“Before refreshments or after? And I think I may tweak it. ‘Dame and Sir Bunny’ do not sound as fine as ‘Lord and Lady Bunny’ and I do not think North Americans know enough about titles to understand the Dame and Sir thing. ‘Lord and Lady’ rolls off the tongue much easier and sounds closer to royal titles. But when to tell them, Mr. Bunny? Maybe not around the refreshments, when they are focused on date squares. Maybe casually as people depart, as if it is no big deal.”
“Why tell them at all? Why not let them suss it out on their own?” said Mr. Bunny.
“Suss it out on their … Oh really, Mr. Bunny. I don’t know why I even ask you. You never take such things seriously.”
“Oh yes, and be sure to tell the stirring tale of how you almost shot a fox but were too saintly,” said Mr. Bunny, evilly smiling into his handkerchief while pretending to blow his nose.
“Hmm, I believe I will save that for the second meeting,” said Mrs. Bunny, and returned to the problem of when to tell them she was now almost royalty. It was such a special announcement, almost like the time she got to announce that she had made over, entirely out of lint, her and Mr. Bunny’s bedroom ceiling to look just like the Sistine Chapel! She had planned that announcement for days so that it fell at an auspicious part of the meeting when there would be optimum clapping. Yes, optimum clapping was the thing.
When Mrs. Treaclebunny picked up Mrs. Bunny on her scooter, Mrs. Bunny was once again mulling over the timing of her announcement. She was still trying to decide later at the meeting as she dutifully introduced Mrs. Treaclebunny about. Then Mrs. Treaclebunny went off on her own. She needed very little encouragement to chatter nonstop to whoever fell in her way. By midmeeting Mrs. Bunny started to hear some whispered comments.
“She isn’t going to come every week, is she?” asked Mrs. Binglybunny.
“Oh, my fur and whiskers, if she told us about her duchess relative once, she told us a dozen times,” said Mrs. Hushbunny.
“Have you ever seen such social climbing?” asked Mrs. Butterballbunny.
“Have you ever seen such name-dropping?” agreed Mrs. Sneepbunny.
“As if we here in Canada care about such things as titles.”
“Too full of herself. Is there some way to un invite her to join our club?” asked Mrs. Snowbunny.
“You must ask Mrs. Bunny to do it. She’s the one who invited her,” said Mrs. Ruskeebunny.
And so after refreshments Mrs. Bunny, instead of announcing she was Lady Bunny, as she had been looking forward to for so long, was given the very unpleasant job of sometime in the near future uninviting Mrs. Treaclebunny.
She was very quiet the rest of the meeting.
But not so Mrs. Treaclebunny on the ride home.
“Kind of a bunch of stiffs, those bunnies,” she said to Mrs. Bunny. “Didn’t even know what a Yang di-Pertuan Agong is. Jeez, don’t get out much, do they? Course, I suppose I raised the tone of the meeting somewhat. But raising the tone is hard work. Hard work. Hard, hard, hard. Well, here you are at home. See ya later, alligator!”
Mrs. Bunny climbed wearily off the scooter and Mrs. Treaclebunny zipped on up her own driveway.
Inside, Mr. Bunny picked up on Mrs. Bunny’s mood in a trice.
“Well,” he said. “Were they duly impressed with Your Ladyship?”
“Oh, Mr. Bunny,” said Mrs. Bunny, rushing to her favorite chair and collapsing in it with her head on her knees and her paws over her eyes. “We must never, never, never tell people about our titles.”
“Well, I won’t if you won’t,” said Mr. Bunny cheerily.
“Mrs. Treaclebunny would go on and on about being related to a duchess and now she is shunned.”
“You don’t say,” said Mr. Bunny with great unconcern, turning the pages of his newspaper. “Well, well. Shame.” He smiled. He could not help it. But then when Mrs. Bunny did not lift her head for seventeen minutes and was silent all through lunch, he began to worry. Mrs. Bunny was not a glum bunny. It was not in her nature. And she had been looking forward for days to telling her hat-clubbing friends about her title. It was a small-enough pleasure. Now turned to dust. Mr. Bunny began to feel sadder and sadder. His whiskers drooped. He did not like Mrs. Bunny in such a state. He was supposed to be the glum one. It was supposed to be her job to cheer him up. Suppose she was too depressed to make carrot cakes? Something must be done. He hopped into the Smart car and drove to town.
When Mr. Bunny returned he secreted a package in the buffet, then found Mrs. Bunny and said experimentally, “Good cake-baking weather.”
