by Ellen Raskin
“There she is! There’s Mrs. Carillon!” Tina cried, pointing to a plump arm waving a purple-flowered handkerchief.
“Free Mrs. Carillon! Free the orphans’ mother!”
“She’s gone!” gasped Tina. She searched for the familiar handkerchief among the waving arms, but it was no longer there.
“Maybe they put her in solitary,” suggested an alarmed Tony.
“Maybe she’s been eaten by a rat,” Tina shrieked. “Let me down, let me down! I want to confess!”
“Look!” All eyes followed Tony’s pointing finger. A plump woman in a purple-flowered dress emerged from the green copper gate of the prison. “It’s Mrs. Carillon!”
Fortunately, a policeman had halted all traffic, for Mrs. Carillon raced across the street to the traffic island without looking left or right. The twins were set down just as she arrived to clutch them in her arms.
In the midst of the laughing and shouting Tony suddenly remembered his friends. “Mrs. Carillon, this is Joel and this is Harry. They rescued you from the ‘pesthole.’”
Mrs. Carillon grasped their hands between hers. “How can I ever thank you?”
“It was the least we could do,” answered Harry. “You are a martyr, Mrs. Carillon.”
“A martyr?” she said in surprise. “I thought you had to be dead to be a martyr.”
“You are a living martyr, Mrs. Carillon,” Joel replied.
Traffic was moving again. Harry hailed a passing taxi and the weary threesome got in.
“One minute,” Mrs. Carillon said to the driver. She rolled down the window and called to Harry. “Maybe you can help my cellmate, Mineola Potts. She’s such a nice lady.”
“What’s she in for?”
“Jaywalking.”
No one noticed the pudgy man24 with rimless glasses and bandaged head who hurried out of the prison after Mrs. Carillon. No one heard him shout after the taxi, for the chant, “Free Mineola Potts,” was in full swell.
“Was she really arrested for jaywalking?” Tony asked.
“Indeed she was, poor woman,” Mrs. Carillon replied. “She was very hungry and had nothing to eat, so she borrowed two cans of lobster meat and a tin of caviar from the supermarket. She was jaywalking when the police stopped her.”
Tina sighed over the unhappy plight of poor, miserable Mineola Potts.
6* A Familiar Face in a Dented Head
You!
Mrs. Carillon wanted to go home and jump into a hot tub, but was outvoted by the tired but hungrier twins, who insisted on describing their day’s adventure in full detail over hamburgers and ice cream sodas.
When they finally arrived at their apartment, Mrs. Baker greeted them with the news that they had a visitor.
“He’s been sitting there in the living room for an hour. He doesn’t say anything, just sits.”
Tina and Tony exchanged anxious glances. The only visitor they ever had was Mr. Banks, and he didn’t count. Tina asked the question they were all thinking.
“Does he have a red moustache and a black tie?”
“Nope,” said Mrs. Baker.
The short, pudgy man with rimless glasses and bandaged head rose timidly from his chair when they entered the room. “Mrs. C-C-Carillon, I. . .”
“You!” shouted Mrs. Carillon, pointing a menacing finger at the man whose cuff button had caught in her fishnet bag. “You!”
Mrs. Carillon’s finger made the little man so nervous he could scarcely speak. His words tripped over one another, then refused to come out at all.
Tina felt sorry for him, whoever he might be. “Won’t you sit down?” she said graciously.
Tony stayed close to Mrs. Carillon’s side to protect her from this unwelcome stranger, who nodded and smiled shyly at Tina but remained standing.
Mrs. Carillon studied him carefully. He looked harmless enough. Besides, there was something about him that reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t remember who.
“Well, what’s done is done,” she said with a sigh and wearily dropped into an armchair. Only then did her nervous guest sit down.
He began to stammer and stutter again, but finally, painfully, he delivered his message. He had come to apologize for the inconvenience he had caused Mrs. Carillon in Bloomingdale’s. He hoped she didn’t think he had done it deliberately.
Mrs. Carillon was forgiving.
He had tried to undo his cuff button from her fishnet bag; in the confusion he had only made it worse.
Mrs. Carillon was understanding.
He would have come to her aid sooner, but he was rushed to the hospital to have sixteen stitches put in his forehead.
