Scoring Bertram Wiggly

by Man Martin

  “Well,” the mayor said, “it looks like they’ll do it,” consulting his notes, “in the downs.”

  “Are we going to let this happen?” Mary demanded. “Isn’t there anyone here who loves this town the way it is?”

  There was a sudden roar of trumpets, and my worst fears were realized. People began to sing. First Zeke Barnes hopped up, and pattered more rapidly than I would have thought possible in the southern accent he had adopted that day,

  “My name’s Zeke Barnes, I have a farm where I grow wheat and dairy cows

  “Or is it beets and sugar beans? Or honeybees? But anyhow

  “I’ve plowed and pushed and pulled and plucked, I’ve sweated, bled and panted here

  “I’ve lived in Medville all my life, I’m glad that I was planted here.”

  All at once, the meeting became a hotbed of mutual esteem and concord. The townsfolk erupted into a sympathetic chorus, exchanging looks and nodding as they sang,

  “He’s plowed and pushed and pulled and plucked, he’s sweated, bled and panted here

  “He’s lived in Medville all my life, he’s glad that he was planted here.”

  As hideous as that was, what followed was worse; Carmello arose and in an operatic voice,

  “Carmello is my name-a, I’m a barber and I cut-a hair

  “And if you stop inside my shop, I leave you looking debonair.

  “I shave you and shampoo you like they do in Roma, Italy.

  “I’m cut-a out to live-a here. Medvilla is the home for me.”

  The populace came back with,

  “He shaves you and shampoos you like they do in Roma, Italy.

  “He’s cut-a out to live-a here. Medvilla is the home for he.”

  Inexcusable for native-born Americans to say “cut-a out” and what do you do with “home for he?” But enough. I will spare you the rest of it, though the town did not spare me.

  Needless to say, the proposal which would have brought the Super-Duper Mart to Medville and made my fortune was defeated.

  289 to 1.

  Rain

  On the way home, the clouds decided they were fed up holding up all that water over our heads, and dropped it. I had to drive craned forward, straining to see through the roiling muck as my exasperated wiper blade struggled hopelessly against angry rivers sluicing over the glass. Mary sat silent and outraged on her side, staring out her window. Nor was I in a mood to supply an encouraging word.

  The diligent reader, examining the foregoing election results and comparing them with the tally given in the prologue (Page 8, last line) may be at a loss to reconcile the numbers. The reason for the additional vote is that Mary was present at this meeting but not at the first.

  “But surely,” you protest, “the outcome should not have been that lopsided. After all, wasn’t Jim Hansom honor-bound by your agreement to vote for the Super-Duper Mart?”

  He was. He did. The reason there was only one vote in favor was that I myself defected.

  You have to understand my position: the mob was in an ugly mood – there had been one song already. It seemed everyone got a chorus which was echoed by the rest, even Sing Lo, who invariably mixes up his “r’s” and “l’s.”

  “My name Sing Roe, I rive hele, I lun rocal raun-da-lee.

  “And if you have no tickee, then you get no crows flum me.”

  But I said I would spare you, and I will. Had I voted aye, the town would have turned on me like spoiled milk, no doubt singing all the while, “We like you so much better, when you’re wearing tar and feathers.” The line doesn’t quite scan, I know, but I don’t claim to be a songwriter. Even Jim, who is held in considerably higher regard than yours truly, had to bear up under a storm of disdain after his speech. Mary raged at him – calling him every ugly term she could think of, her fury emphasized by silences during which she struggled to think of words harsh enough to describe his infamy.

  So Mary and I came home in foul moods to match the weather. In spite of the fact he had voted for the proposal and I against, I felt distinctly that Jim Hansom had betrayed me. He had promised to lend his oratory to my cause and reneged with the worst milk-and-water excuse for a speech imaginable. “Convenience,” forsooth! What he’d really been after the entire time was an outing with my niece.

