“That’s that Doctor Yancey,” Mary Pierce said. “I always said he was sick, sick, sick!”
“Until you read his book,*” Hawkeye said, “you liked him.”
(* Dr. Pierce was here referring to either Sexual Intercourse As Exercise (848 pp., illustrated with photos, charts, and graphs, index, glossary, $10.95) or Strength and Joy Through Constant Coitus (904 pp., illustrated, $9.95) both by T. Mullins Yancey, M.D., Ph.D., D.D. and D.V.M., the Joyful Practice Publishing Company, Manhattan, Kansas.)
Mary suddenly stood up, blushing furiously. “We’ve got to get you packed and to the airport!”
Meanwhile, at the airport, Bobby-Sue/Brunhilde Roberts was again wondering if Dear Daddy’s sacramental grape juice had undergone a change, miraculous or otherwise, into something more potent. For there, was nothing at Spruce Harbor International Airport in the way of aircraft except one battered crop duster, which hardly looked flightworthy, much less capable of carrying anyone across the wide Atlantic.
But then, far out at sea, she heard the unmistakable whine of massive jet aircraft engines. She scanned the area carefully and finally she saw it, an almost invisible dot, far, far away. But as she watched, it grew in size, and grew and grew and grew. It was the largest airplane she had ever seen and the only jet transport she had ever seen with the likeness of a shark’s jaws painted over the nose.
There was no way, she thought, that an aircraft that large could possibly land on Spruce Harbor International Airport’s main (and only) runway, a dirt strip no more than fifty yards wide.
But she erred. The speed of the stretched Jumbo 747 (a 50-foot extension had been inserted into the fuselage so that a medium-sized oil well-drilling tower could be loaded aboard without bothering to take it apart) decreased. Enormous speed brakes were extended into the slipstream. The landing carriage, all sixteen wheels, each as tall as a man, dropped into position. The final approach was made at about sixty feet above the surface of the Atlantic. As the aircraft flashed across the rock-bound coast of Maine, the flight engineer shoved the four throttles as far forward as they would go, and the mighty engines revved to full power. Simultaneously, the co-pilot pulled on the thrust-reversers, which caused all the power which had been pulling the airplane through the air to work the other way. The pilot, at the same instant, aimed for the ground. With a piercing scream of tortured rubber, Chevaux Petroleum One-One-Seven returned to earth.
“Spruce Harbor, Chevaux One-One-Seven on the deck at one-five past the hour,” the pilot said. “How they hanging, Wrong-Way?”
“Chevaux One-One-Seven, this is Spruce Harbor International Ground Control,” the tower replied. “Taxi to the end of the active runway and await further orders. They’re hanging all right, Charley, how’s by you?”
“Chevaux One-One-Seven at the end of the active ... Jesus, Wrong-Way, what is that?”
“What’s what, Charley?”
“Look out your window, stupid! Raquel Welch, eat your heart out!”
“I am looking out the window, I don’t see anything ... oh, mama mia!”
The aircraft commander of Chevaux Petroleum One-One-Seven and the general manager, air and ground controller, and proprietor of the Airport Inn, Spruce Harbor International Airport, had both seen Bobby-Sue/Brunhilde Roberts leaning on her little Volkswagen.
Wrong-Way grabbed his microphone. “Attention all aircraft in the vicinity of Spruce Harbor International. Attention all aircraft in the vicinity! Spruce Harbor is closed to all traffic effective immediately until further notice!” He threw the mircrophone in the general direction of the radio and quickly slid down the rope ladder which gave access to the control tower. He set out at a dead run toward Miss Roberts.
Meanwhile, in the cockpit of Chevaux One-One-Seven, there was a minor personnel accident. The pilot and the co-pilot each left their seats at precisely the same moment in order to exit the aircraft. In their movement, they bumped heads, which sent both of them, both severely dazed, back into their seats, which gave the flight engineer opportunity to push the “Emergency Exit” button. The button activated a little door on the bottom of the fuselage, which opened and then caused a nylon rope ladder to unroll to the ground. The flight engineer slid down the ladder and hit the ground, running in the direction of Miss Roberts, arriving there a second or two before Wrong-Way.
