“I can see that,” said Madeline. “But busy doing what? Who are all those people in tents on our land? What are these suitcases for? Where did you get these clothes? Didn’t you once say that you’d rather be eaten by squirrels than wear man-made fibers?”
“Well, Flo has been having ideas,” said Mildred. “I know you have a lot of questions, but you’ll have to ask them later. Stan is giving us a ride and we have to leave right now if we’re going to get to Victoria in time to make our cruise ship.”
“Where are we going?” asked Madeline.
“To England,” said Flo. “We’re becoming confectioners.”
Madeline rubbed her eyes as if she could bring reality back in focus this way, but when she stopped a man was coming over and putting the suitcases into the trunk of his car.
“Who’s that?” asked Madeline.
“Don’t be rude,” said Mildred. “That’s Stan. He’s getting a discount on his campsite by driving us to Victoria. You see, your father was talking to Meadowbrook Saturday night.…”
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Never mind, it’s not important. Get in the car,” said Mildred, hustling Madeline into the backseat. Stan pulled away and they sped toward the ferry terminal. “You remember we said we’d be at Zanky’s for dinner? Well, this Meadowbrook was there and she told Flo that she was paying sixty dollars a night for a ten-by-ten-foot spot in the campground, so Flo had this great idea.…”
“Don’t know why I never thought of it before,” said Flo.
“To undersell the campground and rent out our property to campers for fifty bucks for a ten-by-ten space. We sold out all our spaces immediately. Of course, it means people will be sleeping on our carrots, but that’s all right because we won’t be around to harvest them anyway.”
“So then who is going to run the campground?”
“Zanky. For half the profits. We already made a couple thousand dollars!” said Flo.
“Enough to buy cruisewear. We’ve been shopping all afternoon and making phone calls. It’s been a whirlwind.”
“So we’re using it to take a cruise?” asked Madeline.
“Actually, we’re going to England for the summer because Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Bert were killed in a car accident. They owned a candy store.”
“I’ve always wanted to run a candy store,” said Stan from the driver’s seat.
“Who are Beatrice and Bert?” asked Madeline, ignoring Stan.
“They’re a couple of dead relatives. They wanted us to have the candy store,” said Mildred.
“Well, either us or the cats,” said Flo.
“What cats?” asked Madeline.
“Forget about the cats,” said Mildred. “Anyhow, according to the lawyer, the sweet shoppe is a gold mine, so we’re going to make enough to buy Zanky’s thirty acres and then we can bring wholesome organic food to the people.”
“And sugar,” said Flo. “I’m the Dalai Lama of sugar and your mother is going to be the Mother Teresa of vegetables.”
Madeline shook her head. This was the biggest project her parents had started since they decided to pave Canada in bottle caps. “And we have to leave right now?”
“Yes, because our marimba band got a gig on a ship that is leaving Victoria tonight,” said Flo. “Meadowbrook’s marimba band originally got offered the gig but they didn’t want it, and so I called the cruise ship, asked if they were still looking for a marimba band and said we would do it. We don’t get paid, but we get free passage for our family. So we gotta hustle. Cool, huh? I’ve had so many ideas this weekend, my brain is, like, smoking.”
“That’s great. That’s great,” murmured Madeline as her mind frantically went over the details. “But are you sure this whole thing isn’t something you, uh, imagined Saturday night?”
Mildred passed Madeline the lawyer’s letter. Madeline read it twice.
“I guess it’s true,” she said finally.
“It’s synchronicity,” said Flo. “And it all started when a box of Pop-Tarts materialized on our countertop. It was, like, mystical and magical, man. It was the universe pointing the way.”
“Pop-Tarts? They didn’t magically and mystically appear, Katherine put them in my … Oh my gosh, Katherine was supposed to be coming to the island tomorrow. I invited her to spend the week and now we won’t be there!”
“Do you want to call your friend?” asked Stan, and passed her his cell phone.
At home Katherine was pacing around. Six of her brother Ned’s friends were bouncing a basketball in the driveway. Four of William’s friends were playing street hockey out front. Eight of Robert’s friends were hitting a baseball in the backyard. And three of Kevin’s friends were running around the house at full speed, screaming, “MARCO POLO!” She could hardly hear the phone ring.