  As soon as we got home, on an impulse I went in Mary’s room and found the dreadful confirmation of my fears. There in a place of honor in front of her bureau mirror was the stuffed rabbit leering at me, one ear flopped over its forehead in an ironic salute. And what of the crystal heart? My own boiling heart told me she must still have it. And she did. It had fallen behind the bureau, pushed there no doubt when she planted Jim’s rabbit in its place. I knelt and brushed dust bunnies from its underside. A crack as long as your middle finger.

  So. That was it. It wouldn’t make rainbows anymore; that was certain.

  The Wiggly men do not cry. I stood and carefully straightened my trouser crease, then took the thing into the kitchen to dispose of it. A step on the lever of our aluminum wastebasket and up popped the lid, an open mouth to swallow a thing no longer of value. I let go. Thunder pealed, if I recollect rightly. I removed my foot and the wastebasket lid closed over it forever.

  “I thought I knew him,” Mary said. Sitting at the kitchen table, Mary had been spared the little scene of the heart’s disposal, her attention held by the fists of rain beating on the window and the ragged jags of lightning now and anon ripping down the sky. “How could he be so – awful? Wanting to bring in that awful Super-Duper Mart?”

  “If you’re talking about Jim Hansom,” I said, and of course I knew she was, “I forbid you to see him again.” I had to struggle to restrain an unexpected tremor in my voice as I said this.

  “Well, that’s good,” she announced with a tremor of her own. “I want to be forbidden to see him! I never want to see him again! As long as I live!” These last words precipitated a flood of tears, and she stormed from the room, her fist to her mouth.

  I stood there nonplused, between the closed waste basket and the deserted table. Rain smashed against the roof, and wind whipped over the chimney, and then there was another sound above them.

  “No!” I shouted. “Not now! For God’s sake, why can’t you leave us alone?”

  How it was possible for Sam and his entire orchestra to make it from the Town Hall where they’d just performed innumerable choruses of that unspeakable song, all the way to my home, and in the rain, without my noticing is beyond me. Had they squeezed themselves into the glove box? Hung along the inner rim of the spare tire? At first there was just one weepy clarinet, but it was seconded by carefully restrained strings. Surely, humidity is bad for violins, I thought, but this one seemed a special model unaffected by the inundation; it could be played at depths of up to eight hundred feet and still be all a violin should be, if not more.

  I could hear Mary from her room, obedient to her cue, pouring out,

  “Life is terrible, becoming unbearable.

  “When did my hopes all die?

  “I had found true love,

  “Whoever knew love,

  “Would leave me here to cry?”

  I began searching the house for Sam and his bloody musicians. They weren’t hiding in the pantry or the broom closet. Where was that infernal noise coming from? I pulled up cushions from the divan and threw them to the floor, I looked behind the drapes. They were nowhere! Meanwhile, Mary began the second verse,

  “He came, and all the world grew bright.

  “I gave my heart away.

  “Now he’s gone, and in the night,

  “I sit here and say-ay—”

  To drown her out, I clamped my hands over my ears and began jabbering, saying anything that came into my head. A renegade horn, a cornet, I think, honking tinnily, and slightly off-key, assisted me, and insensibly I found myself falling into verse. I was aware, even as I gabbled on, of every word Mary was singing, including the inexcusable rhyme of “horrible” and “intorr
ible.”

  “Life is horrible, becoming Intorrible.

  “I just sit and cry,

  “Loving and missing you,

  “Dreaming I’m kissing you,

  “Why did we say good-bye?”

  My own stream of words, in spite of all my attempts to resist, blended with hers to form sort of a catty-wumpus round, as if one of us were singing, “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” and the other “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”:

  “Life isn’t easy, so get over it.

  “Life isn’t easy. Grow up a bit.

  “Life isn’t easy, get it in your head,

  “Life isn’t easy, who ever said,

  “Life would be easy? Who ever sold you,

  “Life would be easy? I could’ve told you,

  “Life isn’t easy. If you ever thought,

  “Life would be easy, well, you see it’s not.

  “Life isn’t easy, so get over it,

  “Get over it, Get over it, get over it, get over it.

  “Get over, get over, get over, get over, get.”

