Milrose Munce and the Den of Professional Help

by Douglas Anthony Cooper

  “It would be nice, wouldn’t it. To have all those large athletes whistling at me and snapping at me with wet towels.”

  “And saving you from Professional Help. Don’t be such a snob.”

  “Well, I suppose I could suffer those indignities. Briefly.”

  “And maybe we could get them to hit Massimo Natica with a flying tackle, then toss him playfully in the air, so that he came down gently and gracefully upon the sharp end of the pitchfork, where he’d then sit for all eternity.”

  “See, Milrose? You do have a poetic soul.”

  This pronouncement, although clearly meant ironically, nevertheless thrilled Milrose Munce. Of course, that was the route to Arabella’s birthmark: to cultivate a poetic soul. He would then be irresistible.

  “How,” pondered Arabella, “are we to contact the helpful ghosts below? I suspect that none of my dear friends on the second floor will be capable of delivering the message.”

  “What with their yellow-bellied liver-quivering hyperventilating cowardice and all.”

  “That is not precisely what I meant.”

  “You know, I really think your deluded attachment to those bozos is preventing you from embracing our desperate, forbidden passion.”

  The silence following this remark was remarkable in its silenceness. Once again, Milrose Munce had watched his unbridled mouth screeching ahead of him down the track, as his mind flew into the dust like a wheel from a broken axle.

  “You do have something of an imagination, don’t you, Milrose Munce.”

  “Um, yeah. I mean, I don’t know that it’s totally desperate.”

  “That is not what I am saying.”

  “Right,” said Milrose with no greater diplomacy, “I mean I’m only imagining that it’s these bozos getting in the way. Could be something else.”

  “That too is a misinterpretation of my comment.”

  “Um, can we change the subject?”

  “Always.”

  “Good. So which do you think it is? Desperate or forbidden? Or both?”

  “That does not constitute a change in subject.”

  Milrose immediately recognized this. After saying it, of course.

  “We were discussing the basement ghosts,” said Arabella.

  “Uh, yeah. Right. So how about those basement ghosts, anyway? Really something, aren’t they.”

  “We were discussing how best to involve them in our rescue.”

  “Precisely. Now where were we?”

  “That is where we were.”

  “Of course.”

  Milrose Munce was now thoroughly confused.

  “It seems to me, Milrose, that we have two options. One is to have our friends on the second floor descend into the basement, where they can rally the ghosts there. That, however, would require them to pass the first floor, which is something they are not predisposed towards doing.”

  “Absolutely,” said Milrose, who felt that his best course of action, until coherent thought returned, was simply to agree wholeheartedly with everything that Arabella said.

  “A second possibility is to make contact with the basement occupants ourselves. Although this poses certain obstacles. Not the least of which is that they are insensitive to the scent of flowers.”

  “Maybe we could just pound on the floor with the blunt end of the pitchfork? That’s the kind of noise they like, I bet.”

  “Except they’d have no idea what it meant.”

  “They’d probably just grunt and scratch their armpits with appreciation.”

  “Yes. Well, I suppose I could whisper seductively through the floor, in hopes of catching one of their hairy ears. That might inspire them to action.”

  “Sure. Great idea. Let’s practise. Whisper something seductive to me, and I’ll let you know whether it’s working.”

  “Milrose, I do think you are rather out of control this evening.” Arabella’s hand fluttered, unconsciously, towards her heart, and Milrose wondered, with a sense of wonder, whether that approximate area hosted her glorious birthmark.

  “Absolutely. Completely out of control. Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  The next couple of hours involved Arabella lying prone on the floor beside the bottom-most mattress, whispering seductive things into the linoleum.

  Milrose Munce sat on that bottom-most bunk, trying his best to feign casual detachment, and stared at the girl lying so strangely at his feet.

