MASH 13 MASH goes to Montreal

by Richard Hooker+William Butterworth

  He landed five feet away from her with a little bounce and, as soon as he had collapsed the canopy and gotten out of the harness, he bounded over to her and gave her a hug and a kiss.

  “I’m so ashamed that I didn’t believe you, Little Mama,” he said. “But I didn’t.”

  “Believe me about what, Precious Babykins?”

  “I’m so happy, Little Mama, that I’ll overlook you calling me that,” Bubba said. “About the heavenly music, that’s what.”

  “Bubba, darling, what the hell are you talking about?” she had asked.

  “That, Little Mama!” Bubba replied, gesturing toward the sky. Josephine followed his gesture. A second parachutist was in the sky, floating earthward beneath an already-opened parachute canopy.

  “I told her to pop it at twenty-five hundred feet,” he said. “That’s only her third free fall, you see.”

  “Bubba, darling,” Josephine said, “are your mother’s old ears failing her or did you say her?"

  “I said her, Little Mama,” Bubba said. “Can’t you tell, already, although she is still, I would judge, about one thousand feet up there, how wonderful she is?”

  From one thousand feet, all Josephine could see was that whomever her was, her had long blonde hair and had been generously endowed, anatomically speaking, in the bosom department.

  “Someone you met in Texas, I gather?” Josephine, forcing herself to smile, said.

  “Isn’t she wonderful?” Bubba said. “We wanted you to be the first to know, of course.”

  “The first to know what?” she asked, with ten pounds of lead in her stomach.

  Bubba didn’t reply. The generously endowed blonde parachutist was about to touch down, and he ran over to the touchdown site. Shamelessly, Josephine thought, he embraced the other parachutist the moment she was on the ground, kissed her, and then with his arm around her, marched her over to where Josephine stood leaning (she felt a little woozy) against the Rolls-Royce Corniche.

  “Mother, this is Scarlett,” Bubba said. “Scarlett, this is my mother.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Babcock,” the blonde said. “Whatever must you think of me for dropping in on you this way?”

  “How do you do?” Josephine Babcock said, rather icily. “I’m always happy to meet one of Precious Babykins’ little playmates.”

  “I knew you’d hit it off together right from the start,” Bubba said, with one of them under each arm.

  “I didn’t quite get the last name,” Josephine said.

  “Jones,” Bubba replied. “Scarlett Rose-Marie Jones. Isn’t that a lovely name?”

  “Delightful,” Josephine said. Her brain churning furiously now, Josephine remembered reading somewhere that the worst way to rid one’s offspring of undesirable associates, in particular those of the opposite gender, was to let your disapproval show. No matter how painful it would be, she vowed, she would not make that error.

  “Welcome to Burton County, Miss Jones,” Josephine said, with an ear-to-ear smile. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Thank you,” Scarlett said. “Bubba’s told me so much about you. How you’ve been both mother and father to him.”

  “I was just doing my duty,” Josephine said.

  “Scarlett and I are going to be married, Mother,” Bubba announced. “Just as soon as possible!”

  “How nice!” Josephine said. “I’ve always regarded marriage highly.”

  This big-boobed blonde was not, Josephine vowed passionately if silently, going to snatch Precious Babykins from his mother’s arms. But how to stop it?

  “You must tell me all about yourself, Miss Jones,” Josephine said. “Who, for example, are your parents and what does your father do?”

  “Scarlett lives with her uncle, Mother,” Bubba replied quickly, answering for Scarlett. He really hated not being able to tell Little Mama the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but the cold fact was that Scarlett’s father was a United States congressman (the Honorable “Alamo” Jones, D., Texas) and Bubba knew that if this came out before he and Scarlett were firmly knotted together in the bonds of matrimony, Little Mama would do whatever she considered necessary to keep the knot from being tied. She would put up with practically anything, Bubba knew, but being related, even by marriage, to a congressman was too much to ask.

  “Oh, I see,” Josephine replied.

  “My Uncle Hiram,” Scarlett replied. “Actually my granduncle.”

  “I see,” Josephine repeated.

  “Uncle Hiram—” Bubba said, “he has given me permission to call him Uncle Hiram—Mama, holds the key to our little soja hispida Babcockisis problem.”

  “He does?” Josephine asked, brightening visibly.

