The Cat Who Sang For The Birds

-12-

Paroxysm, arraign, zealot, catastrophe, aphid, privilege, concatenation, xenophobe. Qwilleran found the compilation of a wordlist irresistible, and he kept adding to it as he drank his breakfast coffee. Octogenarian. nonagenarian, paradigm, heinous, mnemonics, etymology, and, yes, irresistible. To escape from this obsessive collecting of words, he took to his bicycle.

His Silverlight was stabled in one of the stalls of the carriage house, and his janitorial service kept it shining. The copy for his Tuesday column was in his pocket as he biked downtown on Monday morning, the sun shining on his yellow helmet and the gleaming spokes. At least once on every outing someone on the sidewalk would shout, “Heigh-ho, Silver!”

He wheeled it into the lobby of the Something and hung his helmet on the handlebars, knowing there would be a group of fellow staffers around it when he finished his business.

After tossing his copy on Junior Goodwinter’s desk and commenting on the outcome of Sunday’s ballgame in Minneapolis, he went to the business office to pick up his fan mail. The office manager, Sarah Plensdorf, was one of his avid fans; she felt it a privilege to hand him his mail personally. She was an older woman from a good family, well-educated but rather prim. Qwilleran had believed her to be descended from a wealthy shipbuilder on Purple Point, but - no thanks to Thornton Haggis - he now suspected a less respectable heritage. He and Sarah had dined together one evening, under unusual circumstances, and had discovered a shared interest: baseball.

“What did you think of the game yesterday?” he asked.

“Wasn’t it thrilling? If Father had been alive, he would have had a heart attack!”

Briefly he thought of flying Sarah to Minneapolis for a weekend game while Polly was busy with Paul Skumble, but it was only a whim. Everyone in the office would talk, and Polly would go into shock.

“Would you like me to slit the envelopes for you, Qwill?” she asked.

“I’d appreciate it,” he said, knowing that she liked to perform this small service. While waiting, he noticed a trio of butterfly paintings on the wall over her desk. No doubt they had been there right along, before lepidoptera had entered his consciousness. “Those are Phoebe Sloan’s,” he remarked.

“Aren’t they beautiful? A California Dogface, Hungarian Jester, and Queen Alexandra Birdwing, which is an endangered species. I have them allover my apartment, too. They give my spirit a lift whenever I enter a room.”

“How many do you have?”

“Eighteen, and she’s doing an Orange Albatross for me. I was the first to start collecting, and now everyone’s doing it. We’re thinking of starting a Phoebe Sloan fan club and getting together to help the conservation of rare butterflies.”

“Your enthusiasm is commendable,” he murmured. “Well, I’ve known Phoebe since she was a baby, you see, and I’m terribly proud of her. Our families have known each other for generations. We belong to the same church. I was a bridesmaid at her parents’ wedding.”

She spoke happily, and he wondered if she knew about the Sloans’ current family problem. If so, she was too well-bred to mention it. As for himself, he followed Shakespeare’s advice: Give every man thy ear but few thy voice. Nevertheless, he said slyly, “I suppose Phoebe will be spelling for the drugstore team.”

“No doubt!” she said with the same cheerful conviction that all’s right with the world.

“I’d like to write a column about Phoebe’s specialty but haven’t been able to get a handle on it. Perhaps I should interview collectors and get their individual viewpoints, especially if they organize a fan club with a constructive agenda.”

“Oh, please do, Qwill! You don’t have to mention me. I just want Phoebe to have some nice publicity.”

He left the office carrying two dozen fan letters and reflecting that Sarah Plensdorf was a remarkably kind, selfless woman. She gave generously to good causes and spoke ill of no one. He would have to consult the county historian about the Plensdorf background: Was it shipbuilding, or what?

He was on the way to the lobby to retrieve his Silverlight from an admiring throng when footsteps came running down the hall behind him.

“Qwill! Qwill!” came a woman’s anxious voice. It was Hixie Rice. “Got a minute?” She beckoned him to follow her to the conference room. “Sit down, Qwill.” She closed the door.

“I smell a sinister plot,” he said lightly, then noticed that she looked troubled. Uh-oh, he thought; has another good idea bombed? … She’s jinxed!

“We have a problem,” she blurted. “It’s the spelling bee. I don’t dare tell Arch - not after the Ice Festival fiasco.”

“That was an act of God, Hixie. No one could predict we’d get April weather in February… What’s the hang-up now? I thought you had ten enthusiastic sponsors lined up.”