Later that afternoon Mrs. Bunny perked up somewhat when a letter from Madeline arrived. She and Mr. Bunny sat out in the garden enjoying the September sunshine, eating carrot cake and reading and rereading Madeline’s letter to each other.
“This is tragic! No money to buy land,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“And Zanky closed down the campground before they made any more money on that. So they are back to square one, tsk tsk,” said Mr. Bunny.
“Oh, poor, poor Madeline!”
“Well, at least Mildred is looking for ways to make money to buy land. It has at least taught Mildred and Flo—well, Mildred, anyhow—to plan ahead. Perhaps they will even give Madeline’s college fund a passing thought.”
“The organic farm does seem the most foresighted idea,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“Yes, to invest in an organic veggie garden that will keep making money.”
“Organic vegetables are very expensive,” said Mrs. Bunny, who, when their own veggie garden gave out, bought her carrots at the A&P, eschewing the organics for the more reasonably priced carrots. Mr. Bunny would have quite the conniption if she spent an extra two dollars just because it said organic on the bag.
“After all,” he often said. “Organic carrots are just carrots, Mrs. Bunny, they are not made of gold.”
“And speaking of gold,” said Mrs. Bunny as these thoughts ran through her head.
“I don’t believe we were,” said Mr. Bunny.
“Well, in my head you were,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“Please do not take us on any little treks into the deeper recesses of your head, Mrs. Bunny,” said Mr. Bunny. He was feeling expansive and happy now that he was back in his own hutch. He stretched his short little bunny legs out in front of him and basked in the sunshine and a third piece of carrot cake.
“If you would only get busy and figure out a way to convert the carrot standard to the gold standard, we could start a bank account for Madeline ourselves.”
“Yes, I will take it up with the Bunny Council,” said Mr. Bunny.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Bunny, putting her paws over her eyes. “Do you dare? They are so fierce!”
“Ha! They are no match for Mr. Bunny. I should have been a lawyer. My arguing skills are paramount. Nobody knows as many long confusing words as Mr. Bunny. I dazzle. And speaking of professions, we already have one. We are writers.”
“Writers usually need more than one profession,” said Mrs. Bunny gloomily. “If they are to make anything resembling a living.” Then she paused. “And what do you mean by ‘we’?”
“I am glad you have asked, Mrs. Bunny,” said Mr. Bunny, pulling out his notebook, where he had kept track of their trip expenses and also written his own bunny writing notes. He passed it over and let Mrs. Bunny read the bit he had written on the way to Stratford. He watched Mrs. Bunny’s face. He did not like the way her ears twitched.
“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Bunny when she was done. “It seems to me that it owes a lot to that favorite sitcom of yours. These bits are very like some they do on that show.”
“Yes, that is just what is so funny!” said Mr. Bunny, clawing at his fur in frustration.
“What, stealing someone’s bits is funny?”
“Yes, exactly. That’s the joke!”
“You mean like an homage?”
“No, I mean … oh, never mind,” said Mr. Bunny. “You are determined to be deliberately obtuse.”
�
��And I object to Mrs. Bunny saying ‘Can it, marmotbreath!’ Mrs. Bunny would never use language like that.”
“It would be funnier if she did,” said Mr. Bunny.
“Are you sure you want me to insert this in the manuscript?” asked Mrs. Bunny, thinking, oh well, she could let Mr. Bunny duke it out with the editor.
“Yes, and the chapter titles. You said I could make them this time.”
“I said we could both make them and let the reader pick.”
“Yes, but after reading the manuscript I have decided yours are pooey, so I have already scratched them out,” said Mr. Bunny. “And I want a credit this time on the cover. And my own bio. How else is the world to know that Mr. Bunny was once a marmot wrangler?”
“Right,” said Mrs. Bunny, nervously shoving cake into her mouth. She wasn’t so sure she wanted a coauthor anymore. She was trying to figure out how to broach this subject in a tactful way when the thought of a coauthor triggered a new idea. “MR. BUNNY! I nearly forgot. We have a bank account already on the gold standard!” And she told him about the money the translator had put aside for her.
“I cannot believe you forgot to tell me about a bank account,” said Mr. Bunny.
“Never mind that now. You know I’ve had a lot of queenship thingies on my mind.”
“But I see where you are going with this, Mrs. Bunny. I must figure out how to convert that money from the gold standard to the carrot standard and then we can convert it to the gold standard again to put it into an account for Madeline! She will have her college fund after all. All ends happily.”
“And synchronistically.”
“You promised never to use that word again.”
“Didn’t. By the way, wouldn’t it be easier just to leave it unconverted and on the gold standard to begin with?” asked Mrs. Bunny.
