The Cat Who Went Bananas

Chapter 9

On Thursday morning the Siamese breakfasted grandly on Lois's meat loaf, while Qwilleran reluctantly sliced bananas into a bowl of dry cereal, wondering why he had found cereal exciting in his boyhood. He had grown up with the packaged variety, and the packaging itself had improved his reading skills. He could spell 'ingredients' while other kids were learning to spell 'cat' and 'dog'. Now, shopping at Toodle's Market, he had been overwhelmed by the enormous selection -until he spotted a famous slogan: Snap Crackle Pop! He bought two boxes, but the sound effects were somehow less intriguing to his middle-aged ears. He gift-wrapped the second box and dispatched it to Arch Riker's office by motorcycle messenger, anonymously.

Within minutes, the phone rang - more impatiently than usual, it seemed - and he purred a pleasant 'good morning' into the mouthpiece.

`What's the matter with you?' came an exasperated voice. 'Are you cracking up?'

`Just a sentimental reminder of the good old days, Arch.'

`You ate this stuff! I didn't eat this stuff! Mine had baseball cards in the box, and pictures of Niagara Falls.'

`It's the spirit of the gesture that counts,' Qwilleran said in a syrupy tone.

Arch growled into the phone, 'If you haven't got anything better to do, get down here and help us put the paper to bed.'

He slammed down the receiver, and Qwilleran went about his morning chores with satisfaction.

This was the day of the press preview, and Qwilleran attended the unveiling with his press card sticking out of his vest pocket and his orange baseball cap on his head. As he walked to Winston Park, sirens could be heard; the sheriff's patrol was escorting the visiting press from the airport.

Yellow tape roped off an area for news photographers and TV teams. At the centre of the area was a mound of immense boulders that might have been left there by a prehistoric earthquake, interspersed with spiky holly shrubs. At its summit was a large cube of polished granite with WINSTON PARK chiselled on all four sides. This was the platform for the tall, cylindrical object about to be unveiled.

Although there had been no publicity about the event, a modest crowd had gathered outside the yellow tape. They had to step aside for a school bus when it delivered a load of passengers in black leotards and tights - the high-school acrobatic team plus two students with drums. The rumour was true that a derrick would lift the shroud, but it was a human derrick. The black-clothed figures positioned themselves among the boulders, forming a pyramid, at the apex of which was an agile figure with an oversized fishing reel. The drums began a slow, suspenseful roll. The shroud started to rise, revealing an irregular stack of books chiselled from granite and three times the normal size. The drumbeats quickened! More books appeared, piled one on top of another, making a pedestal for a sculpture: a bronze cat, twice life size, sitting tall in an attitude of superior intellect, while his plumed tail draped casually over the column of books.

`Winston!' shouted the onlookers amid cheers and applause.

Qwilleran thought, If only Edd Smith could see this!

The next scheduled event was the official ribbon cutting, and he stayed to watch - but only because it would please Polly if he was there. Later he would describe it in his personal journal.

Qwilleran left the dedication ceremonies in the same way he had arrived - on foot - waving to the motorists who looked at him and pedestrians who said, 'Hi, Mr Q!'

Arriving in the barnyard, he waved at the two Siamese, who waited for him in the kitchen window with ears pricked and tails stiffened into question marks. According to Qwilleran's watch, the performance was less of an affectionate welcome and more of a reminder that their noon snack was ten minutes late. Even before hanging up his orange hat and car keys, he prepared two plates of Kabbibbles, each with a tiny morsel of cheese buried like the prize in a box of Cracker Jack.

Then he carried a dish of ice cream up the ramp to his studio on the second balcony, where he worked on Friday's `Qwill Pen' column.

In the afternoon there was a phone call from Lisa Compton. `Qwill! Good news. Edd Smith's Place is getting its own telephone! We've been using an extension of the bookstore phone, and Burgess Campbell said that was bad business practice. He's going to pay the monthly phone bill. ESP will have its own listing in the telephone directory. Do you have a pencil handy? I'll give you the number.'

'Who's handling the ESP story for the Something?' Qwilleran asked.

'Roger took the pictures, and Jill's writing the story. He got a wonderful shot of Dundee examining an Ernest Hemingway book worth five thousand.'

'Did you tell Jill about the new phone?'

'We didn't know about it while they were here,' Lisa said.

'Then call her at the paper and give her the number. Tell Jill: if a cat answers, callers will be advised to press one and leave a message.'

'Oh, Qwill.' She laughed. 'Would they print that?'

'There's no harm in suggesting it; the readers like a laugh,' Qwilleran said. 'How did the shooting go?'