  “He’s a buffalo rancher,” Scaflett said.

  “He’s a what?”

  "Bison Americanus,” Bubba clarified. “Sometimes called bison bison. Of the family Bovidae.”

  “You know, Mother Babcock,” Scarlett said, “like on those old-time nickels.”

  “What did you call me?” Josephine asked, visibly shocked.

  “She called you Mother Babcock,” Bubba said. “Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Yes, it is,” Josephine replied, without much evident enthusiasm. Mother Babcock, indeed! she thought. “And how does Uncle Hiram’s buffalo ranch tie in with the bean, darling?”

  “They love it,” Bubba said. “I took two one-hundred- pound sacks of dehydrated soja hispida Babcockisis with me when I went to Texas. Say what you like about Ms. Sydney Prescott, Mama, she was right on the ball with her buffalo idea.”

  “In the excitement of the moment, dear,” Josephine said, “I’m afraid your old mother’s head is a little confused. What exactly does Ms. Prescott have to do with Uncle Hiram and his buffalos?”

  “Why, she sent those photographs back from Texas, Mother,” Bubba replied, obviously surprised that his mother had so quickly forgotten. “The ones that sent me winging my way to Texas and into Scarlett’s heart!” This declaration of love triggered a like emotion in Scarlett Rose-Marie Jones. She reached up and nuzzled Bubba in the neck. Josephine shuddered.

  “The photographs that woman sent were of some broken-down whiskey-soaked old bum of a cowboy,” Josephine said. “And an equally drunken and broken- down old Indian.”

  “Mother Babcock,” Scarlett Rose-Marie Jones said, icily, “I hope, of course, that our relationship will be a warm one, but I must insist that you never again refer to my Uncle Hiram and Sitting Buffalo, his faithful Indian companion, in those terms.”

  “I’m sure Little Mama meant no harm, precious,” Bubba said. “Did you, Mother?”

  “Of course not,” Josephine said. “I was just making a little joke.”

  “You’ve got a weird sense of humor, Mother Babcock,” Scarlett said. “I’ll say that.”

  “As I was saying, Mother, I had some dehydrated soja hispida Babcockisis with me, and when I mixed it with water, Teddy Roosevelt gobbled it up.”

  “Teddy Roosevelt?”

  “He’s Uncle Hiram’s pet buffalo,” Scarlett explained.

  “Of course,” Josephine said.

  “And Hawkeye said, when I showed him the chemical analysis...”

  “Hawkeye is that handsome Indian in the photographs of your charming uncle?” Josephine asked.

  “No,” Bubba said. “Hawkeye is a doctor. Of medicine. I mean, not a buffalo doctor, actually, but someone with training in the field of nutrition.”

  “Of course,” Josephine said.

  “We met him at the Saints-Cowboys game,” Bubba explained. *

  (* Those with a burning desire to know the circumstances under which Hawkeye and Trapper John happened to be so far from the rockbound coast of Maine are referred to M*A*S*H Goes to Texas (Pocket Books, New York, 1977) in which the facts have been laid bare without fear or favor.)

  “The Indian in the photograph is Sitting Buffalo,” Scarlett clarified.

  “As I was saying,” Bubba went on, “Hawkeye said, and Trapper J
ohn agreed …”

  “Trapper John?”

  “He’s a doctor, too,” Scarlett said.

  “That there was something in the digestive system, probably a very strong gastric acid of some kind, that permits the bison Americanus’ digestive tract to handle soja hispida Babcockisis. Just as soon as I make some preliminary arrangements for our wedding, I’m going to have Old Bald Eagle fly a couple of tons of dehydrated soja hispida Babcockisis out there, and to bring a dozen of the beasts back here to the pig ranch.”

  “What a brilliant idea!” Josephine said. “But wouldn’t it perhaps be better, dear, if I might make a little suggestion, to postpone your nuptials until after we see what the bean does to the buffalos over, say, a ninety-day period?”

  “I asked Hawkeye for his wise, physician’s opinion of my burning desire to take Scarlett as my bride as soon as possible,” Bubba said.

  “Why would you ask him? I mean, who is this man? Wouldn’t it make more sense to ask your own mother?”

  “Hawkeye is an F.F.F., Mother,” Bubba said.

