Scoring Bertram Wiggly

by Man Martin

  “I’m afraid not,” Pennyfeather admitted. “It’s pretty much the Wild West out there when it comes to codicils.”

  I went inside and slammed the door, leaving my lawyer outside. I had no wish to be rude to Pennyfeather, but I needed to be by myself to clear my head and think. The parlor was no good, stuffed, as it was, to the rafters with people who might at any moment break into song. I went into the kitchen to pour myself a good strong cup of coffee, then recoiled in surprise. I may have uttered another, “guh;” it is hard to be sure.

  Sam was sitting at the kitchen table, placidly lifting a forkful of scrambled egg to his mouth. Nor was he alone. The trombonist who had tormented me at the first town hall meeting sat on the counter beside the breadbox, legs dangling, chewing a piece of buttered toast. The wide posterior of another musician – the Sousaphonist I believe – protruded in front of the icebox’s open door. The flautist was pouring herself the last cup of coffee from the percolator, and the clarinetist and the violinist were standing at my electric range, frying doughnuts. In sum, musicians had claimed every available spot to sit or stand in my kitchen and were helping themselves to my groceries.

  “All of you need to get out,” I said. They ignored me. Sam shook salt over his eggs and took another bite. “Get out of my kitchen!”

  “We’ll clean up after ourselves,” the clarinetist promised me. He pulled a doughnut from the grease with a pair of tongs and laid it on a drying-rack. The violinist sprinkled it with powdered sugar as the clarinetist extracted another one.

  “Do you have any more coffee?” asked the flautist making a face. “This stuff’s turned bitter – it’s too old.”

  “Hey, just like Wiggly,” quipped the trombonist, and there was general laughter.

  “Right now I’m in the middle of sort of a crisis,” I said. “This isn’t the time.” My words had no result. “You need to leave,” I told them.

  The flautist dropped a large spoonful of sugar into her coffee and swirled it with a spoon. No one else stirred. I stepped out of the kitchen and stuck my head in the parlor where I found Pennyfeather sitting with the others. Evidently, after I left him on the front steps, he had let himself in. His cane leaned against the doorjamb; a cigar was in his hand. It looked smoked down about two rings’ worth. “You know what we ought to do?” Pennyfeather said. He leaned forward in his seat.

  The others turned their faces from him to one another and back to him again in eager anticipation. “What ought we now to do? What ought we now to do?” It seemed they had been discussing the situation in my absence.

  Instead of telling them what they ought to do, Pennyfeather merely repeated, “You know what we ought to do?” setting off another round of “What-ought-we-now-to-do’s.”

  I withdrew to the kitchen. “You’ve gotten to Pennyfeather,” I said numbly. Once they have a man’s lawyer, what hope is there? “You need to get out there, I expect,” I said. Sam pushed a chair from the table for me, and I sank into it. “They’re vamping for your next song.”

  “They can wait,” Sam said. He tilted his plate as he scraped the last scraps of egg together with his fork.

  “Do you want a doughnut?” offered the violinist setting one before me on a saucer.

  “I’ve got more coffee brewing,” said the flautist. “It should be better than the last pot.”

  I pointed a thumb to the parlor. “How long can you keep them waiting like that?”

  Sam shrugged. “As long as we want. They’ll keep vamping until we get there.” He carefully wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

  “He’s out of bacon,” the Sousaphonist said, pulling up a seat between us. I’d had no idea so many seats were in my kitchen. Apparently, there was a near-infinite supply; anytime another was required, there it was. “You’re out of bacon,” the Sousaphonist informed me.

  I nodded. “So what will this next song be about?”

  Sam took the napkin from his lips and folded it, placing it on his plate with a half-smile. “Do I really have to tell you? Can’t you guess? How would you end it?”

  “Well,” I said. “Obviously, Jim and Mary are about to.” I took a bite of doughnut to clear the burning sensation in my throat. “Get engaged. That’s what Pennyfeather will propose. If they get married by this afternoon, the Bide-a-Wee Home for Rabbits can go stuff itself.” I laughed. It was a bitter laugh. “And that’ll be enough for her? Pennyfeather’s say-so?”

  “That and the bird.”

  “The bird?”