  Arabella was the sort who could make even the most ridiculous activity seem exotic and intriguing. It helped, noted Milrose, that she herself always looked both exotic and intriguing. Arabella’s glowing red hair, barely discernible in the gloom (and where was that light coming from, anyway?), flowed without reason or definition across her frail shoulders, which featured twin sharp, pointy bits (blades?), and Milrose imagined that were he to place the index fingers of each hand, respectively, on each of those delicate extrusions, he would be electrified as if by a cattle prod, awoken to bliss and sent ecstatically through the ceiling, where he would—hmm—come face to face with Poisoned Percy.

  At any rate, he found himself admiring her stretched form with unimpeded admiration. It was good, he thought, that she could not see the expression on his face. That expression portended, among other things, that Ms. Corduroy was no longer the object of his obsession, that this teacher had been replaced completely in the haze of his daydreams with the flaming peculiarity of Arabella, a peculiarity that in his mind was now the very definition of exquisition. A word that required defining.

  He did his best to hear the contents of her seductive words, so that he could imagine them being directed, sincerely, at him. Unfortunately, the linoleum muffled them, so that all he heard was the abstract, undifferentiated sound of seduction. Which was not without its own pleasures, of course.

  Arabella rolled over, in the most exquisite manner, utterly drained.

  “Any success?”

  “I do not know.”

  “I bet the linoleum has fallen in love with you.”

  “How kind.”

  “I mean it.”

  “You are the only boy I know who is capable of meaning the meaningless.”

  Milrose, who was not at his most alert, took this as a sincere and perhaps flirtatious compliment.

  “I think we should sleep now,” said Arabella. “Maybe this situation will all come clear in a dream.”

  “That only happens in stories.”

  “Nonsense. Things always come clear to me in dreams. Or I wouldn’t bother to have them.”

  Upon announcing this, Arabella climbed into her own bunk, and soon a faint and feminine whistling snore ascended to tickle the ears of Milrose Munce.

  For days Milrose and Arabella had been alone, if you discount the presence of Massimo Natica (which they did). Percy had not made further contact, and Arabella’s crooning into the linoleum had failed to conjure any jocks. Furthermore, her dreams had clarified nothing—a disappointing fact, which Milrose was too kind to dwell upon.

  Their increasing contempt for Massimo was now in danger of putting them in danger. Much as Milrose begrudgingly enjoyed this gloriously fruitless Help—for almost a week he had stood cheek to cheek with Arabella—he could not keep his demon tongue in check. Arabella too, perhaps because she had spent so much time with Milrose, had mastered her own form of virtuosic sarcasm. Hers was subtle, and while Milrose could generally detect it, Massimo Natica was less skilled in this regard, and all but the most blatant comments sailed well over his groomed head.

  Certain comments, however, were inescapable. Arabella was continually offering Milrose graduate degrees whenever he pretended to accomplish something in the area of voice disposal. “Very impressive, Milrose. For that you deserve honours. I shall prepare your diploma this evening.”

  Whenever the words diploma or fraud were uttered, Massimo would respond in ways that were at first amusing and then less amusing. Recently he had taken to stroking the pitchfork handle, for instance, as if it
were a beloved pet.

  For the longest time Milrose and Arabella ignored these signals, so pleased were they that Massimo Natica’s bright facade was beginning to dim. His only truly effective technique—the uncanny ability to make them do whatever ridiculous thing he wished—was no longer quite so effective. Sometimes his hypnotic powers remained fully persuasive. More often, however, whenever they now slavishly followed his foolish suggestions, it was because they chose to for reasons of stealth or parody. Massimo Natica was still under the impression that he had undiminished magical power over his subjects.

  Massimo did retain one crucial vestige of his former authority. Unfortunately, this was the most crucial. He still retained, in his pocket, the repulsively modern key. Nothing they could do in the way of subtle humiliation could compensate for this fact: they were locked in a den with Massimo Natica, his pitchfork, and his cattle prod.

  Also unfortunate was that these tools had been joined by an equally distressing implement. One day when the words fraud and diploma were flying through the air in a thick flock, Massimo Natica had casually unlocked a cabinet set into the wall to reveal an object which—they hoped—also fell into the category of “antique.”