  “And so is Trapper John, Mother Babcock,” Scarlett said.

  “An F.F.F., as in Framingham Theosophical Foundation Fellow? That kind of F.F.F.?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Bubba said. “F.T.F.F., just like dear Dad, may he rest in peace.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Hawkeye and Trapper John, of course, are far too modest to boast about something like that, of course,” Bubba said.

  “Rev. Mother Emeritus told us,” Scarlett said.

  “Rev. Mother Emeritus?”

  “While we were waiting for Uncle Hiram and Mr. Horsey to be released from ja . . .” Scarlett said and stopped.

  “Released from where?” Josephine said, pouncing on Scarlett.

  “A gross miscarriage of justice, Mama,” Bubba said. “Growing out of a simple misunderstanding.”

  “I see,” Josephine said. “And who is Mr. Horsey? Another Indian?”

  “He’s a cajun, actually,” Scarlett said. “And it’s really Colonel de la Chevaux.”

  “Tell me more about the Reverend Mother Emeritus and the two F.F.F. doctors,” Josephine said. “You didn’t happen to learn their real names, did you?”

  “Benjamin Franklin Pierce, M.D., F.A.C.S., F.F.F.,” Bubba said. “That’s Hawkeye.”

  “And John Francis Xavier McIntyre, M.D. F.A.C.S., F.F.F.,” Scarlett added.

  “And what did these Framingham Fellows have to say when you asked them about your burning desire to rush into marriage?” Josephine asked.

  “Hawkeye said that it was better to marry than to burn,” Scarlett said, and blushed.

  “And Trapper John said that love was what makes the world go ’round,” Bubba said.

  “And the Reverend Mother Emeritus?”

  “She offered to perform the ceremony herself right then and there,” Bubba said. ‘The governor was there, too, you see, to get Uncle Hiram and Mr. Horsey out of the slammer, and he was willing to waive the three-day waiting period.”

  “But Little Mama,” Bubba went on, “Scarlett said that, being a woman, too, she understood how important it would be for you to be at the wedding of your only son, and that we should wait until you have met one another.”

  “How right you were, Miss Jones,” Josephine said. “Well, children, I suggest we go to the Cottage. You can freshen up, dear Miss Jones, and I have a telephone call or two to make.”

  “I put it to you, Mr. Framingham,” Josephine Babcock said to Matthew Q. Framingham VI over long-distance telephone, “not only as a mother determined to save her son from the clutches of a long-haired blonde gold digger, but as the widow of a Framingham Foundation Fellow, my late, beloved husband, may he rest in peace, that your foundation generally, and these two doctors specifically, have a moral obligation to stop this ill-advised marriage.”

  “My dear Mrs. Babcock,” Matthew Q. Framingham replied, “I am astounded to hear that Dr. Pierce and Dr. McIntyre have actually encouraged these two misguided young people to enter the state of matrimony. I know from my own personal experience that both are as opposed to marriage as I am myself.”

  “You are not suggesting that my Precious Babykins lied to his Little Mama, are you, Framingham?” Mrs. Babcock said, in a menacing snarl.

  “Perish the thought, dear lady,” Matthew replied. “I merely meant to suggest the possibility that your son misunderstood Dr. Pierce and/or Dr. McIntyre.”

  “Watch it!” she said.

  “Dear lady,” Matthew said, “just as soon as I finish speaking with you, I will personally communicate with the fellows in question, and do my level best to ascertain the facts in this situation.”

  “It’s the least you can do,” she said. “For the widow of an F.F.F.”

  “I was about to say precisely that,” Matthew said.

  “Especially one who authorizes the annual Burton Babcock & Company Burton Babcock III Memorial Bequest to the Framingham Foundation.”

  “You could put it that way, I suppose.”

  “That’s the way I do put it, Mr. Framingham,” Josephine said. “I will be awaiting your call. Get back to me at your convenience, any time within the next hour or so.”

  Chapter Six

  Through what Wallington T. Dowd, the head Texas Ranger, called “a lamentable little misunderstanding,” Mrs. Ida-Sue Jones, wife to the Honorable “Alamo” Jones, member of Congress, and mother of Scarlett, had been arrested and incarcerated by two Texas Rangers.