  I’m Darned if I’ll Come Up with a Title for This Chapter

  The morning after the rain I fully expected the bird in my room and thought I’d be ready for him. At the first sound of twittering, I was out of my bed like a shot, brandishing my pillow like a scimitar and shouting imprecations. The bird foiled me, however, by flying not out, but in. He perched on my dresser like Poe’s Raven fresh from some Plutonian shore. A swing from my pillow sent my collection of porcelain telegraph-resister caps – which I had owned since childhood – crashing to the floor where two-thirds of them shattered and the rest cracked or chipped. My visitor flew to the bedpost unharmed, cheeping in unholy glee. Another swing failed to get the bird but managed to knock the post off its mooring, and the entire bed frame, which I don’t think I have mentioned is solid mahogany and extremely heavy, collapsed and landed on my foot. Nothing mattered now, and I swung blindly at everything, bringing down pictures, lamps, and nightstands until the bird – seeing no further damage could be done – retreated, at which I slammed the window and knocked out a pane.

  I was not in a merry mood, nor did breakfast improve it any. Mary had returned to making me poached eggs, but these had been boiled so thoroughly that they might well have been white leather outers with yellow rubber centers. And the tomato juice tasted as if it had been squeezed from unusually angry tomatoes.

  Mary had not yet finished the dishes when there was a knock at the door. “That’ll be Pennyfeather,” I predicted. But it was not. The young woman Lottie stood there in a yellow dress and a hat drooping a single, long peacock feather.

  “I’ve come to see Mary,” Lottie said. “I’ve got to talk some sense in to her about Jim.”

  “I don’t think Mary wants to speak to you,” I said stiffly.

  “I don’t want to speak to her,” Mary’s shout concurred from the kitchen. Then I heard feet stomp down the hallway and the angry slam of her bedroom door.

  “I’m coming in anyway,” Lottie said, pushing past me. “I’ll wait in the parlor until she’s ready to talk.”

  I followed in her wake. “You really need to come back another time,” I said peevishly. “Just now I’m expecting a very important —” Another knock sounded on the door. “You see? That’s him now.” She took a seat and would not budge, however; so throwing up my hands in exasperation, I went to the door to let in Pennyfeather.

  It was not he.

  “I’m looking for Jim,” Buddy Boyle told me, a straw boater in his hands.

  “You’ve come to the wrong place,” I informed him. “I suggest you keep an eye out for any recently removed shirts. Find one, and Jim should be nearby.”

  “I’ve got to talk some sense into him about Mary,” he said; ignoring my efforts to block his progress, he came inside. “I have a feeling he’ll show up here sooner or later. I’ll just wait in the parlor until – Oh, hullo, Lottie.”

  “Hullo, Buddy,” Lollie said frostily. “You can’t stick around. Mr. Wiggly is expecting a very important visitor.” She showed no indication of leaving herself.

  “I’m not leaving until you do,” Buddy said decisively, planting himself in a chair across from hers. “Is that a new hat?”

  “Yeah, you like it?”

  “Not much.”

  Lottie and Buddy sat staring into opposite corners. There was another knock. “That’ll be Pennyfeather,” I announced, although by this time I no more expected it would be Pennyfeather than you do.

  “Bertram,” came a familiar bellow. On the other side of the threshold stood Miss Terwilliger. Whereas Lottie had come wearing a single feather, Terwilliger’s hat seemed equipped with the entire rest of the bird. “I’ve come to talk to your niece. We must bring those two young people to their senses.” Miss Terwilliger shoved past me with that unstoppable determination that has made her the bane of every gossamer-winged Blue Eastern in the Medville vicinity.

  “Why just don’t you make yourself comfortable in the parlor,” I offered sarcastically.

  “Thank you, I believe I shall,” she said.

  “Oh, Miss Terwilliger, what shall we do?” Lottie wailed when she saw the librarian.

  “Yes, Miss Terwilliger, what shall we do?” Buddy said. Apparently the only thing on which these two agreed was the urgency of reuniting Jim Hansom and my niece.