“Hi, there!” Wrong-Way said. “Welcome to Spruce Harbor International Airport! Is there any way, any little way at all, little lady, that Wrong-Way Napolitano may be of service?”
“You can stop breathing in my ear,” Bobby-Sue/ Brunhilde replied. “I’m supposed to meet my father here. We’re going to Paris, France!”
“By a strange coincidence, Miss,” the flight engineer said, “I happen to be Captain ... a reference to my former association as a Pan-American pilot ... Flash Horowitz, flight engineer of the aircraft you see looming above us, which is here for the express purpose of carrying some passengers to Paris, France. Now, if you’ll just accompany me aboard, we can have a little drinkie-winkie in the aircrew lounge while we wait for the others to show up.”
Normally, of course, having had vast experience with invitations of this nature, Bobby-Sue/Brunhilde Roberts would have replied by kicking Captain Flash Horowitz in the shins. But as she averted her face from his, she saw, racing down the road, two familiar vehicles. The When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder Bible Seminary and Junior College Security Force had obviously gone down to humiliating defeat. Their patrol cars were now in the hands of the men’s Bible class, and the men’s Bible class was in hot pursuit, again, of her.
“O.K., Flash,” she said. “I accept. But I must in all honesty warn you that while I have been studying Grand Opera, I have also been studying karate, Kung fu, and jujitsu. Do I make my point?” She ran to the ladder, made a little bow, and said, “After you, Flash!”
Five minutes after this, Dr. and Mrs. Pierce, Dr. and Mrs. McIntyre, and Rev. and Mrs. Roberts arrived at Spruce Harbor International in Born-Again Bob’s Mobile Evangelical Vehicle, a specially adapted motor home.
Upon seeing the men’s Bible class equally divided between those who were attempting to gain entrance to the airplane and those who had, so to speak, given up the chase and were sprawled on the ground under the airplane, Born-Again Bob went into action. He handed his family heirloom-sized Bible to Mary Pierce and charged into the men’s Bible class, shouting his familiar battle cry, “Put that bottle down!”
Weeping Wilma, of course, began to weep. As Mary Pierce and Lucinda McIntyre attempted to console her, Hawkeye and Trapper John ascertained from Wrong-Way that the missing member of the party, Bobby-Sue/ Brunhilde Roberts, was already aboard the aircraft. After kissing their respective mates good-bye, Hawkeye and Trapper John made their way on board the aircraft. Just as soon as they passed inside the door, the flight attendant, having received orders to pick up Drs. Pierce and McIntyre, passed the word to the cockpit that they were aboard. The mighty engines were started, and Chevaux One-One-Seven turned around, preparatory to takeoff.
Born-Again Bob, seeing what was happening, raced for the nylon rope ladder and started up it. Weeping Wilma, her eyes clouded with tears, did not see what was happening, did not race for the nylon rope ladder, and was, consequently, left behind as Chevaux One-One-Seven, throttles to the fire wall, bounced and lurched down the runway and into the air. This caused Weeping Wilma to reach new heights of tears, sobs, and howls, and it was all that Mary Pierce and Lucinda McIntyre could do to keep her from leaping off the rock-bound coast and into the Atlantic.
Chapter Twelve
“It’s all right, Wilma,” Mary Pierce said, peering out to sea, where Chevaux One-One-Seven had recently disappeared from sight. “They’ve discovered that you’re not aboard and are coming back for you!”
Weeping Wilma stopped in the middle of a howl, saw that an aircraft was indeed making an approach to Spruce Harbor, and this time started to weep again, this time in joy and relief.
But the aircraft which landed was not the stret
ched Jumbo 747 with Chevaux Petroleum Corporation International’s famous logotype painted on the tail. The aircraft which landed was much smaller, and had both a twelve-foot oil portrait of an unshelled peanut on its tail and the words THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA painted along the fuselage.
It taxied up to where those members of the When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder Bible Seminary and Junior College Bible study class still on their feet were loading those Bible students who were not into the security force patrol cars.
The door opened, aluminum steps unfolded, and a small gentleman wearing a plaid tam-o’-shanter appeared on them.
“This quaint and picturesque hamlet, I presume, is Spruce Harbor?” he inquired. He started down the stairs. Another character appeared at the door.
“Layfayette, je suis ici!”* the lady declared. (*Lafayette, I am here!”)
