The Willoughbys Return

by Lous Lowry

  “What does that mean: This Hospital Is a Smoke-Free Zone?” Mrs. Willoughby said to a nurse’s aide who was wheeling her to Radiology for an X-ray on her sore foot. She was reading a sign on the wall of the hallway.

  “Just what it says,” the attendant explained. “No smoking allowed anywhere.”

  “Well, that’s crazy! What if I wanted to sit down and have a cigarette? Would I have to go out of the hospital and find a restaurant or something?”

  The nurse’s aide looked at her in amazement. “Restaurants don’t allow smoking,” she pointed out.

  “They don’t? When did that happen?”

  The nurse’s aide shrugged. “I don’t know. Before I was born.”

  Later, back in the room they shared, Mrs. Willoughby’s husband was watching the television that hung on the wall facing their beds. He glanced over when she was wheeled in. “Guess what,” she told him. “People can’t smoke anywhere anymore.”

  “I was wondering why there weren’t any cigarette commercials,” he replied.

  “The whole television thing is strange. What are premium channels?” his wife said. “What’s HBO?”

  “Beats me.”

  She rose from the wheelchair and climbed up into her bed beside his. “My foot’s okay,” she said. “Just a blister.”

  “I told you those shoes were trouble.”

  She sighed. “I know. You were right. I’ll have to figure out how to get new ones.”

  The nurse’s aide, who had folded the blanket that had covered Mrs. Willoughby’s lap and was about to wheel the chair out to the hall, looked up. “If you know your size, you can get great shoes on Zappos. Just Google Zappos to find the website,” she said casually. “See you later. I’ll be bringing your dinner in after a bit.” Then she left the room.

  “What did that girl say?” Mr. Willoughby clicked the TV off with the remote and turned to his wife.

  She looked puzzled. “I think she said to Google shoes for Zappos. Or maybe to Zappo shoes for Google?”

  “What does that mean?”

  Mrs. Willoughby put her head in her hands and began to cry. “I have no idea,” she said.

  Her husband gazed at her for a moment. Then he, too, began to weep. “The news was on TV while you were gone, Frances,” he whimpered, “and I understood nothing. What is Brexit? Who is Tom Brady? And what is Facebook?”

  37

  Ben Poore, bearded, with unkempt hair, a backache, dirty fingernails, holes in his shoes, and a big smile, knocked on the door of the little house late Saturday afternoon and was greeted with happy shrieks and enthusiastic hugs. He was so glad to be home and to see his wife and children once again. At the kitchen table he emptied his backpack. The sample encyclopedia volumes came out; he opened one of them and withdrew from between two pages in the middle a dried and flattened flower, which he handed with a flourish to his wife.

  “Dwarf fireweed,” he told her. “Latin name: Chamerion latifolium. I picked it at Mineral Creek.”

  Mrs. Poore wiped away a few tears. “I think I’m crying for joy,” she explained. “Or I might be allergic to dwarf fireweed.”

  He set the battered sample volumes aside. “These are too messed up from all the travel,” he said. “They didn’t bring about any sales. I’m sorry I didn’t come back with riches for you. You deserve riches, my dear family.”

  “It’s okay, Father,” Winston said. “I still have the toy car you made me!”

  “And you said you brought us some rocks as souvenirs!” Winifred added. “You know how I love rocks!”

  Their father reached into the gritty bottom of the emptied pack, took out the two rocks he’d been carrying for so long, and handed one to each of his Win-Win children.

  “Look at the glittery parts! Oh, I wish I had a pocket,” Winifred said, scrunching up the fabric of her dress.

  “We can’t afford pockets,” her mother reminded her, “but we should be so grateful that you have a dress. Some little girls don’t even have a dress.”

  Winifred sighed and whispered to her mother, “You’re Marming again.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Winifred said, and placed her rock on the windowsill.

  “I have pockets,” Winston boasted. “Boys’ pants always have pockets! But I’m going to put my rock on the windowsill beside yours. I need my pockets for my toy car.”