“We do! We do! And they’ve paid their entry fees up front. It’s their employees who are dragging their feet. They don’t want to stand up and spell in front of an audience. Relatives of employees are eligible, too, but we’ve still got only seven spellers. We need thirty to man ten teams.”

“Do they know they’ll have a practice wordlist to study in advance?”

“They know that, and still we haven’t been able to spark any interest. The Lockmaster Ledger is sponsoring a similar event - they always copy us - and they’re finding the same lack of response. I don’t understand it, Qwill! Adult spelling bees are highly successful Down Below.”

“They draw from a population of millions,” he reminded her. “Also, what works for them doesn’t necessarily work 400 miles north of everywhere.”

“Would you suggest a solution?” she asked without much show of hope.

“I’d need to think about it. Give me a few hours, and I’ll get back to you. And cheer up, Hixie! There’s a solution to every problem.” Qwilleran returned to the lobby, answered questions about his bike, put on his yellow helmet, and pedaled home. Although he claimed to do his best thinking while biking or sitting in an easy chair with his feet up, he had not produced a single useful thought by the time he wheeled the Silverlight into the carriage house.

From there he trudged through the woods to the barn. The kitchen window was open, and he could hear the Siamese yowling through the screen long before he came in view. It was twelve noon and time for their treat. That was the reason for the clamor - not any eagerness for his agreeable presence. That was all right. He was used to playing second fiddle to a bowl of Kabibbles.

Having taken care of their needs, he prepared coffee and carried a mug to the lounge area where he could sit with his feet up and doodle ideas on a legal pad. The Siamese watched, sitting comfortably on their briskets - Yum Yum on the rug, Koko on the coffee table, keeping a book warm.

What the spelling bee needed, Qwilleran told himself, was a new approach entirely: a new name for the event… new terminology… a new format.

“Yow!” came a comment from the coffee table.

“Thank you for the encouragement,” Qwilleran said. “In other words, what we need is a whole new ballgame!”

Kokojumped down to the floor and ran around in circles.

“Ballgame! That’s it! Of course! Why not?” Only then did he realize that the book Koko had been keeping warm was Baseball, An Illustrated History. Had Koko sensed the problem that was on his mind? The idea of a telepathic connection between man and animal was not unthinkable in today’s science. But could a cat - even one with sixty whiskers - go so far as to convey a solution? Not likely. It was simply a coincidence f that the baseball book had been on the coffee table at that time. Even so, stranger things had happened in that household.

As for the baseball theme, it was perfect for Moose County, where folks went berserk over a softball game between scrub teams. How about ten teams of all-star spellers competing in an orthographic pennant race, with the mayor of Pickax pitching out the first word? And how about a World Series in September between the pennant winners of Moose County and Lockmaster? And how about having the Pickax barbershop quartet sing “Take me out to the spell game”?

Qwilleran looked for the issue of the Something that had first announced names of sponsors. The ten teams would need nicknames, and the spellers would need baseball caps in their team colors. And how about T-shirts with the team name on the front and the speller’s number on the back? “You can’t tell the spellers without a scorecard!” Hawkers could sell peanuts and Cracker Jack. He poured another mug of coffee and went to work on the nicknames:

MONEYBAGS… Pickax People’s National Bank NAILHEADS… XYZ Enterprises OILERS… Gippel’s Garage LADDERS… Pickax Boosters CHOWHEADS … Old Stone Mill DAUBERS… The Art Center PILLS… Sloan’s Drug Store MUCKERS… Fanners’ Collective HAMS… Pickax Theatre Club DIGGERS… Dingleberry Funeral Home

Qwilleran phoned the newspaper and read his notes to Hixie, who greeted them with yelps of relief. “We’ll announce it on page one tomorrow!” she said, almost breathless with enthusiasm. “Spellers will clamor to sign up! Everyone in town will be pumped up!”

“The trick will be to move fast while it’s hot,” he advised.

“Next week. We can swing it in ten days.”

“What about uniforms for the spellers?”

“One of the T-shirt shops in Mooseville does custom imprinting. The baseball caps can be ordered air express. Polly will have to scrape up a wordlist in a hurry.”

“You’ll have to sound out the Lockmaster Ledger about the World Series,” he reminded her.

“Oh, they’ll go for it! I know those guys.”

“Another thing, Hixie: instead of emcee, wordmaster, and judge, the officials should be a coach, pitcher, and umpire.”

