by Eric Flint
“Get to the point,” Kerry said.
“She will,” commented Missy as she buttered another piece of rye bread. “It’s just that by the time she gets there, the rest of us will have written the Great American Novel, built our own greenhouses to grow citrus fruit in our back yards, opened up home businesses, and sent off expeditions to start colonies back in America. Just thinking about all the stuff people think we ought to do since we came back in time makes me tired before I’ve even gotten breakfast.”
Flo wondered when her daughters, who were rapidly approaching thirty, were going to start talking to one another like they weren’t still squabbling about who got the bathroom first. I love them, I really do, she assured herself. I love them all. I love the grandkids that I have. I love, she paused and looked at Kerry, the grandkid that it looks like I’m going to have any minute now. I’ll love the grandkids I’m almost certain to have next year or the year after, if somebody doesn’t re-invent the pill.
Kerry’s David was in school, which reduced the noise level somewhat. Amy’s David and Missy’s Mike were still small enough to corral in a playpen, but since it was the same playpen and Mike had recently bopped David on the head with a toy Brillo, both were squalling in the background. Amy’s Kayla and Missy’s Caitlin had both been in moods all morning that would have driven the author of “sugar and spice” to take it all back. Little girls appeared to be made of sour pickles and tabasco sauce.
But Amy was not distracted. “Look, except for the Buggy story, they’re all Peter Rabbit stories.”
“Amy,” said Missy. “Get to the point.”
Amy, sad to say, stuck her tongue out at her sisters.
Flo mentally gave herself one more black mark for Abysmal Failures in Maternal Training.
“The Peter Rabbit stories aren’t about the guy who had the garden, Whatzisname. Mr. Whatzisname is just there in the background, for scenery. That’s where Mom is in all the others. They’re about the animal. So he’s a stupid ram, so what? She’s only there in the background trying to keep him in his pen, or away from the ewes, or not appreciating how brave and clever he is, or something. The stories are about him. Some of them don’t even mention Mom at all. Except the ‘Buggy’ one. That’s about Mom.”
Kerry thought a minute. “You’re right. I hate to say it, but you’re right. And some of them do have to be guys. It must have been a guy who wrote ‘Bad, Baaad, Brillo!’ But ‘Buggy’ was written by a female. It’s just nasty.”
Amy wasn’t finished. She just ignored Kerry and kept going. “So live with the rest of them. You think that Beatrix Potter didn’t laugh all the way to the bank. He isn’t what you wanted out of this sheep project, but he’s what you got. So make the most of it, Mom.”
Flo sighed. “All right. But I still want to find out who wrote that one.”
“Who are your candidates?” Kerry asked.
“I thought there had to be two things. First, she didn’t like me. I had a bunch in that column. Second, she has to be here—not off in the oil field with her husband like Lelah Johnson—Kidwell that was. And willing to do it—that lets out Charmaine Dwyer—Elkins that was—because she’s actually turned into a nice person, much as I sort of hate to say so.”
“Some day,” Missy said, glancing at the envelope Flo had brought along to the Richards girls’ brunch and kaffeeklatsch, “I think that I really want to hear the stories about what went on in Grantville when you were in grade school and high school, that you ended up with so many people in your ‘enemies’ column.”
Flo glared at her.
“The candidates left are Stella Pilcher—Burroughs that was. But she doesn’t have the gumption. She just whines.”
Flo realized that her daughters were looking shocked. “Well, she does. Always did. I didn’t like her. Still don’t. And it showed, back then. Now I just avoid her.”
Flo looked down into her cup of coffee before she went on. “And Idalee Jackson—Mitchell that was. And I think that it’s Idalee. She’s the scheduler for the Grange meetings. Most people would have had to show up at the paper and leave that thing and someone would have remembered it. She drops stuff off all the time, meeting notices and the like. If it was just on the bottom of things she left in their ‘incoming’ box, on a different kind of paper, nobody would ever know.”
“Mom,” Kerry asked rather cautiously, “What did you do to her?”
