by Man Martin
“Mary, I’m trying to read,” I said with mock severity, although the last thing I wanted her to do was to stop. My mood began to improve, and I conjured many an evening just such as this once we were married.
“I was thinking about Medville’s Spring Festival.” Mary said, continuing to twirl the strands of hair. “Do you think I could go, please?”
“We’ll see.”
Later that night I went outside with a can of flit to inspect my garden. I suspected grubs had been at the radishes under cover of darkness and I wanted to catch them unawares. My jaw tightened when I recognized Sam’s orchestra playing softly in the background; then I heard Mary’s voice.
I looked up to see her in her bedroom window, singing to the nest of swallows I have already told you about. She did not see me.
“Shy wings, why won’t you open?
“Take the air;
“Find the life that you’re hoping
“Waits for you right up there.”
One of the swallows, as you know, was something of a late bloomer, and though his brothers and sisters had since flown the nest, he had remained behind. Evidently it was to this malingerer she addressed her song.
“Tell me why, little shy bird,
“Don’t you know,
“Life passes by little shy birds
“Who never stray from home?”
The orchestra’s pace picked up, and Mary sang more quickly,
“One day will break; the sun will rise
“And you will soar into the skies,
“Shy swallow!
“Above the fields and city too,
“And me still dreaming in my room
“That I could follow.”
Mary and the orchestra slowed again, and the effect was almost unbearably tender,
“I’m all alone, little shy bird.
“In my heart
“Beats my own little shy bird
“Waiting for life to start.”
I went inside, the flit unused in my hands. If grubs there were, they would munch that night on the Wiggly vegetables unmolested. I was pondering Mary’s song. The first stanzas were clear enough, but the last was a mystery to me. She seemed to be singing about something quite else than the bird in the nest. I couldn’t figure it out, but I had an overpowering sense that her words had something to do with me, that in some mysterious way she was reminding me there was a space in her heart for Bertram Wiggly.
A Fruitless Search
Next morning Mary showed me one of the doleful sights that makes up life in this vale of toil and tears. A baby swallow, the very one Mary had sung to the night before, had fallen from its nest. The little thing struggled and strained its purple neck, stretching its useless wings against the packed earth beneath the gutter. Mary, tender hearted, wanted to return it to its nest.
“The best thing is to leave him,” I informed her. I did not want to say this; it was my duty. “When baby birds are put back in the nest, their parents reject them. Sad, I know, but they can smell human on them.” I nodded my head gravely at this grim law of nature. “I’m sorry, but there is really nothing we can do.”
I put my arm around her shoulders and led her gently back into the house.
I do not want you to think there was any connection between my advice regarding Mary’s swallow and the one that had appointed itself my personal nemesis. For the second morning in a row, I had been accosted at sunrise by a winged beast. I resolved firmly to make sure that tonight the window would be shut. Later, of course, I learned the swallow and the open window were no anomalies, but were to be recurrent themes in my morning routine.
Had my conscience not been as pure as the wind-driven snow regarding the feathered kingdom – had I harbored any hidden resentment – my guilt would have prompted me to assure Mary – quite falsely – that the baby bird would be fine, and encouraged her to return it to its nest, as futile a gesture as that would have been.
Instead I let Mary console herself by making my customary breakfast of poached eggs, tomato juice, and coffee. Reading about preparations for the Spring Festival in The Bugle, I was able to shake off memories of my sunrise swallow encounters.
Having received my belated forehead kiss from Mary, I told her I again had business elsewhere that day and not to expect me back until late afternoon. On a sudden thought, I said, “You always call me ‘Wiggly,’ from now on, why don’t you just call me…” I’d had a notion to invite her to call me ‘dear’ or ‘honey’ or some other epithet more appropriate to conjugal life than ‘uncle,’ but upon the very brink of naming one of those affectionate terms I foresaw what Mary’s horrified and perplexed reaction would be. She could not fail to be appalled at such a suggestion; I had done nothing to lay the groundwork for her to cross from fond relative to sweetheart, so I finished with, “Why don’t you just call me Bert?” I have said how my baritone voice cracks in moments of high emotion into a gerbil-esque peep; it did so now at the name, “Bert,” and mortified, I had to repeat myself in a more manly note, “Bert.”
