And as bright as the Fourth of July!
And they say that he’s
Got both his knees
And still takes his brandy with rye.
Now he’s ninety-nine
And he’s feeling fine.
And he still takes the curves in high!
We’ll all be here
Again next year
To cheer Homer the grand old guy!
They weren’t the best lyrics I’d ever written, but Derek made them sound good. As the applause reached a crescendo, the elevator doors opened, the wheelchair rolled back into the car, the door closed, and the green light signaled UP.
13
The Siamese knew when Qwilleran was getting dressed to go out. They hung around, as only cats can do, waiting, waiting—for a farewell morsel of mozzarella.
He said to them, “I’m taking ‘Ducky’ for a drive around the county. Sorry you’re not invited. She has an aversion to cats.” He could understand an allergy to cat hair, but anyone who simply hated cats was suspect.
At Number Five Pleasant Street he was greeted by Thelma, looking handsome in a lime-green jacket of soft leather and a white leather car-cap. A T-shirt in narrow stripes of multi-green and white had a jaunty look. Her slacks, sandals, and satchel-type handbag were white. She was ready to go.
“I forgot to tell you,” he said. “We have to walk up a gravel path at Hilltop. Do you have something more practical for walking?”
“No sooner said than done! I’ll go up and change, and you say hello to the Amazons while you’re waiting.”
He could hear them. It sounded like a cocktail party out of control, but the chattering and whooping stopped when he appeared, except for a saucy remark: “Pretty fellow! Pretty fellow!”
“Skip the compliments,” Qwilleran said. “Let’s hear some intelligent conversation.”
There followed a chorus of non sequiturs: “What time is it? . . . Yankee Doodle came to town. . . . Yoo Hoo—Yoo Hoo. . . . Pretty fellow!”
“They like you,” said Thelma, returning in white oxfords with crepe soles. “They don’t like everybody.”
“I’m flattered,” he said.
She hopped nimbly into Qwilleran’s SUV.
“Before we push off,” he said, “let me congratulate you on the Film Club and wish you success. It will be good for the community, but isn’t it an ambitious venture for you?”
“My nephew will do the work and take the responsibility, but the club is in my name, and I’ll supervise.”
Qwilleran was accustomed to hearing the problems of individuals old and young. They confided in him because he was a good listener and had a sympathetic mien and knew how to say the right thing.
Now he said, “If there’s anything I can do, I’ll be only too glad to help.”
With that they headed north to Hilltop—past the medical center, community college, K Theatre for stage productions, Toodle’s Supermarket, curling club in a Swiss chalet, and Ittibittiwassee Estates. They were all new in recent years. “But I remember Lanspeak Department Store,” she said. “That’s where I went to buy my Easter hat. Hats were always important to me. I don’t know why.”
“It was your royal instinct, You were born to wear a crown. It shows in your posture, your bearing, your attitude.”
“You say the most adorable things, Ducky! I would have loved to be the gossip columnist Hedda Hopper, and be famous for my hats. She had a hundred of them, you know, and she was photographed for the cover of Time magazine, wearing a hat composed of a typewriter, a microphone, and a radio script.”
“It’s interesting that you both happened to have alliterative names.
“Furthermore,” he said, “let me say in all sincerity that I think Thelma and Thurston are beautiful names for twins whose surname is Thackeray. Who made the choice?”
“My mother, before we were born. If she had a girl, she wanted her to be Thelma; if she had a boy, he was to be Thurston. In the family, though, we were just Bud and Sis. My father was Pop. . . . Did you have brothers and sisters, Qwill?”
“No, and my father died before I was born. . . . Were you ever married?”
“Only once. I kicked him out after six months. He was a gambler, and I had no intention of financing his hobby. Since then I’ve managed very well on my own. As the saying goes: A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.”
They drove in silence for a while. Then she said, “Beautiful country.” Thelma was relaxed and losing her professional veneer.
“How long did it take you to drive from California?”