  It was an impressive medieval mace. Joined by a chain to an exquisitely crafted wooden handle was an iron ball, exquisitely studded with iron spikes. That this was not a modern mace, but clearly an artifact of an even more barbaric time, was indicated by the delicate patina of rust.

  When they retired to their tower of beds, both Milrose and Arabella were thinking about very little but this mace.

  “Actually, I’ve always been keen on medieval weapons,” said Milrose, trying to put a bright face on things. He immediately regretted this flip remark when he noted that Arabella was in tears. Well, a single tear, which had taken up quivering residence on the vault of her nostril. “He will make us normal. He will succeed. I can see it. All of my efforts to make this world a peculiar place are in vain.”

  No, Milrose wanted to say. They are not at all in vain. They are increasing the portion of agonized happiness in this world, in ways you cannot even imagine. But what he in fact said was, “Darn.”

  Her hand fluttered to the left side of her stomach, five inches to the right of her navel, and Milrose of course wondered: could this be the site of what must be the world’s most magnificent birthmark?

  “I am beginning to despair, Milrose Munce.”

  “Oh man. Don’t despair. That’s all we need. It’s your not despairing that is keeping me from despairing, and if the pair of us despair, we’re toast.”

  Arabella’s flower, which was—miraculously—still alive and kicking, seemed to agree. It coughed, in a way that might easily be interpreted as a sob.

  “I shall try to be strong,” said Arabella.

  “You are strong,” said Milrose, silently adding “and exquisite, and mysterious, and on the verge of crushing my heart like a grape.” For Milrose Munce was in fact truly developing, in his own awkward way, a poetic soul.

  “The mace,” said Milrose, in his most comforting tones. “I don’t really think he intends to use it. Not in any, you know, physical way. It’s a psychological thing. He’s just saying: Look, I have a mace! It’s not worth thinking about. Let’s concentrate on getting out of here … you know, stuff that we can actually do something about.”

  “What can we do about it? Percy has not returned, and we’re being threatened with antique weapons.”

  “We’ll have to be resourceful.”

  “We have no resources.”

  Milrose examined his friend. “Arabella, this is unlike you. I miss your irrational confidence and hilarious self-possession.”

  She looked at the floor. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

  “I’m sure it’s just temporary. You’ve been thrown off by a perfectly harmless medieval instrument of hideous carnage.”

  “I don’t even know where to turn, what to begin to think about.”

  “It’s quite simple, really, what we need: a brilliant plan. Surely you have one of those?”

  “I am no longer a girl capable of brilliant plans.”

  “Arabella, I’m just not going to accept this. This is not you. This is not the many-splendoured Arabella whom I worship.”

  Did I really just say that? thought Milrose, aghast.

  Did he really mean that? thought Arabella.

  I must pretend I didn’t say that, thought Milrose.

  I must pretend I did not hear it, thought Arabella. On the other hand, thought Arabella, if I do not rouse myself from this cowardly despair, then I shall no longer have many splendours, and hence shall not be worshipped by Milrose Munce. Arabella, although she would never admit it to herself, much less to anyone else, did like being worshipped.

  “I know what I am going to do,” said Arabella, summoning absurd conviction. “I shall dream one up. A brilliant plan.” She nodded, with absolute conviction, and her flower nodded too. “Yes, I’m overdue for a clarifying dream.”

  Milrose did not want to express his disappointment, now that Arabella was again hilariously self-possessed. Nevertheless, he found this strategy impractical, and felt that he had to say something. “Um, Arabella?” he said gently. “Can’t you do better than that? This clarity/dreaming thing … I really don’t believe it happens.”

  Arabella smiled. “That’s because you don’t believe.”

  “Well, yes. That’s what I just said.”

  “So we agree. Good night, Milrose.”

  Arabella, once again armed with her boundless sense of a ludicrous ability to accomplish unrealistic things, returned to her bunk and closed her eyes.