  “I hate to mention this,” Mr. Poore said, looking around the kitchen, “but I’m very hungry. I haven’t eaten since South Dakota. A nice truck driver bought me a fried chicken dinner in Pierre, South Dakota. Did you know that’s pronounced Peer? Some people try to pronounce it the French way. But if you have an encyclopedia, you can learn how to pronounce every single capital in the USA.”

  Mrs. Poore had opened the refrigerator and was moving some containers around.

  “Don’t let her give you salad,” Winston whispered.

  “I have leftover gruel,” Mrs. Poore said. “But what time is it? Does anyone know?”

  No one had a watch. The clock on the kitchen wall had stopped months before; it needed a new battery.

  But Mr. Poore opened the back door and went out into the yard, looking up at the sky. “I learned to read the sky in Alaska,” he explained. “I have to adjust for time zones, of course, but I’d say five p.m.”1

  “In that case,” his wife announced, “I’ll save the gruel for breakfast. It’s time to go next door. We’re invited there for dinner.”

  38

  It was late in the day by the time Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby were finally officially released from the hospital. They had been ready for hours—dressed, sadly, in wrinkled hospital gowns, with paper slippers on their feet, because their clothing had been so tattered by their travel and then stained by their illness. But they had had to wait while the paperwork was completed, and then for several hours while the hospital administrators figured out a way to deceive the reporters who had been gathered outside the front entrance for days.

  Finally a hearse, lengthy and black, pulled up to an unobtrusive back entrance. It had been the clever idea, actually, of Tim Willoughby. He had even suggested placing the couple in matching coffins and carrying them out, but they had balked at that. Instead, two funeral directors, middle-aged men in somber suits, got out of the vehicle and helped the pair, still a little unsteady because of their illness, into the back, where they balanced on cushions and were driven quietly away.

  There, in the darkness, Mr. Willoughby put his arm around his wife. “You remember that once I said you looked like a hippo?” he whispered.

  She sniffled a bit. “I shouldn’t have been insulted,” she replied. “I did need to lose a few pounds.”

  “No, no, it wasn’t that at all! What I meant was—and I’m sorry I phrased it so badly—that you looked determined. Resolute. Like someone who sets a goal and then makes her way toward it, overcoming obstacles at every turn, and—”

  “Like a—”

  “Yes, dearest. Like a hippo. Such a magnificent beast.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Willoughby murmured, and grasped his hand. “And I feel that we’ll make our way through this difficult situation. It was lovely of Commander Melanoff’s family to offer us a stay in their magnificent home while we sort things out.”

  “I only wish—” her husband began.

  “I know. I too wish that we had clothes. These hospital gowns are so silly, and they flap open in the back.”

  “Actually, dearest,” Mr. Willoughby continued, “I was going to say that I am beginning to wish that our children could be with us as things fall into place.”

  “Yes, our children,” Mrs. Willoughby said sadly. “Them. We probably shouldn’t have been so hateful to them.” She sniffed. “You always used to call the eldest—I’ve forgotten his name again—a dolt, remember?”

  “Tim. Well, he was doltish at times. Still, he was our firstborn.” Mr. Willoughby’s voice was wistful.

  “We’ll just have to put him out of our m
inds. Let’s focus on the future.”

  From the front seat, one of the two undertakers looked back into the darkened rear of the vehicle and said, “You okay back there? Want me turn on the satellite radio?”

  The passengers were silent. “What’s a satellite radio?” Mrs. Willoughby whispered to her husband.

  “Not a clue,” he whispered back. “No thanks!” he called to the driver.

  “We’ll be there in about ten minutes. You comfortable?”

  The two of them, holding hands, maintaining their balance as the hearse rounded a corner, called back that they were doing just fine.

  39

  Not far away, in the mansion, Mrs. Poore had introduced her husband to Richie and his family.

  “I apologize for my informal outfit,” Ben Poore said to Commander Melanoff, who was wearing a tuxedo. “I’ve been on the road for a long time.”

  “I understand completely,” Commander Melanoff replied. “I myself made several sorrowful trips to Switzerland, and each time, coming home I felt unkempt. I do like your plaid shirt, by the way. You look very, ah, rustic.”

