“The title of queen is not for sale. Because unlike the other titles, there can only be one,” said the duchess. “I wouldn’t go for queen anyway. One must be first in battle, last at the feed trough. I don’t see the point myself.”
“Well, maybe one can buy a lower title and work one’s way up!” said Mrs. Bunny, beginning to get frenzied. “You see, Mr. Bunny, you must take a title or you will have nothing to work from.”
“I am Mr. Bunny,” said Mr. Bunny firmly. “For so I am called. I have no desire to be queen.”
“Well, of course you would be king. You know how good you are at these things, Mr. Bunny. You are sure to become king before I work my way up to be queen. And if you’re king, then I’m automatically queen. That’s where we should have started to begin with. Figure out how to become king immediately, Mr. Bunny! Do it! Do it! Do it!” said Mrs. Bunny, hopping up and down hysterically.
“Let us go find Madeline and Katherine,” said Mr. Bunny patiently in the gentle tone he used when he was on the verge of having Mrs. Bunny committed. “Have you forgotten that we were supposed to be using our big bunny brains to solve the sweet shoppe dilemma, aka the college fund dilemma?”
“That’s what it is to be a rabbit, I suppose,” said the duchess. “Always a dilemma. Hedgehogs have no dilemmas. No problems, no dilemmas, many hedges. It’s in Latin on our family crest. Well, good luck to you. I’m back to the hunt. You can leave a check for the full amount of your titles on the coffee table. Forty-nine ninety-nine a title, plus two hundred eighty-seven. Finder’s fee to me.”
“Nice little racket you have going,” said Mr. Bunny, getting out his checkbook. “That’s another forty-nine ninety-nine, plus shipping and handling and finder’s fee, I’ll never see again.”
“Don’t forget to include the cost of my title,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny. “You don’t think I’m paying for my own. After all, it’s my cousin’s castle you’re staying at.”
Mr. Bunny lowered his eyebrows menacingly, but he wrote out the check for both.
Afterward he and Mrs. Treaclebunny hopped toward the kitchen to find the girls. Mrs. Bunny went back to the coffee table and filled out a form. That was just like Mr. Bunny, refusing to become king just when she needed him crowned most. Well, if that was his attitude, he didn’t deserve to find out what title he was going to have. I think he’d make a splendid pharaoh, she said to herself. Then she wondered for a second if he could be an admiral. Was that a title or a rank? She pictured a white uniform and one of those fetching naval hats and she might have drooled just a bit on the carpet. But she could not find admiral on the list, so, she said to herself, pharaoh it must be. And, after all, they wore those toga things, didn’t they? Mr. Bunny did have such nice legs. She got her checkbook out of her purse, made out another check and hopped swiftly off to join the rest.
When the bunnies joined the girls in the kitchen, Madeline said they had had a reasonable time with Cook.
“She tried to be kind,” said Katherine. She looked at Madeline and they giggled. Mr. Bunny, to his consternation, found himself joining them. He tried to cover it with a large and ugly belch. The women stared at him with concern.
“Men make such peculiar noises,” said Mrs. Treaclebunny.
“Yar, that we do!” said Mr. Bunny, dropping his voice to a baritone and for some reason taking on the locution of a pirate. Good, he thought, good. “Well, girls, did you eat?”
“Cook opened a can of Spam for us,” said Katherine. “She said she was keeping it for just such an occasion.”
“We managed to throw it out without her seeing,” said Madeline.
“We didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“That’s too bad about the Spam,” said Mr. Bunny. “Mrs. Bunny had a contretemps herself with some mashed asparagus—”
“What shall we do with our afternoon?” interrupted Mrs. Bunny hastily.
“There are so many problems to be solved,” said Mr. Bunny. “The sweet shoppe dilemma. The queen problem. Both will need concentrated solitude and hard thinking, the type of which you have never experienced, Mrs. Bunny. I must put on my great thinking cap and go to work alone on these things.”
“Very well, dear,” said Mrs. Bunny. “The girls and I will do some postcard and souvenir shopping in Bellyflop.”
“Yippee!” said Mr. Bunny, clapping his paws. “I mean, YAR.” He shook himself. Something must be done. He must find a way to spend more time with male bunnies. He hopped upstairs to take a nap, shaking his head vexedly.
