Ella Minnow Pea

by Mark Dunn

  The *uick brown fox *umps over the la*y dog

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  U.S.A.

  Monday, September 11

  Dear Mr. Minnow Pea,

  I am in receipt of your letter regarding my order of miniature moonshine vessels. (Note that I have no interest in violating your Island Council’s three recent statutes regarding alphabetical elision, and so we will continue to refer to the vessels as, simply, vessels.)

  Given the marketability of your previous consignments, the 50 figure is much too low. Please deliver to my warehouse double that amount by December 1 – in time for the Christmas market – and I will pay you an additional $5.00 per vessel, with a bonus of $550.00 for the effort. (Please note: all payment will be in American dollars and not in Nollopian Nevins. Given the instability of your national currency, I see no reason for you to oppose this arrangement.)

  I look forward to hearing if you will be able to meet the order, and look forward, as well, to many years of doing business with such a talented artisan.

  With all best wishes,

  Charles Ray McHenry

  [Upon the Purcy kitchen refrigerator]

  Nollopville

  Monday, September 11

  Dear Mother,

  I have finished the wash, hung all the clothes out to dry, and gone down to the shore to find starfish for my collection. Abby says the tide brought in a number of small ones this morning. You were so sweet to make crab cakes last night. Perhaps you will make them again next week for Mr. Warren. No one can resist your scrumptious crab cakes.

  Come down later and spend some time with me. I miss the old you. Can I say that? You’ve changed so much over the last few weeks. I do worry about you.

  We can make do without this new letter, as we have without the other two. It should not be so hard. You will see.

  Love,

  Tassie

  Nollopville

  Tuesday, September 12

  My dear friend Agnes,

  You are right that I have not been myself lately, but please don’t expend any unnecessary energy worrying about me. Thank you so much for the cookies. You sent far too many, regardless of the state of my emotional health. I will share them with Tassie and with some of the neighborhood children, but even then, I shall still have cookies to spare!

  You are a good and kind friend. I have treasured your friendship as far back as I can remember, and will always do so.

  Love,

  Mittie

  Nollopville

  Tuesday, September 12

  Dear Mittie,

  I am recalling the day we met. We were all of four! How is it possible to remember so far back? Perhaps because I counted you as special friend from the very moment our mothers plopped us down on the seesaw together.

  I bake my raisin-pecan cookies, darling Mittie, because there is little else I can do. What is happening here to you and me, to our families and friends – it frightens me so that I sometimes find myself standing for long periods of time in the middle of my kitchen – much like a statue – much like that infernal statue of Mr. Nollop – immobile, unable to do anything except return by cursed rote to the baking of my cookies. And this I do, often late into the night.

  Do you think I am losing my mind?

  When I bake, I do not have to speak. When I bake, I do not have to make sense of anything except the ingredients summoned by memory that I have laid out in front of me. Sometimes the children offer to help, but I do not accept. This is something best done alone. Something I do well. One of the few things I can actually do.

  So eat them. Eat them all. I will bake more.

  It is what I do. All I can do.

  Love,

  Your friend,

  Agnes

  From the desk of Rory Cummells

  Nollopville

  Wednesday, September 13

  Dear Mrs. Purcy,

  I feel that I owe you and your daughter Tassie further explanation for my rather odd behavior when you came into my market yesterday. In a nutshell: my wife has left me. Donna has taken our two girls and is moving to the States. I could not convince her to stay.

  I have, obviously, been a little distracted lately and simply wasn’t paying attention. I should never have rung up your baisley cheddar three times. You have shopped at my market for years, and surely must remember nothing like this having happened before.

  Perhaps I am wrestling needlessly with a decision that has already been made; it would be impossible for me to move to the States with Donna. My livelihood – what there is left of it – is here in Nollop. My home is here. (In addition to which I own about fifty acres north of the Village in the glades, currently undeveloped, on which I have hopes of some day building a small retirement community for myself and others). I am angry that all we have come to value, perhaps even take for granted, is being ripped from us – one tile at a time.

  And I will not stand for it.

  My brother Clay, whom you may know – I believe you trade at his confectionery – believes that the falling tiles do not in any sense indicate a desire on the part of the very late Mr. Nollop to remove these letters from our language. He believes, in fact, the exact opposite. That this is Nollop’s way of encouraging us to use these special letters more than ever before. They are being singled out for this purpose and this purpose alone.

  He is founding a movement.

  I was as of a moment ago interrupted by one of my customers. She reports that the tile containing the letter D has fallen. I don’t think this is mere rumor.

  God save this doomsaken little island!

  Sincerely,

  Rory Cummels

  Nollopville

  Thursday, September 14

  Dear Mr. Cummels,

  (May I call you Rory?)

  I do not fault you for your behavior on Tuesday. We are all on edge, some of us more so than others. I am so sorry to hear that your wife and daughters have left, and I truly understand how difficult it would be for you to emigrate as well. Your corner market has been a welcome fixture in the Village, and it would be a terrible loss to see it close.