“My God,” Mary Pierce said. “That’s Shur-lee Strydent!”
“Get back on the plane, Miss Strydent,” the chap in the tam-o’-shanter said. “This isn’t Paris!”
“It isn’t?” Ms. Strydent replied, looking around. “Are you sure? Or is this another of your lousy Republican dirty tricks?”
“Trust me,” the chap in the tam-o’-shanter said, and then went the rest of the way down the stairs. “Perhaps, madam,” he said to Mary Pierce, “the gods of fortune will finally take pity upon me and make it possible that you are acquainted with one B. F. Pierce, alias ‘Hawkeye’ and/ or one J. F. X. McIntyre, alias ‘Trapper John’?”
“Who wants to know?” Mary snarled suspiciously.
“Senator George H. Kamikaze, at your service,” the senator said.
“You’re kidding!”
“I jest not, madam, and it behooves me to warn you that my patience, Oriental though it may be, is worn rather thin by the Democrats’ saying that!”
“Who are you calling a Democrat?” Lucinda snapped.
“What I mean to say, Senator,” Mary Pierce said, “and incidentally, I wanted to move to California just so I could vote for you, so watch who you’re calling a Democrat.”
“I don’t quite follow, madam,” the senator replied.
“Did you call my husband and tell him you were coming?”
“Only if you happen to be the legal spouse of the aforesaid B. F. Pierce.”
“Am I ever!” Mary replied. “I hate to tell you this, Senator, but my husband thought you were that awful Sexy Doc Yancey!”
“Are you, perchance, referring to the Sainted Sexual Sage of Manhattan, Kansas?”
“I am,” Mary said, “but I must tell you, Senator, that I don’t share your opinion of him.”
“Pity,” the senator said. “Whatever gave the good doctor the idea that I was Theosophilis Mullins Yancey, M.D.?” the senator inquired.
“Well, what did you expect him to think, calling up and saying you wanted him to go to Paris and Moscow with Shur-lee Strydent? What else could it be but a sick practical joke on the part of a sick mind?”
“I feel compelled to advise you, madam, that the originator of this mad idea is You-know-who with all the teeth,” the senator said.
“You’re kidding!”
“I jest not, Mrs. Pierce. And you have made the mistake twice. But I digress. You say Doctor Pierce is en route to Paris?”
“He left not ten minutes ago,” Mary replied. “With Dr. McIntyre.”
Senator Kamikaze looked up at the cockpit. In a surprisingly firm voice, he called, “Wind it up, Colonel, and head for Paris.”
He then bowed to Mesdames Pierce and McIntyre, put his tam-o’-shanter back on his head, and ran back up the stairs. Within minutes, Air Force One had lurched down the runway and sort of limped off into the sky. Over the roar of its mighty engines there came the faint, but piercing voice of Shur-lee Strydent singing “Over the Rainbow.”
“There’s something fishy about this whole thing,” Mary Pierce said to Lucinda.
“You can say that again!” Lucinda agreed.
“There’s something fishy about this whole thing,” Mary said again. “Why do you suppose they were so willing to take Born-Again Bob and his daughter to Paris?”
“I don’t know,” Lucinda said. “My Trapper John is above that sort of thing,” she added. “But, no offense, dear, how does Hawkeye feel about young and attractive female opera singers?”
“My Benjamin wouldn’t dream of something like that,” Mary Pierce said. “I trust him absolutely, beyond question, and without doubt.” She paused long enough to take in a fresh breath. “Wilma, stop that infernal weeping and show us a picture of your daughter!”
Wilma stopped weeping long enough to announce that she believed that there was a picture of her little Bobby-Sue in the Bible Born-Again Bob had given Mary to hold. Mary flipped through the pages until she came to the 8-by- 10 color photograph of Bobby-Sue which had, indeed, inspired Hawkeye and Trapper John.
“Is this your Bobby-Sue, Wilma?” Mary asked.
Wilma paused long enough to agree that it was. Mary Pierce then grabbed Lucinda McIntyre’s arm and led her out of earshot.
“My worst suspicions are realized!” she said.
“What are you talking about?” Lucinda replied. “Not even your Benjamin could possibly be interested in that female. She’s nearly as ugly as Shur-lee Strydent!”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Mary said. “Whatever those two plan to do in Paris has nothing to do with this tragically ugly young woman or Brother Born-Again Bob!”