“It’s about two thousand miles, and we could have made it comfortably in five days, but we didn’t want to stress the Amazons, and we didn’t want to arrive before the moving van, so we took it slowly, stopping at cabins instead of motels. That way we could take the brood indoors and uncover their cages, and they wouldn’t bother anyone. They were good travelers, and Janice is an excellent driver.”
After another few minutes of comfortable silence, Qwilleran said, “We’re coming to Hilltop—ahead on the left.”
The Hilltop Cemetery was in the Hummocks—a ridge running north and south with burial grounds on the summit. The gravestones could be seen silhouetted against the western sky.
Qwilleran said, “Through a member of the genealogy club I was able to check the location of your father’s grave. There are five paths leading to the summit. Taking the nearest and walking along the crest produces a mood of healing serenity, they say.”
They found the monument to “Milo the Potato Farmer,” and Qwilleran wandered away while Thelma had her few moments alone with “Pop.”
As they continued toward the shore, Qwilleran said, “Lower your window, Thelma, and sniff the lake air—a hundred miles of water between here and Canada. The Boulder House was originally the summer home of a quarry owner.”
The architectural curiosity loomed on a cliff above a sandy beach, looking more like a fortress than a pleasant place for Sunday dinner, and the innkeeper was straight out of a medieval woodcut: short, roly-poly, and leather aproned, but he was jovial, and regular customers affectionately called him “Mine Host.”
Before dinner they had a drink on the parapet, a stone veranda over the edge of the cliff, but Thelma said, “I’m not supposed to imbibe, Ducky. Doctor’s orders. And at my age I have to be a very good girl.”
He recommended a Q cocktail and was explaining about Squunk water when a large, furry animal waddled up to them in a friendly fashion.
“What’s that?” she cried in alarm.
“That’s Rocky, the resident cat. What you see is mostly fur; he’s a longhair, but if you don’t want him around, just shoo him away.”
When Rocky had retired to the other end of the parapet, Qwilleran told how the craggy design of the building enabled Rocky to climb up the exterior wall like an Alpine goat and peer in the windows at sleeping guests.
Thelma shuddered visibly.
The dining room was equally rough-hewn and the floor was a flat slab of prehistoric rock on which the structure had been built. There was an immense fireplace, screened for the summer.
“In cold weather,” Qwilleran said, “guests gather around the fireplace after dinner, and Mine Host tells ghost stories and other hair-raising tales. The menu is not sophisticated, but everything’s good.”
They had a simple Chateaubriand, a twice-baked potato, and what Qwilleran called the inevitable broccoli. After the blueberry cobbler and while they were lingering over coffee, the innkeeper inquired if they had enjoyed the meal.
Qwilleran said, “Ms. Thackeray, this is Silas Dingwall, great-grandson of the man who was responsible for this Eighth Wonder of the World.”
“How did he do it?” she exclaimed. “And why?”
“If you’d like to come to my office,” said the innkeeper, “it would be my pleasure to serve you an after-dinner drink and tell you the whole story.”
They agreed, and Thelma whispered, “Isn’t he
a character!”
Qwilleran thought, It takes one to know one!
In the office he asked permission to tape the innkeeper’s tale, and the following account was recorded:
In the late nineteenth century, when Moose County was booming, the lumber barons built huge summer palaces along the shore here. There was more money than taste in those days—maybe today, too. At any rate, the lumbermen tried to outdo each other, each palace being larger or more spectacular than its neighbors.
My ancestors were in the quarry business and were considered in a lower class than the big boys who were exploiting the mines and forests. But my great-grandfather had a sense of humor, and he and my dad and uncles thought up a crazy idea. They hauled huge boulders to the site and piled them up to make a habitation. It took teams of draft horses and musclemen to do it, and the result has been a tourist attraction ever since.
Then in 1912 the economy collapsed, and people fled the area. The few who remained all but starved until . . . Prohibition went into effect, and a new industry was born. Rumrunners smuggled Canadian whiskey into Moose County, stealthily by night, and bootleggers devised crafty ways to distribute it Down Below. The nerve center of the major operation was a network of subterranean chambers under this building, reached by a tunnel from the beach.