Mrs. Bunny, Mrs. Treaclebunny and the girls headed off and had a lovely time in the chemist. They examined all the different British products, looked about for the perfect snow globe and bought three postcards each, even though Madeline had no one to send them to. Then Katherine said she’d like to go back to the sweet shoppe to write her postcards and affix the stamps. She was anxious that her family know she was happily ensconced in Bellyflop. Mrs. Treaclebunny wanted to go in search of some fur cream and Mrs. Bunny decided she’d explore the rest of the town alone.
Meanwhile, Mr. Bunny was looking for the best place to take an excellent nap. I will say this about castle owners, he said to himself. They do know how to provide proper napping conditions.
The castle had many great halls to choose from, all equipped with large fireplaces. All the fireplaces had large flat-screen TVs over them, indicating, Mr. Bunny thought with glee, that the Bungleyhogs were not quite so refined as they might think. Not that Mr. Bunny did not wholeheartedly approve of this arrangement. He had often asked for just such an arrangement himself. Mrs. Bunny could be quite the stick-in-the-mud when it came to massive entertainment units. The Bungleyhogs, on the other hand, had large reclining chairs by their fires with cup holders and remote controls in the armrests. Mr. Bunny had never heard of such a thing. When he found out the chairs also had heated shiatsu-massage units, he began to think those Bungleyhogs very smart hedgehogs indeed. He spent a good half hour just playing with all the settings. He had not the slightest intention of thinking about the sweet shoppe or the queen problem. No, he could happily settle down to watch soccer, as planned. It was not football, he said to himself, but it was something.
After a while he fell into a deep drooling sleep. But it was not restful. He dreamt that Mrs. Treaclebunny and Mrs. Bunny had taken up dress design and were using him as a dressmaker’s dummy. He was dreaming of standing in pink frills, being poked with pins, when he awoke. He noticed that during his sleep he had somehow leaned on the remote device in his armrest and the TV was now blaring a Shakespearean play. It was being acted by the famous Stratford all-male bunny Shakespeare players. How well went the fluffy tail with doublet, thought Mr. Bunny admiringly. But even more he admired their manner of speech. He remembered reading a great deal of Shakespeare in college. He had loved it dearly. He used to watch it on the bunny educational channel. Then along came Mrs. Bunny with her stupid haberdashery programs. What to Wear and Whatnot. Say No to Those Pooey Wedding Dresses. Not to mention the endless cooking shows she seemed to favor. He found life was always more peaceful when he handed Mrs. Bunny the clicker.
But what he had been missing! There was nothing like British bunny acting. He himself would not have read those lines quite like that, but still. Ah, what he could have done as an actor had he had the time. The time? Good heavens, Mr. Bunny, he said to himself, what do you have except time right now? And the place? Stratford was but one town over! Let someone else worry about the sweet shoppe and becoming queen—he needed a break from female companionship. He needed the company of some spitting, cursing, backslapping men. And what could be more fortuitous than finding this company of all-male bunny players? Not a giggling female in the lot. It was off to the stage with him! When Mrs. Bunny had attained all her royal goals she could just fetch him!
It was but the work of a moment to find some nail-polish remover in the bathroom and dissolve the Krazy Glue. The quills pulled right out after that. His fur was a bit mussed, but what ca
re he? He was going to be with men who didn’t care what their fur looked like. He was going to be in costume and onstage. He wrote Mrs. Bunny a quick note and left it on their bed:
Dear Mrs. Bunny (for so you are called),
I have been taken by a theatrical turn. As you know, it is like getting the flu, only with better enunciation. I will tell you about my adventures before the footlights when I return, whenever that is. I would tell you them as I went along if you would only CARRY A CELL PHONE. How many times must I point out …
And he managed to fill another piece of paper with cell-phone badgering alone. The cell-phone argument was of long standing. Mr. Bunny wanted one. Mrs. Bunny did not. Now she will be sorry, he thought. Then, grabbing a few odds and ends, he attached them to a stick hobo-style and hopped off into what he was sure would eventually be the dramatic sunset such a bold move deserved.