Mrs. Carillon was sympathetic.
He was pleased that he had not been too late to put up bail in time to. . .”
“Bail?” Mrs. Carillon exclaimed.
“I thought the protest marchers freed Mrs. Carillon,” Tina said.
“Oh, n-n-no. I was happy to see that you have so m-m-many friends; but there are legal f-f-formalities, you know.”
“Then I’m not a living martyr after all.”
“Living m-m-martyr?” He had never heard that expression before. “You will have to face t-t-trial, so. . .”
“Trial?” Tina gasped, once again riddled with guilt.
“Trial?” echoed Mrs. Carillon.
It was up to Tony to play host. “My name is Tony and this is my sister Tina. What’s yours?”
The nervous man gave a nervous smile, which no one returned. “D-d-don’t you recognize me, Mrs. C-C-Carillon?”
Once again she studied the familiar face.
“Augie Kunkel!”
“Mrs. C-C-Carillon!”
They leaped from their seats and met in the middle of the room. Mrs. Carillon grabbed Augie Kunkel’s hands.
“Augie Kunkel,” she repeated.
“Mrs. C-C-Carillon.”
The joyous reunion didn’t last long; they couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Mrs. Carillon dropped her old friend’s hands and sank back into her chair. Augie Kunkel was well aware of her weariness. He made an awkward exit, taking short little bows while backing out toward the door. Mrs. Carillon watched her childhood playmate about to leave and was overcome with gratitude.
“Good night, Augie,” she said. “And thank you for everything. Won’t you join us for dinner tomorrow evening?”
Augie Kunkel’s face lit up with a broad smile, “a nice smile,” thought Mrs. Carillon. “Six o’clock, then,” she said as Tina closed the door after him.
“What a kind man,” Mrs. Carillon said. “What a shy creature.”
“Shy creature,” Tina repeated, half-asleep. “Like a bedbug.”
“Tina!”
A Namer of Things
Mr. Kunkel arrived on the dot of six, a few minutes after Mrs. Carillon returned from feeding the sea lions.
“So good of you to come, Augie,” she said.
Augie tried to think of something clever to say, but all that came out was a stammered, “F-f-fish?”
“Roast duck,” Tony answered.
“Strange, I c-c-could have sworn I smelled f-f-fish.” Too flustered to look at anyone, Mr. Kunkel began to examine the objects in the living room.
“A violet-glazed figure of the K’ang Hsi,” he said clearly and with authority.
“A pair of molded flaschenhalter,” he continued.
Tina was surprised that he wasn’t stuttering anymore; Tony was amazed that one person could know so much; and Mrs. Carillon was delighted to learn that her objects had names.
“Blanc de Chine triple lichee box, a Regency carved giltwood fauteuil.”
“How do you know all that?” Tony asked.
“Oh, I read b-b-books and know how to look things up. I like to know the n-n-names of everything I see: t-t-trees, flowers, furniture, everything.”
“Does naming help you make up your mind about things?” Tony needed all the help he could get in this department.
“N-n-no, not
really. I just n-n-name things; I n-n-never go so far as to form an opinion.” Mr. Kunkel stared down at the Oriental rug. “Hamadan Serebend.” He looked up at Tony and smiled shyly.
Tony had decided one thing: he liked Augie Kunkel. “I don’t see why everyone is supposed to have an opinion about everything all the time, anyway.”
“Dinner is served,” Tina announced upon a signal from Mrs. Baker.
“Caneton à l’orange, petits pois, purée de pommes de terre.” Augie Kunkel named the duck, peas, and mashed potatoes, then turned to Mrs. Carillon. “T-t-tell me about Leon.”
“Noel,” Tina said.
Mrs. Carillon told about her long search for her missing husband as quickly as possible, for the story always made her sad.
“P-p-poor Little Dumpling.”
The sound of her old nickname made Mrs. Carillon even sadder; but the twins, who had never heard it before, burst into convulsive giggles. Their laughter was finally cut short by the disapproving stare of Mrs. Baker arriving with a platter of second portions.
“More duck, Tony?”
“I don’t care,” he answered as usual.
“Yes or no,” Mrs. Baker insisted.