'They loved Dundee! He's such an extrovert. Dwight's release described him as "official bibliocat" and said the Edd Smith Place sold pre-owned books priced anywhere from two dollars to five thousand. Naturally, the photographers wanted to see what a five-thousand-dollar book looks like. Alden Wade had volunteered to help us, so we put him in charge of the jelly cupboard. He had the keys hanging around his neck like a wine steward, and he kept an eagle eye on any rare book he took out of the cupboard.'

'Don't forget I've spoken for the Dr Seuss book,' Qwilleran said.

The next call came from Wetherby Goode, who wanted to stop at the barn for a minute en route to the radio station.

When he arrived, Qwilleran asked, 'Do you have time for a libation?'

'Well ... just a nip.'

They sat at the snack bar, attended by two chummy Siamese, who liked the weatherman.

Qwilleran asked, 'What did you think of the unveiling?'

'They put on quite a show, didn't they? And the sculpture itself is a swell idea! I'm going to do a little tribute to Winston on my show tonight.'

'He's still living, you know, Joe. He lives with the Bethunes on Pleasant Street. What's the nature of your tribute?'

'Just a parody I wrote with apologies to my alma mater: "Dear Old Winston! Dear Old Winston!" Be sure to tune in at eleven.'

'I wouldn't miss it, Joe.' Then Qwilleran asked, 'Do you still go to Horseradish on weekends?' The weatherman had been spending an inordinate amount of time in his hometown without explaining why.

'Not any more! Things change!'

'Do you happen to know if they are talking about Ronnie's accident?'

'Yes, and they're in shock because of a nasty rumour that's circulating. People are whispering that it was caused by drugs and alcohol! His parents are crushed! And I'm furious! It can't be true!'

'It was in the medical examiner's report, Joe.'

'Look here! I grew up with Ronnie and he was always a health nut - eating the right food, taking vitamins, and never drinking anything stronger than a beer. You can't convince me those Lockmaster dudes could get him on drugs. Alden Wade called Ronnie's parents and offered sympathy. He couldn't believe the rumour either . . . Did you know that Alden's from Horseradish?'

`All you talented people . . .’ Qwilleran began.

`Yeah, there's something in the drinking water. But we all change our names when we go out into the real world. Alden was George; did you know that? He said that George is a good name for a political leader, but an actor needs a name with more sex appeal - like Alan, Alex, Alfie - names beginning with A-L. He had his name legally changed to Alden Wade. And the gals have been swooning over him ever since.'

Qwilleran asked, 'How about you, Joe? Was yours legally changed to Wetherby Goode?'

Nay, that's just a nickname. For a weather prognosticator, it's a lot better than Joe Bunker!'

`YOW!' was Koko's clarion comment.

Wetherby jumped up. 'Gotta get to the station . . . What's that on the floor?'

`Be careful!' Qwilleran picked it up. 'Koko collects banana peels. Does Jet Stream have any interesting hobbies?'

While the dedication ceremonies were still fresh in his mind, Qwilleran expressed his sentiments on the pages of his personal journal.

Thursday, September 25 - I agree with Amanda Good-winter: there must be a better way! To launch a seagoing vessel, a bottle of champagne is smashed on the hull. To dedicate a new building, ribbon is stretched across the facade, to be cut by a civic official, or a civic official's five-year-old daughter in a frilly dress.

Somehow - halfway between the champagne and the five yards of ribbon - there must be a sane compromise! . . . Anyway. . .

After the memorable unveiling of the Winston Park monument, the cameras turned to focus on the bookstore. Five yards of green ribbon were stretched across the glass doors and show windows of the building. Dwight Somers, swinging a large pair of shears, was jockeying the dignitaries into line. Polly and Bart, representing the K Fund, looked spiffy in a businesslike way. Burgess Campbell, on the board of the ESP, was striking in Highland attire: kilt, kneesocks, shoulder plaid, and cocky Glengarry bonnet. And, of course, he was accompanied by his guide dog, Alexander. Together they always steal the show when photographers are around.

But where were the two city officials? Dwight paced nervously and talked on a cell phone. Suddenly a police car drove up, and out stepped the pair representing city Hall. Her Honour, the mayor, had a golf hat jammed down on her straggly grey hair and looked as if she had been raking leaves on the City Hall lawn. The president of the city council -all three hundred pounds of him - was stuffed into a mechanic's greasy overalls.

Dwight escorted them into the lineup and presented the shears.

`Not me!' Amanda growled. 'No way!'

`I don't cut ribbons,' Scott Gippel muttered.

Without a moment's hesitation the attorney stepped forward and said, in his courtroom voice, 'It is traditional and appropriate for civic leaders to cut the ribbon as a gesture of welcome to a new business enterprise that will benefit the entire county.' That guy Bart! He managed to mix authority with an ingratiating manner. Polly looked relieved. Alexander whimpered.

And Scott said, 'Okay, gimme the dang clippers and I'll cut the dang ribbon!'

I don't know how much of the dialogue was picked up by the mikes, but it resounded all over the park.