We got free passage and sometimes we would busk in ports and pick up some money on the side.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah. We just got called to do another gig, but I get seasick. Hey, we missed one,” said Meadowbrook, pulling the last Pop-Tart out of the box. “Split it?”

  “Thanks,” said Flo, taking a big bite out of his half. “Oh MAN, that’s good. I mean, it beats the pants off carob truffles. Don’t tell Mildred I said that. Oh MAN. I’m, like, having a revelation here. Sugar is, like, a good thing. Do people know this? I don’t think they do. You know, I feel a calling. I gotta bring this to the people. The people are where it’s at. The people and … sugar.”