  “Were you hungry, returning from sorrowful trips? I myself have not had a meal since South Dakota.” They were standing in the hall, but Ben Poore glanced into the dining room. The kitchen staff, despite the fact that they had been laid off and had no salary forthcoming, had decided out of loyalty to return to the mansion to prepare one final, sumptuous meal. Mr. Poore could see that the long table was lavishly set with a large ham decorated with pineapple slices, and there appeared to be a platter of fried chicken as well, plus several casseroles of macaroni and cheese—and was that perhaps a spinach soufflé? It certainly looked like a spinach soufflé. “I find that I’m a bit hungry. Just a tad.” He tried to keep his voice from sounding groany. “Famished, actually,” he added, under his breath.

  “Indeed, I was often hungry in those days because I was lonely . . . that is, until I met Nanny, who was such a wonderful cook. Do you see her there, on the wall? A handsome woman. And oh my, her seafood casserole, I recall . . .”

  Ben Poore choked back a sob. “Seafood casserole?” he moaned. He gazed into the dining room.

  “A poem is coming on,” Commander Melanoff announced.

  “Not the naughty one, Grandfather!” Richie exclaimed. But he was ignored.

  There once was a woman named Nanny

  Whose skill at the stove was uncanny . . .

  There was a loud groan from Ben Poore.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Poore?” Richie’s mother asked. “Are you in pain?”

  Ben Poore took a deep breath. “No. I’m not in pain. I’d call it pangs, I think. I was just reacting to the word stove in that lovely poem, and also noticing a wonderful aroma coming from— I suppose that must be the dining room?”

  “Yes, the dining room. But first we’ll go into the drawing room, down the hall here, for a brief talk about the history of the Consolidated Confectionaries. Sadly its doors have closed for the last time, but we cherish its memory and want to use this gathering as an opportunity to memorialize its existence. Would you lead the way, children? And perhaps our other guests will arrive soon.”

  Richie, Winifred, and Winston ran ahead down the long hall, stopping briefly to nod reverently at Nanny’s portrait. Then they opened the wide doors to the drawing room. The adults followed them. One of them, Ben Poore, was whimpering.

  40

  “Commander,” said Tim Willoughby, “I have the projector and the screen all set up for you.” He turned to the guests and explained, “The commander is going to use PowerPoint.

  “I do want to add that we have checked with the authorities, and it is not illegal to display photographs of candy, or to talk about candy.”

  Everyone (except Ben Poore, who had discovered a small dish of illegal mints on an antique table and had surreptitiously put fourteen of them into his mouth) smiled politely.

  “I’ll advance the slides, Grandfather,” Richie said.

  The first photo on the screen was of a simple unwrapped chocolate bar.

  “This was my very first confection.” Commander Melanoff explained. “Quite simple. Just chocolate—semisweet, if I remember correctly. No nuts or raisins. I created it after a vacation in Mexico, where I learned about the ancient art of chocolate-making. Mayan tombs contained vessels with residue of a chocolate drink dating back to 400 CE.”

  He advanced to the next photograph, which showed a Mayan tomb.

  “We took Richie to Mexico on a vacation when he was a toddler,” murmured Richie’s mother, “but he didn’t display much interest in the museums, I’m afraid. He liked the kiddie pool at our hotel.”

  “Yes, I remember when dear Winifred was a toddler,” Mrs. Poore murmured back. “Of course, we could never afford a vacation. But we had a plastic wading pool in the yard until the cat’s claws made it unusable. After that I cut the plastic into rectangles for placemats.”

  “I know my dad would like to join us on a vacation, if we could afford a vacation,” Winston said. “Wouldn’t you, Father?” He looked at his father, who had just noticed a bowl of grapes on a nearby table and was trying to sidle his way across the sofa so that he could reach it. His father murmured in agreement that yes, he would like to join his family on a vacation.

  “But one archeological site on Mexico’s Pacific coast suggests that chocolate beverages may date back to 1900 BCE,” Commander Melanoff continued, and nodded to Richie, who clicked on the next picture, which was a chart and a timeline.