During Silas’s tale, Qwilleran watched Thelma for a flickering of eyelids or moistening of lips or any other reflex signifying that she knew about Pop’s involvement. There was not even a change in her breathing, and she said coolly, “It would make a good movie . . . with a mysterious tapping in the cellar . . . and the ghost of a revenue agent trapped by a high tide surging into the tunnel.”
Entering into the spirit of the scenario, Qwilleran said, “The lakes don’t have tides, but it would be a storm-tossed surf with thunder and lightning and some wild passages from Tchaikovsky. Boris Karloff could play the ghost!”
He thought, Maybe she didn’t make it “in pictures,” but she can play a role. Or does she really believe the potato chip story?
Before the day was over, there were more unanswered questions.
They returned to Pickax via the lakeshore, stopping now and then to enjoy the view: sailboats on the horizon . . . cabin cruisers going nowhere fast . . . fishing boats purposefully anchored.
Thelma said, “The lake didn’t play any part in our life when we were growing up. We didn’t even know it was there.”
“What was it like—being a twin? Was there a lot of togetherness?”
“Well, we had different interests, but we were always together in spirit. Each of us had to know where the other was at all times. Although twins, we had very different personalities. Bud was skinny and sensitive; I was husky and tough. Once I bloodied the nose of a bully who was tormenting Bud in the schoolyard. The teacher bawled me out, but I told her I was proud of it and would do it again. After he went east to college and I went west, we kept in touch. I was so proud of him. He was a doctor and had his own animal clinic. He had such a wonderful, caring way with his patients—mostly horses and dogs—and their owners, too. One woman, whose Doberman was not responding to treatment, said she’d like to consult a psychic who diagnosed animals’ disorders—by phone! Instead of scoffing at the idea, Bud told her to go ahead and tell him the psychic’s diagnosis. He said he might learn something . . . but I’m telling you more than you really want to know.”
“On the contrary! I’m sincerely interested. Do you know that your brother’s portrait still hangs in the lobby of the clinic he founded? It’s a strong countenance. I wish I might have met him. John Bushland took the photo, and he’s famous for catching the real person. He’ll have the negative. I can get you an eight-by-ten.”
“Bless you! Bud used to write me the most beautiful letters, Qwill, and I’ve saved them, thinking they’d make a heartwarming book for animal lovers. What do you think?”
“I’d have to see them, but I’d be glad to give you an opinion.”
“Bud’s last letter was so beautiful!” She removed her sunglasses and dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
Then she said, “I’m afraid Dickie Bird is not the man his father was. That’s why I’m here. The Film Club, I hope, will give him a challenge and a responsibility.”
“Very commendable,” Qwilleran murmured, although he considered “Dickie Bird” as a pet name for a male child unsuitable; it would warp a man for life.
He could feel a mood of tension in the seat beside him. He asked, “Are you getting good response to your ad about the Film Club? Moose County has never had such a facility.”
Thelma brightened. “Dick reports hundreds of phone calls, and he’s selling Gold Memberships for the evening show and Green Memberships for the late show—on credit cards.”
“Who’s selecting the old movies?”
“That’s one responsibility I reserve for myself. I’d be glad to include your requests.”
He had never been a film fan, but he remembered A Tale of Two Cities and Dickens was one of his favorite storytellers.
When he mentioned the title, Thelma said with enthusiasm, “That’s one of my favorites, too! I still choke up when I hear Ronald Colman’s last line!”
“Is Dwight Somers doing a good job of P.R. for you?”
“He’s one of the best I’ve ever worked with. Such a pleasant young man. I adore men with beards! And moustaches, too!” she added with a playful nudge.
Qwilleran felt a tremor on his upper lip—not because of the saucy compliment but by a feeling that Dickie Bird smiled too much.
Back on Pleasant Street Qwilleran escorted her to her door but declined a cup of tea, saying he had to go home and feed the cats.