“Well, okay,” Mary said uncertainly. “If that’s what you’d like. Bert.”
Hearing her call me this seemed to increase rather than decrease the distance between us, and my heart sank briefly, but she kissed my forehead again as she had always been wont to do, and I motored into town in better spirits.
Before setting out to speak with Jim Hansom, I wanted assurance that Sam and his orchestra would not interfere. It would not do if at some critical juncture our discussion collapsed into song. It seemed reasonable that if the orchestra were in the city employ, for me – a citizen – to request a temporary injunction on all strumming, drumming, piping, and peeping.
Finding the orchestra was easier said than done. I have described their uncanny ability to conceal themselves whenever they chose, but I assumed that if one really looked, they would be easy enough to locate; this, however, was not the case. Downtown seemed the obvious place to search, and sure enough, when I parked my Model T, I detected a few bars reminiscent of “Ode to Joy.” Not the actual melody, of course – I had the notion everything Sam performed was written especially for the occasion – but something recalling Beethoven’s da-da-da-da, DA-da-da-da that makes you think almost cheerfully, “So this is morning. Well, let’s make the most of it.”
I took a deep breath of fresh air, and looked left and right, deciding where to begin. Between Goldstein’s Dry Goods and Sing Lo’s Laundry was an alley, which seemed an ideal place to conceal an orchestra, or at least part of one, so I set off in that direction. When I peeked – I admit I peeked, and thoroughly ridiculous I must have looked, feet planted on the sidewalk, leaning forward from the waist to crane my head around the corner, but I had an inkling that finding the orchestra required taking it by surprise. There was nothing but three metal trashcans, the lid of one slightly askew, and an emaciated alley cat standing vigil, although surely no rat ever visited those environs, so clean the trashcans were. Men’s white undershirts hung from a clothesline strung between the railings of fire escapes overhead, a site for some immigrant city girl to sing about moonlight or local gangs to hold their choreographed rumbles.
No band, however.
Pulling my head back from this scene was accompanied by a humorous rising note “ooooooP”: not a slide-whistle, I don’t think; the note was too low for a slide whistle – unless there’s such a thing as a baritone slide whistle, which I suppose there might be, but in any case, the sound made me believe I must have been mistaken, and that the orchestra really was hiding in the alleyway after all. I peeked around the corner again, an action greeted by another note, this time a falling one, a mirror of the first, “Oooooop.”
Again, no orchestra, but it was patently and infuriatingly obvious that not only was Sam nearby, but amusing himself at my expense. I turned and stamped my foot, an action met with a petulant blaat from a trumpet. Sing Lo was standing in front of his laundry; I assumed he’d come out to learn what these noises were.
“Where are they?” I asked.
Sing Lo smiled in incomprehension, lightly placing his fingertips together and bowing toward me as if I’d just uttered the wisdom of Confucius. A piano plinked consecutive fifths, dinka-dinka-dink-dink, dink-dink-dink, Tin Pan Alley’s melodic representation of the inscrutable East. This was the last straw – I was certain the orchestra was hidden in the downs; I stormed across the street –the angry plucking of a violin string mocking every footstep. I came up to Officer O’Malley, announced by a dum-dum-DUM from the orchestra.
“Where is the orchestra?”
O’Malley pushed back his policeman’s cap and scratched his head with his nightstick. “T’e orchestra? I’m not knowin’ anyt’ing about an orchestra, Mr. Wiggly.”
It was impossible he did not know what I was talking about. “The orchestra. The band.”
“Ah.” O’Malley’s face brightened. “T’e marching band. T’ey’ll be coming t’at way directly.” He pointed with his stick down the street.
“Not the marching band. Sam’s orchestra. You were singing along with them yesterday.”