“Hello,” she said, picking it up on its eighth ring. “Madeline, is that you? You’ll have to shout.”
“Katherine, you’re not going to believe this. I’m getting on the ferry. We’re driving down to Victoria and taking a ship to England.”
A basketball came flying through the window and hit Katherine in the head.
“MOM!” she screamed to Mrs. Vandermeer, who was scrapbooking at the kitchen table. “I can’t even hear Madeline. Why do all the boys have to be here and why do they all have to play ball and run around and scream?”
“I know it’s noisy,” said Mrs. Vandermeer. “But do what I’m about to do and put in some earplugs.”
“Why can’t they do something quiet like read?”
“Because if they don’t have a constructive energetic sporting outlet, they will become juvenile delinquents, and from there it’s a short hop to prison, where there’s a high rate of recidivism. Then they’ll be career criminals. Is that what you want for your brothers?” Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Vandermeer put in a pair of earplugs and went back to scrapbooking.
Katherine put the phone back to her ear. “Take me with you.”
“Wouldn’t that be great?” asked Madeline, sighing.
“I’m serious. I don’t care if you’re going to a swamp or Death Valley. Just get me out of here. I’m going insane. I can’t stand it. OUCH! I keep getting hit with stray balls. I’m bruised all over. You know what it is? It’s recreational abuse!”
“But we’re leaving right now.”
“I’m a fast packer.”
“Just a minute,” said Madeline.
Katherine heard Madeline asking someone something and then Flo came on the phone.
“Madeline says you want to go to England with us. That’s cool. We’ll have Stan get you on our way down to Victoria. But there’s just one thing. You gotta, like, pretend to be part of our family, okay? You gotta look the part.”
“Why?” asked Katherine.
But the phone went into a dead zone and the explanation was lost.
Katherine ran to the kitchen and ripped out one of her mother’s earplugs.
“Can I leave right now for England?” she shouted to her mother.
“Please do,” said Mrs. Vandermeer. “And take me with you.”
Katherine ran upstairs to pack. She threw her most ragged summer clothes and a collection of summer reading into her suitcase. Then she carefully dressed to look like part of Madeline’s family in a skirt that was a little too big, her most scuffed-up shoes and an old peasant blouse. She ran downstairs and outside to await Madeline’s car.
“Where are you going?” asked Mrs. Vandermeer, coming out to the porch and eyeing the suitcase and Katherine’s peculiar outfit.
“I’m going to England. You said I could. Gotta run. My ride’s here!”
Stan pulled into the driveway, just as one of the hockey players was hit by a passing bike. The bike rider and the hockey player lay in a tumble of equipment, screaming at the top of their lungs. Mrs. Vandermeer ran over to disentangle the boys from the bikes from the hockey sticks.
When she looked up, Flo was putting Katherine’s suitcase in the trun
k.
“We gotta run! Ship’s waiting. See you in September! Don’t worry about a thing, the synchronicity has kicked in. The universe is, like, caring for us, man!” called Flo, getting back into the car.
“The what?” Katherine asked Madeline.
“I’ll explain on the drive down,” said Madeline, who had already been apprised of Flo’s new theory.
Then five sets of hands waved jauntily from the windows as the car sped down the road.
“Wait a second, I thought you were kidding!” called Mrs. Vandermeer to the fleeing car.
But it was too late. The car turned the corner and then they were gone.
“It was very nice of the hat club to send a fruit basket to our stateroom,” said Mrs. Bunny with a note of false cheer. She was putting on her long sparkly formal gown for their first shipboard dinner.