He felt he had done his good-turn-of-the-day, or even of-the-week. Thelma had visited Pop’s grave; Janice had been free to go for a cruise. A ploy to bring the potato chip heiress out of the closet had failed, but it was only a journalist’s nagging curiosity about something that was none of his business. He admitted it. But Thelma had enjoyed the sightseeing and the Boulder House legend. And she had learned that she could say “shoo” to Rocky and he would oblige. It might be the first step in curing Thelma’s ailurophobia.
On arriving at the barn Qwilleran felt the need for a dish of ice cream and some music. He played a Verdi opera that Polly had recently given him on the barn’s magnificent stereo system.
All three of them listened. It was one of the things they could do together as a family. The cats huddled in one comfortable chair, sophisticated enough to take the booming bassos and high-pitched coloraturas without flinching, although their ears twitched once in a while, and occasionally they went to the kitchen for a drink of water.
14
Qwilleran was leaving to have lunch with Wetherby, the wacky weatherman, and the Siamese were watching as if they knew where he was going. He asked them, “Do you have any message to send to your friend Jet Stream?”
Yum Yum sneezed softly, and Koko felt a sudden urge to scratch his right ear. Why was it always the right?
Wetherby was a native of Lockmaster County who had grown up in the town of Horseradish and had the mind-set and social flair and snappy wardrobe of south-of-the-border types—everything except the two-tone shoes, Qwilleran had observed.
Being the first to arrive at Onoosh’s Café, he stood outside to enjoy the pleasant April breeze.
Then, who should come along but Wetherby in black-and-white shoes!
“What happened?” Qwilleran asked in mock sympathy. “Oh! Excuse me. I thought you had an accident and your feet were bandaged.”
Unruffled, Wetherby said, “You should get some two-tones, Qwill. They’re very big right now.”
“My feet are big enough in ordinary shoes, Joe. Shall we go in?”
They sat in a booth and ordered baba ghanouj as an appetizer. (No one had told Qwilleran it was made of eggplant.)
“How’s our friend Jet Stream?” he asked.
“He’s a good cat. We’re buddies,” Wetherby said, “but I spen
d a fortune on cat litter. The vet says the old boy has a case of ‘Gullivarian hydraulics’—nothing serious. But he’s aptly named. How are your two brats?”
“They stay busy—Yum Yum rifling wastebaskets, and Koko prowling the bookshelves, sniffing the glue in the bindings. Lately he wants me to read from Poor Richard’s Almanac all the time, but I get tired of his wit and wisdom.”
“Like what?”
“A man without a wife is only half a man.”
“Propaganda!” Wetherby objected.
“Prejudiced, to say the least! So I’ve decided to publish a compendium of wit and wisdom, to be called Cool Koko’s Almanac with catly sayings.”
“Do you happen to remember a couple of examples?”
“A cat without a tail is better than a politician without a head. . . . A cat can look at a king, but he doesn’t have to lick his boots. . . . Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil, but be sure your claws are sharp. . . . But enough of that! What’s happening in Indian Village?”
In the winter, when the barn was hard to heat, Qwilleran moved his household to a condo unit next door to Wetherby. It was a good address, but the developer had skimped on construction. Floors bounced; walls between units were thin. Now the K Fund owned Indian Village and improvements were being made. It meant soundproofing the wall between Qwilleran’s foyer and Wetherby’s living room.
“Amazing what they can do without making a mess,” the weatherman said. “They surround the work area with plastic sheeting, then drill holes in the wall and blow in the insulation; cover the holes; paint over them. Neat operation. I thought our studs would be two-by-fours, but luckily they’re two-by-sixes, so they could blow in more insulation.”
“Is it effective?”
“Since you and your operatic cats aren’t in residence—and the unit on the other side of me is for sale—I can’t tell. But others in the Village are pleased—even fussbudgets like Amanda Goodwinter! She’s mellowed somewhat since being elected mayor. I think its because her P.R. adviser made her get a cat to improve her image.”
Cat Who Brought Down the House, the Unabridged Audio Page 11