  This is not, perhaps, the appropriate time, but I should like to invite you to take coffee with me when an occasion proves convenient. I should like to hear more of your brother’s movement and your own opinion of it. I should like, as well, to seek your advice on other matters.

  The news of “D” is, alas, all too true. I dare not even contemplate the attendant ramifications.

  With all best wishes,

  Mittie Purcy

  Nollopville

  Friday, September 15

  Dear Mrs. Purcy,

  Thank you for your kind invitation. I would be delighted to meet you for any beverage of your choosing. At the risk of being too forthcoming with regard to the details of my present situation I should state that my wife has left me not only in the proximital sense, but in the marital sense as well. Divorce, I’m afraid, is imminent.

  I look forward to seeing you soon (in some milieu other than my store).

  Sincerely,

  Rory Cummels

  Nollopville

  Friday, September 15

  Hello Neighbor,

  You are invited to attend a showing of “Surf of Dreams,” a collection of seascapes and sky studies by Georgeanne Towgate.

  Where: The Towgate front lawn.

  When: Sunday, September 17.

  Bring your checkbook and a smile.

  Please! Silent, pantomimical bids only.

  In the land of no “D,” silent reverence is king.

  Georgeanne Towgate

  [scribbled note at the bottom]

  Mother, I found this taped to the front door. Does the name sound familiar? It’s that awful woman who reported your classroom slip. Know a good rainmaker?

  Tassie

  Nollopton

  Friday, September 15

  Dear Cousin Tassie,

  Much to tell and little time to tell it as the afterno
on post goes out in less than forty-five minutes.

  Last evening’s meeting was a pyrrhic success. Pyrrhic in that we had to turn more away than we would have liked, lest we betray, by our sheer numbers, the purpose behind our assemblage. And because word seemed to have spread among many whom we did not know, there was no discussion per se – only promises to meet again in smaller numbers, to ensure that knowledge of our secret confabettes would not spread to those with power to see us disbanded before we have even gotten started.

  Funny, isn’t it, dear Cousin, to have a meeting, and an enthusiastically attended one at that – in which nothing gets discussed! Ah, but the things that went unsaid! And the things that shall be said and done when we feel safer and more secure in our gatherings.

  You are right that Mr. Lyttle is the likeliest candidate from among the Pentapriests to see the chemists’ report, although I don’t trust any of the five to open their minds even a scintilla to such a pound-logical explanation for the tumbling of the tiles. And Lyttle has been somewhat the taciturn rubber-stamper of late. But perhaps it is because he has yet to be offered opportunity to stand on his own two callused, septuagenarian feet, thereupon to manipulate agenda for his own purposes – one of those purposes being his very own political survival.

  Am I not the cocky one! No, dear Cousin, I don’t think the tide is turning. The tide which washes the shores of this beleaguered island can be depended upon to follow the moon’s directives from now until the death of the planet, but lovely storm tides – beautiful hurricane-force, beach-battering, dune grass-deracinating gales do strike our beaches now and then, and leave change in their wake. Perhaps we are about to see such a storm. We will proceed on hope, comfixed in one mind and purpose upon these elite, self-deluded flayers of children.

  Come down as soon as you like. We miss your smile!

  As we will sorely miss the loss of “D” effective as of midnight tonight. (Have you not noticed the product of my decision to dribble this dreadful diatribe with as many uses of the doomed fourth letter as possible?) Only idiots, dear Cousin, or certifiable madmen would assign divine purpose to ridding ourselves of the tools not only with which to address Heaven itself (Henceforth “Deity” and “Divinity” and even the word “God” will be outlawed. The Council makes the following substitutional suggestions: “Omnigreatness” and “Screnity.”) but also of the ability as of midnight to discuss with anything but great difficulty everything that has occurred in the sanctified past. In taking “ed” away (Goodbye, Ed!), the most useful tool to express the past tense in the English language, we are being robbed of great chunks of our very history. This constitutes, in my opinion, a significant crime, an egregious sin, and one humongolacity of a daunting challenge.

  But then, according to Nollop, that which challenges us also makes us stronger – better able to serve his memory, better able to serve one another in service of his memory, better able to serve ourselves in service of one another in service of his memory.

  Sometimes I find myself laughing until I begin to choke.

  Yipes! The Pony-post cometh!

  Love,

  Ella

  (And gooDbye for the last time!)

  OFFICE OF HIGH ISLAND COUNCIL

  Nollopton

  Friday, September 15

  Dear Nollop Dweller,

  Many of you have visited the Council office over the last several days, voicing concern over how best to express in the absence of the letter “d” – which leaves us at midnight tonight – each of the seven days of the week. This is a valid concern, but not one that should in any way threaten daily discourse. For instead of the calendrical terms Monday, Tuesday and so forth, we cheerfully offer the following surrogates. Use them freely and often, for their use honors us all.