“Qwill! What can I say?” she cried. “You’re a lifesaver!”

“Okay. You owe me a dinner at the Palomino Paddock.”

Qwilleran hung up with a sense of satisfaction. Next he would have to help Polly with her wordlist: mayonnaise, reminiscence, sherbet, schizophrenia, raisin, complexion, lettuce, exacerbate, vichyssoise. The preponderance of edibles reminded him that he had had no lunch. He made a sandwich and went on listing while he ate it: charismatic, assassination, penicillin, physiological, chaperon, doggerel, precocious, illiteracy.

It was an exciting week for the residents of Moose County. Tuesday’s paper carried the front-page announcement with all the buzzwords: All-Stars, Pennant Race, World Series. “Take me out to the spell game” was the slogan on posters everywhere: in store windows, on the bulletin board at the library, in church fellowship rooms. On street comers and in coffee shops it was the chief topic of conversation. Tickets, run off overnight in the Something printing plant, went on sale at the bank, drugstore, and Old Stone Mill. Sales were so brisk that the venue was changed from the community hall to the high-school auditorium, which had double the capacity.

As for the spellers, some important names were signing up: Dr. Diane Lanspeak for the Pills, Whannell MacWhannell for the Moneybags, and Derek Cuttlebrink for the Hams. Then it was Hixie’s idea to sign up a battery of pinch spellers-celebrities who would sit in the front row and add glamor to the event, although they would not be called upon to spell.

Meanwhile, Qwilleran had a relatively quiet week. He went for daily rides on the Silverlight. He took the Siamese on trips to the gazebo and visits to the caterpillars in the guestroom. The larvae were still wiggling and stuffing themselves with green leaves. Although Koko was unimpressed, Yum Yum trembled with catly ecstasy. Even when the door to the guestroom was closed, she knew something vital was happening within, and she sat outside for hours.

Qwilleran also wrote his long-promised tribute to Mrs. Fish-eye. It was a preface to a “Qwill Pen” on the common hen’s-egg - that ovoid porcelain jewel with golden orb quivering in a puddle of transparent viscosity as it waited to be fried, scrambled, or poached. He quoted egg farmers, chefs, nursery rhymes, Shakespeare, and Cervantes, who advised against putting all one’s eggs in one basket.

When Qwilleran handed in his copy to Junior, just in time for the Friday noon deadline, the managing editor scanned it rapidly and said, “Up goes the price of eggs allover Moose County!”

Riding home on the Silverlight, Qwilleran was waved down by a motorist. He pulled over to the curb, and the driver parked ahead of him. Elizabeth Hart jumped out of the car, wearing a long colorless tunic over a long full skirt, equally colorless.

“What brings you to town?” he asked, removing his helmet.

“I had business at the bank, so I bought some tickets for the spell game. Derek is spelling for the Hams.”

“Has he started his new job?”

“Yes, and I don’t see very much of him. He works late and has morning classes.”

“What does he think of the restaurant?”

“Well, you know Derek; he’s really cool. Being an actor, he can adjust to situations. He plays a role.”

“Does he like his boss?”

“Mr. Ramsbottom rarely makes an appearance. Derek is in total charge. He says he takes a lot of phone messages from Mrs. Ramsbottom and also from a woman named Bunny.”

“Is the bartender as hostile as Derek anticipated?”

“Well, his girlfriend comes to the bar every night and stays till closing, and she likes to talk with Derek. The bartender doesn’t care for that greatly. Her name is Monkey.”

“I know her,” Qwilleran said. “She’s a successful artist.”

“Is she attractive?” Elizabeth asked, bristling slightly.

Tactfully he replied, “Not really.”

A police car pulled alongside, and the officer pointed to the No Parking sign. Elizabeth ran back to her car, and Qwilleran said, “Sorry, Officer. We had a little problem here. Nothing serious.”

“Take care, Mr. Q.”

He received two phone calls that afternoon - one conveying information he expected and one coming as an eye-opener.

First, Wetherby Goode called, as upbeat as ever, but brief and to the point. “My cousin is on cloud nine about collaborating with you, Qwill. She’s sending you some info on crows to give you an idea of the possibilities.”

“Sounds good. How soon will she be visiting here?”

“Late July… What do you think of the spell game? Hixie comes up with some neat ideas, doesn’t she?”

“That she does,” Qwilleran replied, aware that credit and discredit were always heaped on the hapless promotion director as her projects soared and crashed.