  For reasons that are better not delved into deeply, the Texas Ranger who put the cuffs on Ida-Sue and threw her in the slammer were under the impression that she was the “white female, age unknown, described as quote the sort of cheap blonde hussy who would trifle with a poor old man’s affection unquote” whom a priority, all-points bulletin from Texas Rangers Headquarters had ordered them to find and jug.

  Ironically, the all-points bulletin had been issued at Ida-Sue’s request. She had been concerned, for reasons having nothing whatever to do with familial love, with the location of her husband’s paternal uncle, one Hiram Jones, of the T Bar X Ranch, near Midland, Texas. Mr. Jones had last been seen in his pickup truck, headed in the general direction of Dallas, Texas, and in the company of a “good-looking, large-busted blonde.”*

  (* The lady in question was actually Scarlett Rose-Marie Jones, but Ida-Sue Jones had no way of knowing this at the time.)

  Ida-Sue Jones was looking for her paternal uncle-by- marriage for what she considered good and valid cause. “The Old Bum,” as she spoke privately of him, was obviously bereft of his senses. He had lived for thirty years in a run-down and ramshackle old cabin on the old T Bar X, his sole companions an Indian chap with a legendary fondness for the bottle and a herd of buffalo including one large, somewhat weather-beaten old bull whom he called Teddy Roosevelt, and whom he led around, wherever he went, on a leash like a dog.

  Under ordinary circumstances, Ida-Sue would have been perfectly happy to leave Uncle Hiram in peace on the old T Bar X, indeed to hope that he never left the premises. One who aspires to be First Lady of this great land of ours, to set up housekeeping at government expense at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in our nation’s capital, can well do without a family member who is a smelly old bum with a buffalo bull on a leash. That sort of thing tends to detract from the image one is trying to project.

  But something had come up. In an attempt to secure the friendship, and thus the considerable influence, on Capitol Hill and elsewhere of the Honorable Vladimir T. “Vibrato Val” Vishnefsky (Polish-Republican, Illinois) and the Honorable Antonio J. “Tiny Tony” Bambino (Ethnic-Democrat, New Jersey) for her husband, Alamo Dave, Ida-Sue had decided to see that each of these distinguished members of Congress had an oil well of their very own.

  Ida-Sue had some time before come to understand that how one feels toward the oil industry frequently depends on whether or not one owns an oil well. Thus, she reasoned, if Vibrato Val and Tiny Tony each came into an oil well,
it would not be too much to hope that they would stop saying all those rude things about Alamo Dave and, in time, join the so-far, frankly, rather thin ranks of those who wanted to see Alamo Dave in the White House.

  Vibrato Val and Tiny Tony were interested in her little proposition, and both drew checks on the Congressional Stationery Allowance Account to make the investment. Now, every time one “sinks a hole” (as drilling an oil well is known to the cognoscenti), one does not find oil. Vibrato Val and Tiny Tony were not aware of this little technicality and they, having invested their hard-earned stationery allowances, expected to get an oil well with oil in it in return.

  Ida-Sue, not knowing this, had early on decided not to even bother sinking holes for her husband’s distinguished colleagues from Congress. She would simply send them a check and tell them she had sunk holes and that the holes had come in gushers. And she did this.

  At this point, the difficulty began. No sooner had Vibrato Val and Tiny Tony cashed their first checks and had a word with the Speaker of the House vis-á-vis getting themselves assigned to the House Committee on Oil Industry Regulation that they announced they wanted to see their oil wells in person.

  “Once you’ve seen one oil well, Congressmen,” Ida-Sue had tried to reason with them, “you’ve seen them all. You can save yourself a long and expensive trip by simply watching the Exxon commercials on TV.”

  “Not to worry, little lady,” Vibrato Val said. “Travel is broadening, as I always say.”

  “And don’t worry about the expenses, cara mia," Tiny Tony had chimed in. “We’ll have the air force fly us down there.”

  All of this had taken place at a very bad time for Ida-Sue, personally. She was having trouble with Scarlett Rose-Marie. Ida-Sue, while at the University of Texas, had been a University of Texas Marching Band Pompon Girl. Indeed, she had been doing a “Texas, Texas, rah- rah-rah” when she had first seen Alamo Dave. Even with her head stuck between her legs so that Alamo Dave, then a second-string halfback, had been upside down, it had been lust at first sight.