When actual sunset came his feet were quite sore and he wasn’t yet at Stratford. He thought of telling Mrs. Bunny the exciting tale of The Long Hop, as he had decided to title it, but realized she would be bound to say “I told you so” in that most irritating way she had.
And then, thinking of Mrs. Bunny and having a great many more miles to hop, he began to get annoyed at her suggestion that he couldn’t come up with a good chapter title. Too wordy? Too wordy? What was The Long Hop if not an excellent succinct title? Ha! He could come up with not only better titles but better chapters than she could. To prove his point, he began to write one in his head:
Mr. and Mrs. Bunny were going for their daily hop in the forest. As usual, Mr. Bunny was saying interesting things, many of which started with “Didja ever notice …” As usual, Mrs. Bunny struggled in vain to keep up, hopping-wise and interesting-things-wise.
“You know,” said Mr. Bunny, “this should be your next book, right here.”
“Huh,” replied Mrs. Bunny with a faraway look in her eyes (which were excellent because of the vast amount of carrots she daily consumed). She was half listening to Mr. Bunny’s interesting things, half thinking of a recipe for Maui carrots and half thinking of whether her fluffy tail and floppy ears needed a dye job. (Mathematically inclined readers will notice that three thinking halves equal more than one whole brain, but that never occurred to Mrs. Bunny.)
“What did you do this morning?” asked Mr. Bunny.
“I got up, fluffed my tail and sort of cleaned the hutch.” (Neatness-inclined readers will notice last night’s carrot sushi pans still on the stove, but that never occurred to Mrs. Bunny.)
“That’s a chapter right there!” shouted Mr. Bunny triumphantly.
“How’s that a chapter?” a bemused Mrs. Bunny asked, thinking about a hop later that day to Dinners, her favorite store, which offered many rabbit comestibles at discount prices. She was also thinking about whether her next author photo should focus less on her big floppy feet. And she was also practicing her acceptance speech, should her first book win the NBA (National Bunny Award). YB (young bunny)–inclined readers will notice that there was no such prize, but that never occurred to Mrs. Bunny.
“It must be hard for a marmot to order pie in a restaurant,” cleverly observed Mr. Bunny.
“Huh?” replied Mrs. Bunny. Her eyes had lost their faraway look and had become mean red slits. (She could still see excellently well. The carrot thing again.)
“Mr. Bunny?” she said, her voice rising, falling and rising again, before settling into a trill three octaves above middle C.
“Yes?” replied Mr. Bunny. “For so I am called.”
“Can it, marmotbreath!” said Mrs. Bunny, thus blowing any shot at the nonexistent NBA. But that never occurred to Mrs. Bunny.
Mr. Bunny would show her how inserting these bits by him improved the manuscript. And then he would go on to correct the mistakes she had made in her last book. For instance, she always wrote, “Yes? For so I am called,” said Mr. Bunny. When the proper way of writing it was “Yes?” said Mr. Bunny. “For so I am called.” It was all in the details, as he had tried to tell her. But she never did listen, he thought, shaking his head sadly—long bunny ears though she had.
Well, writing was a piece of cake. And thinking of cake, he wondered if Mrs. Bunny would ever bake him another carrot cake once she found out he had left to join the stage and also hijacked the franchise. It would be too bad to be cakeless. On the other hand, from there on in, he could afford to buy cake, because he felt sure that if he wrote the books, they’d finally see some merchandising. He quickly took out the new notebook he’d bought to keep track of their trip expenses and wrote the story down so he wouldn’t forget it. He would show it to Mrs. Bunny later as proof that he should write the books and she could go back to making wedding dresses out of used dental floss or whatever was her current short-lived enthusiasm.
Mr. Bunny was getting very thirsty hopping. He envisioned himself soon having a nice cold beer with the guys, having introduced himself by boldly hopping in and saying, “To be or not to be!” and having them all roar, “You must join us, you talented thespian bunny, you.” Perhaps they would not repeat “you” in that manner. It sounded a little female-bunny-like. The thing was, Mr. Bunny had been around female bunnies for so long he was beginning to lose the male patter. No matter. Soon, he and his new thespian bunny pals would be at a pub together drinking beer and belching without a single “excuse me.” The fact that Mr. Bunny didn’t really like beer never entered into it. He preferred a good Diet Coke with ice, unless it was from a fast-food establishment, where they tried to rob you of your fair share of Coke by filling the cup with ice. Then he ordered his Coke iceless just to spite them. Or he preferred a good creamy hot chocolate the way Mrs. Bunny made it, with the extra marshmallows. That, unlike beer, went so well with shortbread cookies. Mr. Bunny was a dunker. Still, it was best to practice manly belching. And so he went along the country roads, hop belch, hop belch, hop hop belch belch belch, hop.