“Mrs. Bunny, you always take the easy way out.”
“I do not. That is a privilege left to queens!” And Mrs. Bunny began to look sad again.
“Oh, PLEEEEEASE, don’t sniffle. It’s really getting on my nerves! Look at what Mr. Bunny got you!” Mr. Bunny leapt up, led Mrs. Bunny inside, and took a box out of the drawer of the buffet.
“What’s that?” asked Mrs. Bunny. Could it be a present? Mrs. Bunny did so love presents.
“Because I know that with you, Mrs. Bunny, it is always about the hats, I bought you this. I am sorry that you cannot be Lady Bunny at the hat club. I know how much you were looking forward to that. And I am very sorry you cannot be queen,” he said, crossing his fingers behind his back. “But you will always be queen of my heart.”
Mrs. Bunny thought that Mr. Bunny’s speeches were always very nice at the start until he veered into the overly flowery. But she regretted this momentary small-mindedness, for when she opened the box, there sat a magnificent rhinestone tiara.
“You see,” said Mr. Bunny, putting it on her head, “it is your own crown. I suggest you wear it only around the house.”
“Oh, Mr. Bunny, this is so kind of you,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“Yes, it is, rather …,” began Mr. Bunny, when there was a knock on the door and who should hop in but Mrs. Treaclebunny.
“Bunch of stiffs at that club of yours. The more I think about it, the more stiffedy they seem to me,” she said, coming in and plopping herself in Mr. Bunny’s chair. “And their refreshments are not of the best carroty sort. So, after much thought, I don’t believe I’ll be going there again.”
Mrs. Bunny sighed in relief. She would not have to tell Mrs. Treaclebunny she was being shunned. Mrs. Treaclebunny was doing proactive shunning. Good for her!
“Hey, what’s that on your head?” asked Mrs. Treaclebunny, peering suspiciously.
“Within these walls, as you can see,” said Mr. Bunny, “Mrs. Bunny is queen.”
“Humph,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny, arising and hopping swiftly out the door.
“Well, it seems we have finally found out how to get rid of her,” said Mr. Bunny.
“Oh, the poor thing,” said Mrs. Bunny. “She has had such a miserable day. Even if she doesn’t know it.”
“Brought it on herself,” said Mr. Bunny, and opened his paper.
He was reading bits to Mrs. Bunny about the new cabbage tariff as she sat and knit in a queenly fashion when in bounced Mrs. Treaclebunny without even knocking this time. On her head was a rhinestone tiara. Twice the size of Mrs. Bunny’s.
“HA!” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “I said to myself, where would Mr. Bunny find a tiara? And I was right. On sale this week at Bunny-Mart. Half-price. So we are back where we started. You are the subqueen. And I am the queen.”
And she pulled up a chair from the kitchen and sat next to Mrs. Bunny. Then she placed a phone book on her chair so that she sat a bit taller than Mrs. Bunny.
“Am not the subqueen,” muttered Mrs. Bunny sulkily.
“Are so,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “Are so, are so, are so.”
“Oh, all right,” said Mrs. Bunny.
They sat there for an hour with Mr. Bunny reading, Mrs. Bunny knitting and Mrs. Treaclebunny staring grumpily at the wall until her ears got tired from holding on to the tiara. It did not fit quite properly. She had chosen it because it was so very large. Mr. Bunny had more wisely chosen for Mrs. Bunny a small one that could be maintained without a lot of ear support. When Mrs. Treaclebunny’s ears were on the verge of giving out, she got up and very carefully hopped out the door and home. She had wanted them to say “Good Night, Your Majesty,” but Mr. Bunny made a sound that Mrs. Treaclebunny had never heard before and she decided not to press her luck.
“Why do you let people do that?” Mr. Bunny asked Mrs. Bunny when Mrs. Treaclebunny had left. “Why do you let them hop all over you? You didn’t have to let her be queen. She already has an ocean view.”
“Yes, Mr. Bunny, but I have you,” said Mrs. Bunny.
“True, too true,” said Mr. Bunny. “Sometimes, Mrs. Bunny, you get it just right.”
And he went whistling up to bed.
“Darn tootin’,” said Mrs. Bunny, getting out the manuscript, crossing out all of Mr. Bunny’s chapter titles and replacing them with her own. She sealed the envelope and addressed it to Bunny Publishing. Then, feeling much better about the world in general and deciding the next hat club meeting was not too soon to let it somehow drop that Prince Charles had bowed to her, she too went whistling up to bed.
Lord and Lady Bunny—Almost Royalty! Page 18