“Before the final game at the state basketball tournament, I carefully glued lots of little pieces of straw inside her flippy cheerleader skirt. Just with little bitty dots of library paste. First, they pricked her bottom and itched her. Then, when the cheerleaders really got going, they started to fall out, right in front of the crowd.”
“Mom!” The horror was unanimous.
“That was junior year. I had caught her trying to put the moves on your father. I had him staked out, already. And, face it, as a husband, he’s been a lot better deal than Butler Jackson. But she didn’t have to marry him.”
“Mom!”
“Well, she didn’t. Everybody assumed that she did when they got married, because they couldn’t imagine why else she took him, but it was twenty-two months before Wade was born. I guess she was just starting to be afraid of being an old maid.” Flo paused. “I’m not saying for sure that she did it, and I’m not going out and accuse her. But just sort of pinning it down makes me feel better inside. Idalee does hold grudges—and she’s smart enough.”
Flo came to a decision. “As for the rest of them—Amy’s right. I think I’ll just laugh along with everybody else.”
* * *
“We can do it,” Trissie insisted. “We only need to snitch one copy of the booklet. So Michelle can play.”
Ashley Walsh and Liz Russo looked at her doubtfully.
“The only other person who’ll need to know at all will be Michelle. Grownups think that kids can’t do anything without someone to tell them how. We can do this ourselves. Honestly we can.”
* * *
“And with Michelle Matowski at the piano.” Mrs. Nelson finished the introduction and moved to the director’s post.
The girls’ chorus finished their presentation to polite applause from the League of Women Voters. (Iona had been quite right in saying that the tune was almost impossible to sing, even if it was very popular.) The girls filed out of the front of the room.
Except . . . three of them didn’t. Liz Russo slipped off in the other direction and hid behind the piano. Trissie Harris and Ashley Walsh stayed on the little stage, reached into their pockets, and each brought out a pair of fuzzy white earmuffs.
Flo’s heart sank.
At the piano, Michelle segued into, “Tea for Two.” Brillo and the ewe started to sing, “A ram for me, an ewe for you.” Between every verse, Michelle switched tunes and from behind the piano came Liz Russo’s high soprano admonishing, “No, No, Brillo!”
Flo laughed.
Brillo And The Blue Problem
Rick Boatright
Brillo looked up and noticed that the child had left the gate unlatched. YES! he thought. This time I’ll get my wimmen, and I’ll head North, where a sheep can be a sheep.
This time for sure.
Brillo began butting the gate, and quickly realized that it was more useful to butt it at the latch end. Heading for the ewes’ field, he looked over to the house where no one was yet up.
You know, he thought, every time I get myself some of my wimmen, I fall asleep before I can get out of here.
This sudden rush of realization set Brillo on a new mental path. How to stay awake? What was the majic of waking? Then, suddenly, he realized. It was the Blue Cup. Each morning, Flo came out and drank from the Blue Cup and said that she was waking up.
That was the majic. It was the BLUENESS of it. He looked around. Blue . . . Blue . . . Blue. It was certain that no one was going to bring HIM a blue cup. No, that was reserved only for the yoomans.
Blue. Suddenly, his eyes lit on the flowerbed. Pa
nsies were blue. Weren’t they?
Anyway, Brillo had figured it out. The secret to staying awake, and getting away to the north was finding the magic blue substance. Brillo was determined to eat every blue thing he could find. No matter how many trys it took, he WOULD go north with his wimmen.
Cindabrillo
Paula Goodlett
“Got another one, Flo.” J.D. grinned.
“Oh, good,” Flo answered. “I thought it might be about time for a new one.”
Unknown to Flo, who was interested in the latest Brillo broadsheet, J.D.’s face fell. Her new attitude had him confused. She’d griped and groaned about those broadsheets for weeks. It had been fun to watch. Where was the fun in seeing her not react?
Oblivious to J.D.’s disappointment, Flo continued to read:
CINDABRILLO
Brillo walked around the enclosure, muttering to himself. “Work, work, work. It’s all I ever do. The other rams, they get all the bennies. Me, I just work and work and work. Can’t have any wimmen without a fight. Course, I like to fight. Can’t have any blue. The Flo lady is STILL mad at me about those jeans. How was I supposed to know? No rest for me. No, no goodies for Brillo.”