“Nothing about this cruise bears any resemblance to the brochures,” grumbled Mr. Bunny, struggling into his tuxedo shirt. His furry tummy kept bursting through between the buttons. That was what it was to be a rabbit. Endless tucking in of loose fur. “Those big staterooms in the pictures?” Mr. Bunny looked around the tiny room he and Mrs. Bunny were sharing. There were two tiny twin beds and practically nowhere for their luggage. “Not.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Bunny as she tried on her earrings. It was difficult to wear dangling earrings when your ears were so long. Her earrings kept dangling down into her ear canals. “Too much?” She was hoping to distract Mr. Bunny from his mood of doom and gloom. So far nothing about this trip was as she had promised. It wasn’t “Better than home!” “Full of luxury and expensive free bath products for Mrs. Bunny!” “Endless service at no extra cost!” “Huge stateroom with quality linens!” So far it was just a small room in the sub-sub-basement level of the ship. That they would not be riding up on top, she already knew. The bunny cruises did at least tell you the animal deck was below the human one. Unfortunately, although the brochures stated this plainly, the pictures they provided were for the human quarters. It was very trying to be a vacationing rabbit.
“Well, there had better just be a gym. Mr. Bunny needs his hopping,” said Mr. Bunny.
Mrs. Bunny sighed again.
At that moment there was a knock on the door. Mr. Bunny was trying to get his bow tie to lie evenly over a particularly cumbersome tuft of fur, so Mrs. Bunny answered it.
It was Mrs. Treaclebunny. “Do you have any Flit?” she asked. “I forgot to pack mine. Always take it when traveling to spray the beds. You never know. Bugs. For all we know, Bug Cruises are putting their travelers up in our rooms. Saves a lot of money for them.”
“I’m sure there are no bugs on this ship,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“Well, perhaps not in my room,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny, looking critically around Mr. and Mrs. Bunny’s cramped quarters. She settled herself on Mrs. Bunny’s bed. “You must have gone for the economy package.”
“We did,” said Mr. Bunny. “I’m not shelling out twice the fare for a slightly bigger room.”
“Slightly? You could fit ten of your rooms in my room.…” Mrs. Treaclebunny’s voice trailed off as she looked around. “And where’s your champagne and chompies?”
“Chompies?” asked Mrs. Bunny.
“You know, little bite-sized edibles. They always bring them to you before dinner and before bed. That’s what Mr. Treaclebunny and I called them. So many and so varied and so rich. We could never finish them although we chomped for all we were worth.”
“We, uh, didn’t get any chompies,” said Mrs. Bunny, looking close to tears.
“Not included in the economy package,” said Mr. Bunny. “Who needs them. Look what Mr. Bunny brought!” He went over to his suitcase and triumphantly pulled out a large jar of Cheez Whiz and a box of saltines. “We can make our own chompies!” He proceeded to spread Cheez Whiz on a cracker, getting Cheez Whiz and cracker crumbs everywhere in the attempt. “There,” he said when he had managed a few that didn’t simply disintegrate all over the floor. He removed some soap packets from a little plastic tray in the bathroom, put his homemade chompies on it and served them forth. “Anyone for a chompie?”
Mrs. Bunny and Mrs. Treaclebunny quickly declined. Mrs. Bunny looked closer to tears than ever.
“Anyhow,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny, getting up and spinning around, “what do you think of the dress?”
Both Mrs. Bunny and Mrs. Treaclebunny had been frequenting Bunnydale’s with some regularity for the last couple of days. It was one reason the Bunnys were going economy class.
“It’s ravishing,” said Mrs. Bunny truthfully. Mrs. Treaclebunny was a vision in red sequins. Mrs. Bunny was starting slow with her black chiffon. She wanted to see how sparkly the other bunnies dressed before pulling out the big guns.
“Are you sitting first or second dinner service?” asked Mrs. Treaclebunny. “Second service is the smart one.”
“We’re sitting first service,” said Mr. Bunny. “It’s part of our economy package. I much prefer it myself. I do not like having to wait much past five o’clock for my dinner.”
“Well, looks like I won’t be seeing much of you, then,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny, getting up and laughing. “I’m at second service myself. Toodle-oo.” And she waltzed out the door.
“Come on, Mrs. Bunny,” said Mr. Bunny, jovially taking her elbow and leading her out of their stateroom. “Don’t want to be last at the trough.”
“Oh my goodness,” said Mrs. Bunny when they entered the dining room. “Did you think it would be like this? I guess I imagined …”
The dining room was a cacophony of noise. There was a large buffet and racing around it, packed in like sardines, were pigs, goats, marmots, cats and dogs. Birds flew about overhead, dipping their beaks into the steam-table vats and removing choice morsels.