  For Sunday, please use Sunshine

  For Monday, please use Monty

  For Tuesday, please use Toes

  For Wednesday, please use Wetty

  For Thursday, please use Thurby

  For Friday, please use Fribs

  For Saturday, please use Satto-gatto

  Parents: you may wish to help your children absorb these new words by turning the process into a game of some sort, simple flash cards also constituting a tried and efficient course.

  Sincerely,

  Hamilton Ferguson

  Chief Secretary

  High Island Council

  5

  .........................................................

  ABC*EFGHI*KLMNOP*RSTUVWXY*

  .........................................

  The *uick brown fox *umps over the la*y *og

  Nollopville

  Toes, September 19

  Ella,

  Mr. Warren is here. I wasn’t aware that he was so young! Perhaps he only looks young. I chose not to ask his age so as not to embarrass him. Maybe twenty-four. No more than twenty-six, I think.

  He is also very attractive. He parts his hair in the center, picking up on the style of the local boys. I can tell he wants to fit in. I can tell that he wishes not to arouse anyone’s suspicion.

  He is single, as well – at least from what I have been able to learn. He was happy to show me pictures of his mother, his cocker spaniel, even his eight-year-young niece, but no beautiful fiancée, thank heaven!

  I’m not sure why I am acting the schoolgirl. Perhaps because it has been so long since we’ve given welcome to such an interesting visitor. I know what you must be thinking. But I can assure you: the purpose of Nate’s visit is not to fall in love with me. Yet in my heart of hearts, I must confess: I simply cannot stop myself from the inevitable “what if”!

  He got in last night, by the way.

  Have I written that he’s witty? Clever to near-fault, it turns out. Not to mention the fact that he speaks with such a mellifluous Savannah-honey-voice that I come close to simply melting away each time he opens his mouth!

  I must confess, as well, to being still in the thrall of two full glasses of Sonoma Cabernet. I write you – glancing at the clock near my cot – at one in the a.m. Sleepy, I know I ought to be, but I am not!

  I must also relate how taken Mother is with our new houseguest. For his part, Mr. Warren has been most open to our smile-accompanying, eager-to-please hospitality – reciprocating our courtesies with southern-tangy flattery, in couplet with sweet masculine grace.

  He will be staying with us for a week or so before traveling to your neck of the forest to meet with Mr. Lyttle. If I am lucky, his trip to town will concomitate perfectly with my own trip to see my most favorite cousin.

  Tomorrow I shall wake, thereupon to wish none of this were put to paper, but by then it will be too late, for this letter is going into the corner mailbox as soon as I can throw on a robe to venture out. What a lovely time we have spent this evening, Sweet Ella, even without the use of the four illegal letters.

  (I must own to a slippage on occasion; there was slippage from each of us as the evening wore on, our tongues becoming looser; it was almost impossible not to stumble in light of the intoxicating circumstances. But we were lucky in that when such a misspeak took place, there were no ears pressing themselves against the portals or fenesters to overhear.)

  I trust, as always, the safe, non-intercept passage of this letter. For while arguable is the possibility that Nollop speaks to us post mortem – sans mortar as it were – the one thing that isn’t contestable, that rings with pure alloyless truth, is the last thing that left our venerable vocabularian’s mouth prior to his expiration: “Love one another, push the perimeter of this glorious language. Lastly, please show proper courtesy; open not your neighbor’s mail.” (You may recall that this was a rare pet peeve of Mr. Nollop’s.)

  Love,

  Tassie

  Nollopville

  Wetty, September 20

  Ella,

  I beg you to ignore that last letter. I was in a state of shameful inebriation. Mr. Warren is a nice man. That is all. A nice man. I am near mortification!


  Love,

  Tassie

  Nollopville

  Wetty, September 20

  My loving sister Gwenette,

  I cannot teach. Without that grammatical unifier. It is impossible. I plan to resign tomorrow.

  Semicolons are simply not an option. These youngsters are only seven! Young people of such age can’t fathom semicolons!

  Nor can I employ an “or” when I want the other one – the one that brings together, not separates.

  My brain throbs. I have a hangover. Far too much wine last night.

  The wine. Plus the loss of that grammatical unifier. It is all too much.

  Forgive me for my weakness.

  Love,

  Your sister Mittie

  Nollopton

  Thurby, September 21

  Throbbing Sister Mittie,

  Still you are luckier to be in the village. Eighteen families were sent away this morning. Many of the members I knew. Losing the first three letters was relatively easy in comparison to this most recent banishment.

  Slips of the tongue. Slips of the pen. All over town people hesitate, stammer, fumble for ways to express themselves, gripgrasping about for linguistic concoctions to serve the simplest of purposes. Receiving no easy purchase.

  I go to the baker’s. I point. We all point. We collapse upon our mattresses at the close of each evening, there to feel... feel... utterly, wholly diminished.

  There. I now happily enlist in the “first offense club.” It feels exhilarating! You know I cannot allow you to be a member of any club to which I cannot belong. I will show a copy of this letter to one of our local authorities.

  I will receive my official censure.

  We shall be sisters-true as always.

  Love,

  Gwenette