“So, would you like to change all that, my fine ram?” a voice asked from the darkness.
“Whozat?” Brillo exclaimed.
A shining blue light appeared before his eyes. A little too shining, if the truth be told. Brillo, a bit dazzled, shook his head and blinked.
“Ya wanna tone it down a bit?” he asked.
“Umm, sorry, my friend. The lights are on a separate control, hang on a min... there, is that better?” the voice asked.
Blinking a bit, Brillo looked toward where the light had appeared. It was much less bright now.
“Yuh. Better. Who’re you?” he asked.
“Why, Brillo, I’m the fairy god ewe. Haven’t you heard about me?” the voice answered.
Peering at the light, Brillo was able to discern a rather shapely form inside it. Quite a shapely form, if you were a ram. Things got a bit slobbery for a moment, until Brillo managed to regain his dignity.
“Fairy god ewe? Never heard of you. And, I’m sort of busy right now. Wimmen to guard, lambs to protect, that sort of thing. Whaddaya want?”
“I want to help you, Brillo. It’s what fairy god ewes are for, after all. I can give you a beautiful fleece. I can make you king of the rams. The real question is, what do you want?”
“Wanna be ram. Wanna have wimmen. Wanna have lambs. Wanna eat. S’what sheep do, y’know. Got all that.”
“Brillo, listen carefully. I can make you one of the pretty rams. I can make the Flo lady like you. You can have all the wim . . . women you want. You can be king of the rams, with my help.”
“Don’ wanna be pretty. Useless, they are. Can’t fight, can’t protect. Run like rabbits. Don’ wanna be king. Too much paperwork. Why do?”
“Do it because you’d have the respect of the yoo . . . humans, Brillo. Do it because you’re the best ram ever. I can make it happen, with a wave of my wand,” the shape answered. “Just ask, and I’ll do it. Tomorrow morning, the Flo lady will come out and be happy to see you.”
“Flo lady already happy to see me. Me here, wimmen here, lambs here. She don’t like to say, but she happy. Only want one thing.”
“Well, I really want to give such a wonderful ram something,” the shape answered. “What do you want most of all?”
“Don wanna say out loud. Come closer,”
“I don’t think so, buddy. I don’t think I trust you that much. I said I’m a fairy god ewe, not that I’m stupid.”
“Aw, come on. Won’ do nuttin. Just don wanna say out loud,” Brillo said, with his best imitation of injured feelings. Here, fishy, fishy, he thought.
“Well, okay. I’ll come closer and you can whisper in my ear,” the shapely ewe answered as she moved closer. “Just don’t get any ideas, buster.”
Brillo waited patiently as the nervous ewe moved within his range. Finally, after a lot of skittering around, there she was. Brillo quickly reached over and grabbed the glowing wand, crunched it up, and swallowed.
“Oh, no!” screamed the fairy god ewe, as her magic fell away. “You’ve turned me into a real ewe, you lousy . . .”
Brillo turned his now faintly glowing eyes upon her and grinned evilly. Very evilly. “Yup. Now, about that wish, honeybunch . . .”
* * *
Flo laughed. “It’s got to be an up-timer. Got to be. It’s the ‘Here, Fishy, Fishy’ line. Remember, I bought you one of those tee-shirts once. The one with the trout on it. And the one that said “I fish because the voices in my head tell me to.”
J.D. grinned. “You did. Didn’t they both go in the pile of stuff we gave away for the refugees?”
“Darn, yes, they did,” Flo answered. “I guess those jokes wouldn’t take much explaining, would they? Wonder if I’ll ever know who’s doing these?”
“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” J.D. asked.
“Oh, I suppose not. It’s just unsatisfied curiosity, I guess. I’d just like to know.”
The Ransom Of Brillo
Paula Goodlett
“What the . . .” Flo started to exclaim, then noticed J.D.’s grin. “What’s so funny, so early, J.D.?”
“Somebody left this on the porch last night, Flo,” J.D. snickered as he handed Flo another broadsheet.