“But why I really called, Qwill … the county offices in Lockmaster don’t have any record of a business firm by the name of Northern Land Improvement.”

“Thanks, Joe. That’s all I wanted to know.”

The news merely confirmed his suspicions: the NLI was a front for XYZ Enterprises. Before he could give it a second thought, however, a call came from the owner of the department store.

“Qwill, will you be free and at liberty after five-thirty? Pender and I would like to have a few words with you.”

“Come on over! We’ll have a TGIF drink in the gazebo.”

“Okay - Right after store-closing.”

Qwilleran could guess what they had in mind. Both men were charter members of the new gourmet club, and they would want to hold the July dinner in the barn or even in the gazebo. It would mean serving twelve persons at three small tables - no problem, as long as they didn’t expect him to cook.

Larry Lanspeak was a successful merchant who lived with his wife, Carol, in the affluent suburb of West Middle Hummock, and they were spark plugs for the theater club as well as every new community project.

Pender Wilmot was an attorney without Moose County roots, who had recently moved his young family to the Hummocks. He would be spelling for the Ladders; the Lanspeaks’ daughter was the M.D. who would spell for the Pills.

When Larry’s station wagon pulled into the yard, Qwilleran went out to meet the two men and usher them around to the gazebo. The Siamese and a bar tray were already waiting there, and Koko was mimicking the birds’ evensong in spirit if not in the right key.

“I don’t believe it! That cat’s singing!” Pender said. “Is this the one that broke up the cheese party last winter?”

“Same one! He has a wealth of interests,” Qwilleran said. He served drinks: one wine spritzer, one rum and cola, and a ginger ale on the rocks.

“Qwill doesn’t have a lawn,” Larry remarked to Pender with a triumphant smile.

“I like everything natural,” their host explained. “We came to the right place! … Qwill, as residents of West Middle Hummock and Planet Earth, we came here today with a humble suggestion for the ‘Qwill Pen’ column.”

“You don’t have to be humble. I’m always on the prowl for ideas.”

“Well, then… This is it: the whole thing about the Hummocks, as you know, is the natural landscape: rolling hills, meadows and pastures, winding dirt roads, quaint wooden bridges, patches of woods lining the streams, and wildflowers on the roadside.”

Larry was a man of moderate build with undistinguished facial features, but his great theater voice and the energy that infused him onstage were compelling whenever he expounded a cause.

“But something insidious has been happening in the last few years,” he went on. “New people are moving to the country and bringing their town ideas with them. They like broad green lawns that have to be fertilized and watered and weeded and mowed twice a week and - my God! - sprayed green!”

Pender said, “I have a third-grader at home who knows more about ecology than I do, and he comes running indoors, yelling, ‘Daddy! They’re spraying again!’ He knows all about chemical run-off in the water and pollution of the atmosphere. And it’s kids like Timmie who have a future that needs protecting.”

Qwilleran asked, “How prevalent is this green blight that you describe?”

“About thirty percent, but they’re very vocal at village meetings. They urge cutting down trees to straighten the roads, widening the bridges, mowing the roadsides once a month - all to make it safer! They tell how Mr. Fetter died in a car crash on a twisting road. They don’t mention that his son was driving seventy!” said Larry. “The Hummocks weren’t intended to be speedways or thoroughfares for eighteen-wheelers, but that’s what they’ll become if we don’t fight it.”

“Let me add something bizarre,” said Pender. “Natural landscaping is trendy Down Below, and backyard naturalists are challenging the so-called weed laws and winning their cases in court… But up here, 400 miles north of everywhere, a local politician wants to legislate against native grasses and wildflowers. He wants everyone to have a neat clipped lawn, sprayed green.”

Larry said, “He bought the Trevelyan house near us. He also wants the dirt roads paved, and he has a lot of pull.”

Pender added, “He’ll get a kickback, of course.”

“This is getting dirty. I’m going home,” said Larry, standing up.

“Who wants the roads paved?” Qwilleran asked. “Who bought the Trevelyan house?”

“Ramsbottom.”

“If he’s as crooked as people say, why does he keep getting reelected?”

“He saves the taxpayers money by opposing educational and cultural improvements. Then the K Fund steps in and underwrites the new facilities. He’s got it made!”

Qwilleran walked with them to their car.

“Think about it,” Larry told him. “Kevin Doane can tell you a lot about natural landscaping. He’s a real pro. And people will listen to what you say, Qwill.”