“That is q-q-quite a difficult decision if T-T-Tony doesn’t know what the d-d-dessert is,” said Mr. Kunkel, coming to the rescue.
“Peaches with ice cream,” replied Mrs. Baker.
“No, thank you,” said Tony, beaming at his new friend, “no more duck.”
“Tell me about yourself, Augie,” Mrs. Carillon said. “Is naming things a good job?”
“I don’t make my living n-n-naming things,” Augie answered gently. “It’s what you m-m-might call a hobby.”
“What do you do?” Tony asked. Whatever it was, that was what Tony wanted to do, unless he had to be fat to do it.
“I invent crossword puzzles.”
“Crossword puzzles!” Tina exclaimed. “You’re just the person we need to solve the glub-blubs.”
I Never Wear Underwear
Mrs. Carillon sighed on hearing glub-blubs; she was sad again. And the sadder Mrs. Carillon became, the guiltier Tina felt.
“What would you like for Mother’s Day,” Tina asked to cheer her up.
“Mother’s Day?” Mrs. Carillon said, brightening. “Why, I’ve never ever received a Mother’s Day present before.”
“How about lace underwear?” Tina suggested. “Mavis Bensonhurst’s mother always wears lace underwear in case she’s hit by a truck and her dress flies up in the air.”
“That’s stupid,” Tony said. “If Mavis Bensonhurst’s mother were hit by a truck, she wouldn’t know the difference; she’d be dead.”
“Nevertheless,” Mrs. Carillon said, “some women do feel that way. I often think of that myself; that’s why I never wear any underwear at all.”
Tina’s mouth dropped open. Tony’s face turned a bright red. Augie Kunkel cleared his throat and lowered his eyes.
“You really don’t mean that, Mrs. Carillon,” Tina said. “You’re only joking, aren’t you, Mrs. Carillon?”
“Why should I joke about such a thing?” Mrs. Carillon replied, unaware of the confusion she had caused. “If I said I never wear underwear, that means I never wear underwear.”
Tina couldn’t believe her ears. Tony wanted to die of embarrassment. The twins expected Mr. Kunkel to leave the table in shocked outrage; but he just sat there, intently polishing his glasses with his greasy napkin.
“Why, I haven’t worn underwear in over twenty years,” Mrs. Carillon explained. “I wear a bathing suit, instead. That way, if I’m ever hit by a truck and my skirt flies over my head, Noel would recognize the purple flowers. And, if he wasn’t at the scene of the accident, he would read in the paper:
UNIDENTIFIED WOMAN IN PURPLE-FLOWERED SWIMSUIT HIT BY TRUCK.
“Do you always wear the same bathing suit?” Tony asked, not quite sure that it still wasn’t indecent.
“Oh no, dear, not the same one. I change every day. I own twenty-four of them, all exactly the same.”
The twins broke into giggles again. So did Augie Kunkel.
“What’s so funny?” Mrs. Carillon asked, which made them laugh even harder. She joined in with a few bewildered chuckles and waited until they were all laughed out.
“Let’s have dessert in the living room,” she said, rising from her chair.
Augie Kunkel leaped up to offer her his arm, but he couldn’t see a thing through his grease-smeared glasses. He tripped over his chair and fell, hitting his head on the corner of the table.
Mrs. Carillon screamed. Tony knelt down and held his hand. Tina called Dr. Stein who called an ambulance. Augie Kunkel was rushed to the hospital to have fourteen more stitches put in his head.
Good News and a Cheese
“What a miserable day,” Tina said on the way home from school.
Tony agreed. Rosemary Neuberger had laughed out loud at him in class, because he couldn’t decide whether the Spanish Inquisition was good or bad.
“I don’t think I feel so good,” Tina said, opening the front door. “I think I’ll go right to bed.” Jordan Pinckney had told her that Siamese twins had to be either both girls or both boys. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about, what with the confession she had to make before the upcoming trial.
“Mr. Kunkel!” Tony was delighted to see him sitting in the living room having tea with Mrs. Carillon.
“Mr. Kunkel, what are you wearing?” Tina asked.
“Oh, this?” He pointed to the football helmet on his head. “My d-d-doctor said I have to wear this for a few months. One more accident, he said, and my b-b-brains would end up scrambled eggs.”