“Oh, no. Please not another one.” Flo moaned. “I just can’t deal with another one of those things. That ram may be a big part of the business, but those stories are beginning to be an embarrassment. Nothing on earth could walk with that, that . . . kind of equipment”
“Whoever’s doing it has kind of settled down on that part. The ‘equipment’ isn’t any bigger this time. The story, though, now that is really funny.”
“Did he save the world for democracy again? Beat up a wolf? Tear the seat out of my jeans? What now?”
“Here, silly. Just read the darn thing.”
The broadsheet had the usual heading of a pretty ram and a not-so pretty ram. Flo didn’t even want to look at the not-so pretty ram. The story read:
THE RANSOM OF BRILLO
(Names have been changed to protect the guilty)
These yoomuns is gonna regret this, Brillo thought. They is really, really gonna regret this.
Brillo was trudging along between two young men who had placed a rope around his neck and forced him to desert his harem. He was not a happy camper.
Brillo suddenly stopped, planted his feet and jerked his head. As the ropes loosened he began to run only to be jerked to a halt. “And just where do you think you’re going, buster,” one of the men asked. “We know your tricks, and we’re ready for them. Just be a nice little sheep and everything will be okay.”
Nice little sheep!!! How dare they??? Brillo thought. I’m gonna show them ‘nice’. Come a little closer, yoomun, come a little closer.
As one of the over-confident young men got a bit too close, Brillo used his left horn to snag his trousers and jerk him off his feet. When the man was down, Brillo followed up with a “nice” little trample across his belly.
“Get up, you idiot,” the other man yelled. “I can’t hold him alone.”
No you can’t, can you? I’ll show you yoomuns, Brillo thought. He continued to jerk and rear and buck and generally make life miserable for his captors until he was exhausted. Damn rope, he thought. Just you wait.
The men continued on their way, pulling the ram, or sometimes being pulled by the ram, until they reached a camp. They tied Brillo to a convenient tree and sat down to eat and rest. They kept a wary eye on the ram, although it looked like he might settle down.
“So, Bill, you can stay here with the ram, and I’ll go drop off the ransom note. I’ll bet that Richards woman will pay a lot to have him back,” one man said.
“Bob, why don’t you stay with the ram, and I’ll go to town. He’s already given me rope burns and a bruised stomach. Are you su
re this is a good idea?” the other asked.
“Sure it is. I don’t know why so many people like this critter, but he’s real popular in town. She ought to be happy to pay to have him back. He’s tied up, real secure. Just make sure no one sees you. I’ll be back later, Bill.”
Bob got up and headed towards town, to deliver his note, and have a few beers at the Gardens. He wanted to listen for rumors about the ram-napping. Besides, he just wanted a beer.
Bill, meanwhile, was nervously watching Brillo. He really wasn’t sure about Bob’s latest get-rich-quick scheme. Besides, Miz Richards was a nice lady. It seemed wrong to pick on her. And, the ram was kind of, well, different. He seemed a lot smarter than the usual sheep.
Bill sat for a while, and eventually drifted off into sleep.
A rank odor woke him after what he thought was only a few moments. As he started awake, he hit his head against a rough surface. Eventually, by wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he saw the wrong end of Brillo in front of his face. As he began to try to stand, Brillo settled down on his chest. And stayed there. And stayed there. Bill was sort of a scrawny type, and didn’t have the strength to move the ram. Only one arm was free, the other was under the ram.
Bill began yelling and screaming, but the ram just stayed where he was. And stayed. And stayed. Bill’s voice began to hoarsen. He gave up the screaming and just laid still. Maybe the ram would move soon.
Brillo was enjoying his stay at the camp. No wimmen, he thought. But I can find wimmen. Maybe we can head north.
Bob walked back into camp, after a long walk, and a few too many beers. The sight he saw made him think he’d had a lot too many beers. Here was Bill, trapped under the sheep, bawling and choking, and generally carrying on like a girl.
“Honest to Pete, Bill,” he yelled. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute.”
Bob kept making the choking sounds as Bill walked closer. As Bill reached for the ram’s handy collar, the ram turned his head quickly and a horn caught him right in the b... privates.