  “There, there, children,” Miss Terwilliger murmured, placing her arms around them, “tush.”

  “This would be a good time for a knock at the door,” I observed coolly. There was a knock at the door. “What do you bet that still won’t be Pennyfeather?” I offered. No one took the bet, and I went to the door.

  Jim.

  “Is Mary here?” he asked. At least he had donned a shirt for the occasion. It was freshly starched. His face was earnest and unhappy. A bird cage covered with a blue cloth was in one hand.

  “You may not tell her about our arrangement,” I warned him sotto voce. I had seen how she reacted to Jim when she thought he was behind the Super-Duper Mart, and I had no desire to fall further in her eyes.

  “I won’t tell her,” Jim said, “but doncha see, I’ve got to talk some sense into her, and –”

  “I don’t want to talk to him!” came Mary’s angry shout from a window. Evidently she had intuited Jim was at the door.

  “Aw, Mr. Wiggly,” Jim said, “doncha see –”

  “Keep your doncha sees on the other side of that threshold,” I warned him. My voice cracked inopportunely at the word “threshold.” “We don’t want them in here.”

  “Jim!” Miss Terwilliger hallooed, “Jim Hansom! We’ve just arrived to talk some sense into you two! Come into the parlor!”

  “No!” I shouted. “No! Under no circumstances may you come into the parlor. Do not…” And I would have detained him by brute force if need arose, but at that moment Pennyfeather came through the front gate.

  Finale

  Jim used my distraction at seeing my lawyer to slip past me into the parlor.

  “Hello, Wiggly,” Pennyfeather said somberly, raising his gold-headed cane in greeting. “I have some very important matters to discuss.”

  “We can’t,” I said.

  “Whyever not?” His walrus moustache quivered in perplexity.

  “Not here. Not now,” I explained. “Just about half the town is camped out in my parlor. The women are wearing feathered hats. Buddy Boyle has a straw hat. Jim has on his shirt. Don’t you see – they’re in costume. It has all the earmarks of a number.”

  “Good Lord,” Pennyfeather retreated half a step as if he’d just discovered the porch swing teeming with cobras and other reptiles of a similar nature. “You mean the musicians? Are they here? Now?”

  “Definitely.”

  “But –” He cast a nervous glance at the roses growing along the fence. “I don’t see them anywhere.”

  I gave a grim nod. “You never can. No one can.”

  He gave me a dubious look. “But
I have something important to tell you.”

  “Tell me out here.”

  “It’s about the will,” he said, coming as close to the house as he dared.

  “The will?”

  “It contains a codicil.”

  “A codicil?”

  “This sort of will always contains a codicil,” Pennyfeather said. Turning his mind to legal matters seemed to put him more at ease, and he set his cane on the walk and rested his weight against it. “In this case it says that should Mary – Am I right in believing that Mary’s twenty-second birthday is tomorrow?”

  “Quite right. I’ve already given her a present,” I said. I had a vision of the broken heart lying amid eggshells and coffee grounds.

  “Well, the will says should Mary turn twenty-two – and you’re sure her birthday’s tomorrow? – should she turn twenty-two without getting married, the entire estate will be forfeit.” He made a little sound like “pfft!” and snapped his gloved fingers.

  “Forfeit?” I was incredulous. “What do you mean forfeit?”

  “I mean,” Pennyfeather said, “the entire estate, instead of being held in trust for her until the time of your death, will revert to the Bide-a-Wee Home for Neglected Rabbits.”

  I do not know exactly what my reply was to this; I believe it was, “Guh.”

  “It’s a charity for rabbits and bunnies of all sorts,” Pennyfeather clarified, “which, through no fault of their own have been orphaned or –”

  “I don’t care about that!” My voice cracked. “I don’t want to know about the bloody rabbits! What I want to know,” I said, speaking now in softer and more level tones and touching Pennyfeather’s chest with my index finger, “is about this codicil. Who writes codicils like that? A home for stray rabbits? Are there no restraints on codicil-writing? No governing board that says what may and may not be put into a codicil?”