  “The fledgling you told Mary to abandon. It turns out Jim found it the day of the Spring Festival. He’s carefully nursed it back to health. He has it with him now and intends to release it near its nest. He has no idea of its significance to Mary, but once she sees – ”

  “Her heart will go out to him.” I managed another bitter l. “I was never even in the running.”

  “And what else will happen?” Sam asked.

  The trombonist removed Sam’s plate. “I’ll start washing this up,” he said.

  The flautist set a cup in front of me and filled it with coffee. “Do you want cream or sugar?” she asked.

  “No, just black is fine.”

  “And?” Sam repeated.

  “And Lottie and Buddy will be reconciled. I don’t know why they should get along now when they didn’t before, but it’s bound to happen. You can see it coming like a freight train. They’ll get married, too. A double wedding.”

  “And?” Sam said. He was relentless with his and’s.

  “And me.” I leaned back in my chair and massaged my closed eyes with my fingertips. “Me and Eugenia Terwilliger. I won’t be happy about it of course, but she’ll clamp onto me like I was a gossamer-winged Eastern-Tailed Blue and that’ll be that.” I sat forward with a sensation almost like relief. I took a sip of coffee. “Not bad,” I said, raising my cup to the flautist. She acknowledged me with a nod.

  The trombonist had already nearly finished washing the dishes. The clarinetist was drying them with a blue and white towel and putting them away in my cupboard. The violinist had gotten the broom from the closet and was sweeping up.

  “So what are you waiting for?” I asked.

  “You,” Sam said.

  “Me? What am I supposed to do?” Sam did not answer. “You want me to figure it out for myself, don’t you? Well, I –” I thought about it. My brow wrinkled. I couldn’t see it. “I don’t know.”

  “Pennyfeather will point out the only way to save the inheritance is if Mary marries Jim,” he said. “But Mary won’t have Jim because she thinks he supported the Super-Duper Mart. Naturally Jim is too noble to break his promise and tell her you were behind it the whole time, and he only agreed so he could spend some time with her. Pennyfeather will talk you into –”

  “Telling her myself,” I finished. I think I actually smiled at this point. “That way she’ll hate me instead of Jim. Jim will be a hero. A self-sacrificing hero. It’s perfect, really. And what’s even better,” I leaned forward and tapped the table with my two forefingers, “I get to be a complete heel: giving up the girl I’m supposed to love just so I can keep my mitts on her inheritance.”

  “That’s the general idea,” Sam said.

  “Well, I won’t do it.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I won’t do it.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms defiantly. “I won’t spill the beans. I’m not giving her up. I can sit through a hundred choruses if need be. A million. I won’t give her up.”

  “You could do that, I suppose.” Sam looked around, as if he wished he hadn’t given up his plate so soon. “Of course, if you do, she still won’t marry you. She won’t marry anybody except Jim Hansom. She’ll be miserable all her life, knowing she lost the one man she could have loved.” He brushed some crumbs from the table into his cupped hand. “And on top of that, you’ll be seeing to it she ends up destitute.”

  I sighed. My arms remained crossed, but no longer defiantly. “What happens if
I just stay here, then?” I asked. “Just don’t leave the kitchen?”

  “Nothing,” Sam said. “They’ll just keep vamping. Stay as long as you like.”

  “I hope you’re not planning on any bacon,” the Sousaphonist told me. “You’re out of bacon.”

  “So you’re just hoping I make the right choice,” I said.

  “You make choices?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised. “Well, ladies and gentlemen. It looks like we’re done here. Let’s clear out.” The trombonist stepped sideways into a crack between the icebox and the wall. The clarinetist, who was watching the soapy water swirl into the drain, began swirling himself, and let the drain pull him down into it like smoke into a backward-working chimney. The flautist put the broom in the closet, and then stepped in after it, closing the door behind her. I knew if I opened the door, I would see nothing inside but the broom and dustpan.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, but Sam was already gone. Four chairs – only four – sat arranged around the table. Except for me, the kitchen was empty again.

  The floor had been swept, the table and counter wiped up, and the grease from the doughnuts poured out. Satisfied that the kitchen was clean, I rose and went to the swinging door that opened into the next room. Through the door’s diamond-shaped window, I could see into the hall and the parlor where I could make out Buddy Boyle’s back. He was leaning forward listening raptly to what someone was saying. They were still in the middle of their vamp. Placing my hand against the door, I pushed it forward and made my entrance.