  Ben Poore groaned slightly, lifted the grapes from the bowl, and filled his mouth.

  “The Aztecs adopted cacao into their culture but were not able to grow cacao beans themselves. They valued it so highly that some people paid their taxes in beans. This lovely little statue is of a man carrying a cacao pod. It’s in the Brooklyn Museum.” Richie advanced to a picture of a primitive stone statue.

  “How interesting,” Winifred said. “Isn’t that interesting, Father?” She looked at Ben Poore, who now had such a large mouthful of grapes that he was unable to speak. “Mmmmm,” he mumbled.

  The next picture was of a marshmallow bunny posed in an Easter basket.

  “I went on, as you know, from those early unadorned chocolates to much more sophisticated confections. Richie, would you just run through some of our most popular items? Please let me know if there are questions about a specific candy, and we can linger.”

  Ben Poore leaned over and whispered a question to Richie’s mother. “Are those real apples in that bowl on the table under the window?” he asked. “Or are they made of wax?”

  “Real,” she whispered back.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the people seated around them, and got up and made his way to an antique chair near the window. “Please go on. I’m listening,” he assured Commander Melanoff.

  Picture after picture appeared. Chocolate bars. Candy eggs decorated with spun sugar. Peppermint sticks. Fudge. The famous licorice sticks known as Lickety Twist. (Everyone said “Awwww” when that photo appeared.)

  From the chair by the window, a crunchy noise revealed that Ben Poore had bitten into an apple.

  Commander Melanoff straightened his bow tie and adjusted his cummerbund.1 “To be honest,” he added, “my first wife and I were not terribly compatible. I know I’ve explained that she was a very tidy woman. Nothing wrong with being tidy! But every night she went up to my lab on the third floor, the very lab where I concocted my incredible mixtures as I invented newer and more delectable candies, and she dumped everything out and washed all the containers and tore up my formulas and threw them away. So every morning I had to start all over again. I was actually relieved when she went on vacations without me. It gave me a chance to work without interruption.”

  “Where did she go on vacations, Grandfather?” asked Richie.

  “She went to Europe. Would you run up to your Book Room and bring back the book about the Alps?”

  Richie glanced nervously a
t his mother. “It’s MBD,” he said.

  “Go ahead, dear,” his mother said, “if your grandfather is sure he wants you to.”

  Commander Melanoff nodded to Richie, who left the room. They could hear him dashing up the stairs. In a moment he returned, handed the volume to his grandfather, and took his seat again.

  Commander Melanoff opened the book to the center and found a brightly illustrated map. He held the open book up with his finger on the map and walked back and forth in front of his audience so that they could each get a glimpse. “Zermatt,” he said. “That’s where she went.”

  From the window seat where he was munching on an apple, Ben Poore announced, “If anyone is interested in more information about Zermatt, I have Volume Z of a wonderful encyclopedia just next door.”

  “She never got there, actually,” the commander said. “That’s where she was headed—by private railroad car, incidentally, very luxurious—but along the way . . .

  “Richie, would you run back up to your Book Room and bring back the volume about avalanches?”

  “Oh dear,” murmured Richie’s mother. “Are you certain? That’s so MBD.”

  Commander Melanoff ignored her, nodded to Richie, and once again they heard his feet pounding up the long staircase. In a moment he was back with the book about avalanches.

  “You don’t mean to say she was—” Winifred said in a terrified voice.

  “Yes, dear. Buried by an avalanche.”

  “Oh, my! But she managed to be saved?”

  “Eventually. But she and our son—”

  “Other Barnaby,” Richie explained. He looked around. “Moment of silence?” he suggested.

  They all fell silent for a brief moment. Then Commander Willoughby continued: “They stayed in the small village where they had emerged, and she met the postmaster, who was just as tidy as she was—everything had to be alphabetical, of course, in the post office—just as orderly, and eventually I got word that our marriage had ended and she was becoming Mrs. Hans. Or maybe it was Mrs. Fritz.”