  As soon as she fell asleep, she found herself dreaming about a terrific battle. Warriors were arrayed in finery and armed with marvellous devices. Arabella stood on the edge of the fray, wondering at this gathering of forces. And then she fully grasped the nature of the meeting she had been called to witness: it was the Parent-Teacher Association. She woke up.

  It was clear that this was one of those dreams that was supposed to be clarifying things. Unclear, however, was what. Which meant that the dream was particularly frustrating—a complete failure, and a disgrace to its genre. Still, she was heartened by the dream: it was, at the very least, strange and pregnant with meaning. Which indicated that she might soon be able to conjure a meaningful dream that actually meant something.

  Milrose awoke in terror—not at the mace but at the remembrance of his “many-splendoured”

  comment the night before. This terror gave way to blinding embarrassed happiness, however, when he remembered that Arabella’s response to the injudicious comment was not at all the tragic disaster that it might have been: if anything, the words had fully cured Arabella of her brief despair. Which meant that, despite his face-grabbing mortification, he could not regret having said them.

  As a consequence of his unexpected bliss, Milrose found himself singing opera in the shower. He did not in fact know any opera, and his Italian did not exist, much less his German, but he sang it nevertheless, and his voice was—a surprise to both him and Arabella—not bad at all.

  “For this must be the hour,” sang Milrose Munce, “when angels haunt the shower / And lo my heart’s great pain, would whirl down the drain / But I a mere shampoo, await the hair of you …”

  This almost affecting aria was accompanied by the sympathetic gurgling of the drain. The song wafted across the den and into Arabella’s receptive ears.

  The gurgling of the drain was, in general, solid and predictable. You knew that the drain would gurgle; it was a constant. Hence it was surprising when that gurgle changed in tone. Milrose Munce was in the midst of improvising a ballad on the subject of cleanliness and its traditional relationship to godliness, when the gurgle of the drain grew suddenly very loud and annoying.

  He stopped singing immediately. That annoying gurgle was familiar! Well, the gurgling aspect of it was not, but the annoyance surely was.

/>   And then the drain coughed, and began to choke. “Munce,” said the drain, in a truly irritating voice, “turn off that shower or I’m gonna drown …”

  “Harry!” whispered Milrose with excitement. “Hurled Harry!”

  “I’m going to hurl, all right, if you don’t cut that water!”

  Milrose immediately turned off the shower, and whispered into the drain, “Gotta whisper here, Harry. Our Professional Helper’s lurking about.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Great to hear your voice, man!” This was certainly the first time that Harry had ever heard these words. And probably the last. For his voice was capable of scraping warts from the tongue of a geriatric whale.

  “Yeah, well, I told you I could probably do something about your situation. And you didn’t believe me.”

  “O me of little faith. You’re a hero, buddy. At least I think you are. What are you going to do?”

  “Dunno yet. But some chick was cooing all sorts of seductive stuff from the floor above, and the jocks down here are all testosteroned up—I figure I can get them to do just about anything. Got any preference?”

  “Oh man. Yeah. A daring rescue would rock, for instance.”

  “Right. Daring rescue. Can we be more specific?”

  “Well …” said Milrose, biting his lip. “It may involve … in fact, it’s gonna involve invading the first floor.”

  “Uh, right. First floor. Never been there. Uh, nice place?”

  “Oh yes. Just like a tropical resort.”

  “We down here—well, the dead guys, anyway—have, um, misgivings about that floor.”

  “Entirely unnecessary. This place is heaven.”

  “But maybe some of the living lunkheads can put together a little invasion for you.”

  Milrose pondered this. Yes, that was true—the living jocks had no particular reason to fear the first floor. On the other hand, Milrose had—in the last minute or so—come up with at least three ingenious notions, all of which involved ghouls.

  “Buddy, do this for me. Try. It’s time you guys took back the first floor. It’s yours, man. These jokers up here are usurpers. You gonna let them get away with that? I thought you guys were all about, you know, conquering the enemy.”