And so on.
Meanwhile, Madeline and Katherine had returned to the sweet shoppe to write their postcards and see how sales were going. They were surprised to find the shoppe closed and much activity happening. Flo and Mildred were in the kitchen. The floor was covered with crates and crates of vegetables. There were garbage cans full of Jelly Tots and Gin Gins.
“What’s all this?” asked Madeline. “Why have you thrown out all the candy?”
“Flo had another idea,” said Mildred.
“You know how Khartoum is at the confluence of the Blue Nile and the White Nile?” said Flo.
Madeline and Katherine nodded. They didn’t, but with Flo this was expedient.
“It’s confluence, man, it’s all confluence. That’s what creates synchronicity. All the clues point to it. And what’s the confluence of your mother and myself?”
“Madeline?” asked Katherine.
“Heavy,” said Flo. “But what I meant was the confluence between the Dalai Lama of sugar and the Mother Teresa of vegetables. Vegetable candy!”
Madeline looked dubious. “What kind of vegetable candy?”
“Chocolate-covered carrots. Sugar-coated asparagus. Spinach drops. Candy that is good for you. Children will clamor for it. Parents will be happy. Weight watchers will have a sweet that is good for them. Everyone will come here because no one else is doing it.”
Madeline thought about it for a minute. “You know,” she finally said, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it might just work.”
“Girls, we need help,” said Mildred. “There’s a ton to be done. The charity fete is very soon.”
Madeline and Katherine rolled up their sleeves. They were back in business!
Mrs. Bunny hopped up and down Main Street lazily, peering closely in shoppe windows she’d only glanced at before. She knew she should check on Mr. Bunny and the girls, but truthfully it was the first time she’d been alone in days and she was savoring it.
Bellyflop didn’t have many shoppes, but their windows were all enticingly different. When Mrs. Bunny got to the bo
okstore she stopped. What she saw made her heart go pitterpatter. “Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness!” she muttered, panting, and sprint-hopped all the way back to the castle to tell Mr. Bunny.
When Mrs. Bunny got to the castle she was still sprint-hopping as fast as she could. She couldn’t wait to tell Mr. Bunny. But when she got to the bedroom where she should have found him napping, she instead found his note.
“Oh no, oh no,” she said. Mr. Bunny had run off to go on the stage. And he would go at just such a time, when she had such exciting news. Still, she knew better than to try to find Mr. Bunny. When he had taken a theatrical turn it was best to leave him alone until it passed.
Instead she hopped back to the sweet shoppe. There she found the girls sweating profusely among the boiling sugar and vegetables.
“Girls, girls, guess what!” she said.
“What is it, Mrs. Bunny?” asked Madeline.
“What in heavens are you making here?” asked Mrs. Bunny, stopping to sniff the air. She was sure she caught a whiff of carrots.
“Vegetable candy. It’s Flo’s idea to make the shoppe pay. We’re going to introduce it at the charity fete. We’re going to invite everyone to the grand opening of Vegetable Candies. The candy for the world citizen.”
“What does that mean, the world citizen?” asked Mrs. Bunny.
“Flo doesn’t know. It came to him in a dream,” said Madeline.
“Hmmm, the confluence of vitamins and sugary comestibles?” asked Mrs. Bunny.
“Exactly,” said Katherine.
“When is the charity fete?”
“Friday,” said Katherine.
“Good,” said Mrs. Bunny. “I could not help you on Saturday because I have a BOOK SIGNING!”
“Oh, Mrs. Bunny, how wonderful. Is there a bunny bookstore about?” asked Madeline, because she knew that human bookstores never seemed to ask Mrs. Bunny to sign books.
Lord and Lady Bunny—Almost Royalty! Page 12