“I guess, I guess it didn’t occur to me that other species took cruises,” whispered Mrs. Bunny.
“Not all on cruises,” said the waiter at her elbow. “At first service we also take care of all the pets traveling in crates in the hold. They are allowed to get out, stretch their legs, have a dip at the buffet. Poor things.”
“But you don’t have any … f … f … f …?” said Mrs. Bunny, grabbing Mr. Bunny’s arm for support as the thought occurred to her.
“Foxes?” whispered the waiter. “No, ma’am. Even economy class has its standards. Now what I recommend is you belly up to that buffet before it’s all gone.”
“I thought …” Mrs. Bunny’s voice trailed off as a particularly large pig ambled by, carrying a bucket of food to her table. “… that dinner would be rather refined. That there were endless courses and a large menu and gourmet food … the picture in the brochure.”
“Not at first service, ma’am,” said the waiter sympathetically. “And not in economy. And in second service it’s”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“mostly just bunnies. And if you don’t mind me saying so, a better class of bunnies.” Then his voice went back to normal. “As for the menu in second service … whoops, gotta go. The birds have just pooped in the Swedish meatballs again. I’d steer clear of those, if I were you.”
“Well …,” said Mr. Bunny. “Uh, shall we?”
“I don’t think I’m hungry anymore,” whispered Mrs. Bunny.
“Me either,” said Mr. Bunny, and they went sadly back to their stateroom and ate a few dry crackers.
The Bunnys read their books for a while, and then the ship began furiously rocking.
“Mr. Bunny, I think I would feel better if I could stroll about. My tummy isn’t doing so well.”
“Good thing Mr. Bunny brought saltines!” said Mr. Bunny.
Mrs. Bunny just threw him a look.
“All right. Let’s go find the deck. The brochure suggested moonlit strolls on the deck. Even in economy,” said Mr. Bunny, pulling out the brochure he kept handy in his pocket, with its map of the ship and listed activities.
Mr. and Mrs. Bunny followed signs to THE DECK. What they found when they
got there was a steward with diving gear to pass out and a porthole.
“Where’s the deck?” asked Mr. Bunny. Then he added, “My good man,” the way he had heard people address servants in movies.
“Right out this porthole. Have to strap on an oxygen tank and some fins, of course.”
“For strolling on the deck?”
“Don’t so much stroll as swim. You know your deck is underwater, don’t you?”
“The brochure said MOONLIT strolls,” protested Mr. Bunny.
“Oh, they’re moonlit, all right.”
“ ‘The romance of moonlight on water,’ ” read Mr. Bunny from the brochure.
“Oh, the moonlight’s on the water, all right. Course, you have to look up at it,” said the steward.
“This is ridiculous,” said Mr. Bunny. “When I get back to Rabbitville, I’m going to sue! I’m going to sue everyone in sight. I’m going to sue YOU, my good man.” He waved the brochure in the steward’s face. The steward backed up a few paces.
“Here, here,” said the steward, “no need to take it out on me. I bet you bought the economy package, didn’t you?”
Just then the Bunnys spied Mrs. Treaclebunny hopping back to her room from dinner.
“Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Bunny!” she said joyously, hopping up to them. “Wasn’t that a delish dinner? The caviar! The lobster! The quenelles.”
“You had quenelles? Oh, Mr. Bunny, I have always wanted quenelles!” cried Mrs. Bunny in anguish.
“What are quenelles?” asked Mr. Bunny.
“I don’t know, but I have always wanted them,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes. Listen, Mrs. Treaclebunny, stick to saltines in the stateroom, that’s my advice. We saw birds pooping in the Swedish meatballs.”
“Birds?” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “Oh, of course, you’re in the service where the pets are served. It’s almost all bunnies at second service. A few marmots, I’m afraid, and an antelope or two, but they’re really quite refined. I had the most interesting talk with one about her trip up the Alps. And the ship’s orchestra! Divine!”
“Oh, oh, oh!” said Mrs. Bunny in agitation. “And I suppose you danced!”
Lord and Lady Bunny—Almost Royalty! Page 4