O’Malley’s face became stern. “C’mere, me boyo. I’ve been trying here to let ye off wit’ a warning,” he said, “but ye don’t seem to be taking t’e hint. T’ere’s a city ordinance against making any reference to t’e – ” His eyebrows waggled meaningfully as he sought for words. “T’e t’ing we’re not supposed to be making any references about.” He poked my chest with his nightstick. “Now lay off about it, or I’ll run ye in.”
I shook my head in disbelief, and crossed the street into Morning Glory Downs to ponder.
Coming around a bend between two trees, I ran into Miss Terwilliger, who was dressed in an unlikely costume including field glasses, a pith helmet, and something that looked like jodhpurs. In her hand was a butterfly net. “Bertram Wiggly, how are you this fine day? You look as if you had much upon your mind.” Miss Terwiliger does not speak; she enunciates. Every “r” is rolled, and she projects her voice as if she were talking to a slightly hard-of-hearing acquaintance over in the next county.
“Yes,” I said, “I’m searching…”
“You are searching?” she said. “How delightful. I am searching. I am on the trail of the elusive gossamer-winged Eastern Tailed-Blue.” Judging by the size of the net she brandished, the Eastern Tailed-Blue was the approximate size of a teenaged condor.
“Yes,” I said. “Well. I’m searching for Sam and his orchestra. I need to discuss something with them.
“The orchestra?” Up went her eyebrows. In her softest bellow, she cooed, “Bertram, careful! You will spoil the reality.” The whole town was quite mad; evidently they had agreed to pretend ignorance of the existence of Sam and his noisemakers. “Perhaps,” she said, speaking somewhat more loudly, “you mean the marching band. They should be along at any moment. But,” she brightened, “while you wait, perhaps you’d like to join me. The Eastern-Tailed Blue is a remarkable creature. They mate for life, you know.”
“As does the black widow spider.”
“Oh, Mr. Wiggly,” Miss Terwilleger chortled, playfully slapping me with her net, “you are too, too droll.” She nudged me with the net and said in a conspiratorial holler, “You really should think about settling down, Mr. Wiggly. A fine bachelor like yourself can’t expect to stay out of the net forever, you know!” And with a final wave, she was off in pursuit of her insect.
Miss Terwilliger’s hints about matrimony set me to thinking. Was it possible she had divined my intentions toward Mary? If so, Miss Terwilleger was even more perceptive than I had given her credit, perceptive to the point of outright clairvoyance.
The Search Continues
I sat on a bench from which I could keep an eye on the outer section of the downs and most of the square. If Sam’s orchestra were determined to play hide and seek, I could wait them out; I’d keep still, giving them no ammunition for musical jests at my expense, and sooner or later they’d be bound to show themselves.
Sure enough, keeping motionless silenced the music, except for the faint “Ode to Joy”-ish strains I have mentioned. Then even these stopped as people came down the path, evidently in the midst of a prior discussion. It was Mary and another girl; I recognized the bobbed blond hair of Lottie, a young lady – if you can call her that – of whom I never approved. They were trailed by Buddy, a young man who always struck me as likable enough in spite of being Jim Hansom’s childhood friend and something of a thimble wit. Mary did not notice me, and I did not call myself to her attention. It was a pleasure to see her beauty while being unobserved myself.
“C’mon, Lottie,” Buddy said. He was several steps behind them endeavoring to catch up; evidently Lottie and Mary had recently left his company in a huff. Lottie was still in it. Buddy’s pudgy face was flushed, and perspiration dampened the roots of his curly blond hair. “Why won’t you go to the Spring Festival with me?”
Lottie turned on her heel, “I’ve told you, Buddy Boyle, we’re through!”
“Aw, Lottie,” Mary said soothingly, “why not? You used to like him.” In spite of interceding in some sort of lovers’ quarrel, Mary’s parted lips wore a smile, and her dimple graced her cheek.
“You used to like me,” Buddy seconded.