“And it’s all my fault,” Mrs. Carillon said.
“N-n-not at all, my p-p-problems are minuscule compared to yours.”
Tony repeated “minuscule” under his breath. It was a good word; he liked it.
The telephone rang.
“Oh, ow, ouch!” cried Mrs. Carillon, grabbing her right arm.
“G-g-good grief, what happened?” Augie Kunkel ran to Mrs. Carillon’s aid as Tony ran to answer the telephone before the second ring.
“Hello. . . ? Yes. . . One minute, please.” Tony placed his hand over the receiver. “Mrs. Carillon, it’s for you. It’s the manager of Bloomingdale’s.”
Tina blanched.
Mrs. Carillon bounded up from her seat, stood absolutely still, and plopped back onto the couch again.
“I just can’t . . . it’s probably something awful.” Her voice was trembling. “Augie, would you?”
“Of c-c-course.” He gave her a reassuring smile and took the phone from Tony.
“Hello, hello... ? What did you say. . . ? I can’t hear you.”
Tony pointed to the football helmet.
“One moment, p-p-please.” Augie Kunkel removed the helmet with a sheepish grin. “N-n-now, then, would you repeat that. . . ? Yes. . . Yes. . . Yes. . . Yes. . . Yes. . . Yes. . . Yes, that is very k-k-kind of you. . . . Yes. . . Yes, I’ll give her the m-m-message. Thank you, good-by.”
“What is it? What did he say?” Tina asked impatiently as Mr. Kunkel carefully replaced the helmet on his head.
“Everything is q-q-quite all right,” he said finally. “In fact, everything is just fine. It seems, Mrs. C-C-Carillon, that when you fell on the little rat-faced man you did B-B-Bloomingdale’s a great favor. That man was Ambrose Ambergris, the notorious perfume thief the police have been trying to catch for years. B-B-Bloomingdale’s is extremely g-g-grateful. Not only have they d-d-dropped all charges against you, they are sending you a year’s free supply of C-C-Camembert cheese.”
“Does that mean there’s not going to be a trial?” Tina asked.
“That’s right; n-n-no trial.”
“Whew!”
Mrs. Carillon also breathed a sigh of relief. “I never did enjoy being a living martyr.”
“You may not be a living m-m-martyr, Mrs. Carillon, but you are a heroine. And I would like
to take everyone to an Armenian restaurant for dinner. We have some celebrating to d-d-do.”
Mrs. Carillon and the twins eagerly accepted the invitation. They certainly did have something to celebrate, for a change.
An Unwelcome Guest
“I’m going to celebrate the most,” Tina said; and then the doorbell rang.
Tony was almost trampled underfoot by a raging Mr. Banks waving a newspaper in the air and shouting, “Where is she?”
“Are you looking for me?” Mrs. Carillon asked.
“This is too much, too much,” he shouted after having distinguished the purple-flowered Mrs. Carillon from the purple-flowered furniture. “Your ridiculous capers are plastered all over the newspapers.
“Just look at this!” Mr. Banks slapped the back of his hand against the front page and read aloud:
SOUP HEIRESS INCITES RIOT IN BLOOMINGDALE’S HIPPIES DEMONSTRATE TO FREE MRS. CARILLON.
“How wonderful,” said Mrs. Carillon, standing on tip-toe to read over Mr. Banks’ shoulder.
“Maybe Leon will see the headlines and. . .”
“Leon, Leon, that’s all you ever think about!”
“Noel,” corrected Tina.
“You stay out of this, young lady.” Mr. Banks pointed an accusing finger at Tina. Mrs. Carillon reached for the newspaper to read about her adventure, but Mr. Banks whipped it away and turned his menacing finger toward her.
“Enough of this insane search. You’re not only making a silly fool out of yourself; you’re ruining the business to boot. You’ll be lucky if I can get the charge reduced to disturbing the peace.”
“One m-m-minute,” stammered Augie Kunkel. “I m-m-must ask you to lower your voice, or, or, or leave this house at once.”
“And who do you think you are, tight end for the Green Bay Packers?”
“Why, Mr. Banks,” said Mrs. Carillon, not the least ruffled by his violent show of temper, “don’t you remember Augie Kunkel?”