“How do you know?”
"Think, Lucinda,” Mary said. “How long do you think Boris is going to put up with an ugly woman like this, accompanied by a father who opens every conversation by shouting ‘Put that bottle down’! Thirty minutes after those two meet Boris, they’ll be on their way home again, and our husbands will be whooping it up in Gay Paree!”
“You’re right,” Lucinda said. “Mary, they’ve outwitted us again! What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to set astray the best laid plans of those mice and men,” Mary said.
“But how?”
“I’m going to sic Dago Red on them,” Mary said. “That’ll fix their wagon!”
To accomplish this end, an international telephone call was placed to His Eminence John Joseph Mulcahy, titular archbishop of Swengchan—just as soon as Mary Pierce could get Weeping Wilma to drive her home in Born-Again Bob’s Mobile Evangelical Vehicle.
“If that number, Hazel,” Mary said to the operator, “doesn’t answer, try the Pope’s apartment. They’re very good friends.”
But the telephone in the archbishop’s Vatican apartment was answered, and on the second ring.
“Archbishop Mulcahy’s apartment, Monsignor de Villa speaking.”
“Pancho, is that you? This is Mary Pierce. I’ve got to speak to Dago Red!”
“His Eminence was just about to leave, Mary,” the monsignor, who was the archbishop’s personal secretary, said, “but I think he’ll have time for you.”
“How are you, Mary?” His Eminence said, coming on the phone. “Pancho and I were just about out the door when the phone rang.”
“I just thought you should know, Archbishop Mulcahy …” Mary said, and was interrupted.
“Have I done something wrong, Mary?” the archbishop asked.
“I don’t know,” Mary replied. “Why do you ask?”
“You called me ‘Archbishop Mulcahy,’ ” the archbishop said. “Usually you address me somewhat more informally.”
“The truth of the matter, Dago Red,” Mary said, “is that I’m coming to you in your official capacity.”
“I see,” the archbishop said. “What has Hawkeye done now?”
“He and Trapper John are en route to Paris,” Mary said, “with a young opera singer.”
“Uh oh,” the archbishop said.
“An ugly young opera singer,” Mary clarified. “As a matter of fact, one of the ugliest young women I have ever seen, opera singer or not.”
“I do
n’t quite understand,” the archbishop said.
“Neither do I,” Mary said, and started to sniffle. “In all the long years of our marriage, this is the first thing he’s ever done—evil, mad, or otherwise—that I haven’t understood.”
“Well, Mary,” the archbishop said, “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but as it happens, Pancho and I were just about to leave for Paris. Boris is in some sort of trouble ...”
“He is?”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this, Mary,” the archbishop said, “but I’m afraid he’s finally gone too far.”
“How do you mean?”
“Do you remember when the Russians made him a ‘Hero of Soviet Labor’?”
“Yes, of course. I don’t think I ever heard such language as I did when Boris found out the medal was only brass.”
“Well, apparently the President has found out why they gave it to him,” the archbishop said. “And he doesn’t like it one little bit. You know how You-know-who feels about you-know-what. Thinking about it is one thing; doing what Boris does about it is another.”
“I don’t quite understand,” Mary said.
“Well, he called up over here, Mary. I won’t go into all the details of the conversation, but I’ll tell you exactly what he said at the end.”
“What was that?”
“He said, ‘I’m telling you, speaking both as your President and a Southern Baptist Sunday School teacher, Archbishop, it’s your clear patriotic duty to see that that oversexed ape goes to Moscow and behaves himself this time.”
“Oh, my!” Mary said. “You’ll never guess who was just here!”
“I give up,” the archbishop said.
“Senator George H. Kamikaze and Shur-lee Strydent! They wanted to take my Benjamin and Lucinda’s Trapper John to Paris with them.”
“Shur-lee Strydent, the one who makes one weep when she sings ‘Jesus Loves Me’? That Shur-lee Strydent?”
“That’s the one,” Mary said. “Oh, Dago Red, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know, Mary,” the archbishop said, “but I’m on my way to Paris, and I’ll get to the bottom of it or my name isn’t Dago Red Mulcahy!”
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