“I used to like lots of things,” Lottie said, haughtily crossing her arms and turning away with a lifted chin. “I used to like Pabulum. As we mature, there are some tastes we outgrow.”
Buddy said, “Golly, Lottie, why don’t you like me love you used to do?” and Sam’s orchestra, which had been mute, instantly un-muted. Buddy broke into plaintive song:
“Lottie, I throw my heart before you,
“Why don’t you love me the way you used to do?
“I left a dozen roses when I knew that you were home,
“I left a box of candy, I even left a poem.”
Lottie uncrossed her arms and responded,
“Why don’t you take a hint and just leave me alone?”
“I don’t love you like I used to do, no sir!
“I don’t love you like I used to do.”
I fidgeted uncomfortably on my bench. I wanted to get away so I wouldn’t have to witness Buddy’s humiliation at the hands of this woman, but they seemed determined to make a public spectacle. They were standing so close to me, I couldn’t get up and slip away without knocking them down. Mary, I saw, had somehow evaporated; so it was just me, Buddy, Lottie, and of course Sam’s invisible orchestra that was even now leading into the second verse.
“Lottie,” Buddy sang, “you know that I adore you,
“If you’d love me the way you used to do.
“I went up to the wishing well, and here is what my wish is,
“An old-fashioned kind of girl, who’d say she’d be my missus.”
Lottie turned and spat back,
“You just want a gal to cook, and then do all the dishes!
“I don’t love you like I used to do, no sir!
“I don’t love you like I used to do!”
It was too painful to watch. By what right, I asked myself, because I sensed this had been orchestrated in more ways than one, did Sam choose who would be the hero and who would be the goat, who would get the girl, and who would be the lovable loser? The music dictated all; I could not blame Lottie for ridiculing Buddy’s pitiful declarations; she could no more help the way her song was written than a Eastern-Tailed Blue can help being gossamer-winged.
“Lottie, I’d give the whole world for you,
“If you’d love me the way you used to do,” Buddy sang.
“I picked a little cottage on a little avenue,
“With a little picket fence and a little rosebush, too.”
By this time, he was on one knee, his arms outstretched. His voice was so sweet and sad, I thought surely even the most hard-hearted vixen was bound to relent. But no. She came back with one last stanza of wiseacre venom:
“And a little bank to toss you out when the paym
ent’s overdue!
“I don’t love you like I used to do, no sir!
“I don’t love you like I used to do.”
Then they turned away from each other, both spreading their arms now, and – and this is the really incomprehensible part, because you have to bear in mind, they had just been arguing, seemingly unable to agree on anything – now they sang in harmony and near unison, only switching out the appropriate pronouns and savoring every note right up to the last:
“You don’t love me like you yooost tooo do.”
“I don’t love you like I yooost tooo do.”
A Talk with
Buddy Boyle
Lottie departed, and Buddy sat opposite me on the bench in a posture of disatisfaction, elbows on his knees and resting his face in his hands like a melon between two broad leaves.
Formerly I had imagined I was the only person Sam and his orchestra had wronged, but now I began to perceive the greater human toll of this scheme. Bad enough that the blameless Buddy Boyle should have an argument with his former sweetheart made public and set to music, but Buddy himself had been conscripted as accomplice in his own humiliation. After the first chorus, he should have known that every verse was loaded, like a scorpion, with the stinger in the tail and the sarcastic put-down at the end of each stanza would always be Lottie’s, and the wisest course would be to stop singing and cut the encounter as brief as possible. But once the music started, Buddy couldn’t help himself, even as it became obvious each heartfelt plea only served as a fresh opportunity for Lottie to score off him.
“Buck up, old man,” I said. I knew what it was to be the butt of Sam’s machinations.
Buddy looked up, seeming to notice me for the first time, and gave me an expression like a Bassett Hound who’s just lost the trail of a particularly desirable bassett. “What can I do, Mr. Wiggly? I love her.”
“Tush!” I said.
“What?”
“Tush,” I repeated, and I meant every syllable. “Romantic love is just an invention.”