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Ruahnna
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Piggy sat up in bed and decided it was a very bad idea. Stupid cold. She sank back down onto the pillows and let the eiderdown comforter drift over her like a snow bank. Sitting up had made her head hurt, but lying down made her throat hurt. She assumed that her stopped-up ears and eustacian tubes were draining down into her throat and let out a huff and a groan of frustration. Of all times to be sick! Of all days to be an invalid! Her nature rebelled, but though the spirit was willing, the flesh was…miserable.
There was no question she’d have to miss the show this week, she thought dismally. Attempts to power on through on sheer nerves had only sheared her nerves as she felt increasingly rotten, and it had become obvious to everyone—and eventually to Piggy herself—that performing that week was impossible. Piggy had given in without her usual grace (which, unfortunately, was saying something) but with little choice but to do so. She had come back to her room to drown her sorrows and her throbbing head in the folds of the big featherbed.
That grasping little Annie Sue would probably sing her duet with Kermit—the one they’d been practicing for two weeks. And someone would get her lines in Pigs in Space, not to mention take all her best jokes in Veteranarian’s Hospital (such as they were). Kermit wouldn’t care—he’d be just as happy with Annie Sue as he was with Piggy. In fact, he was probably glad she was sick and couldn’t do the show—probably delighted to sing the flirty little song with a cute young sow. By the time she felt better, Kermit and Annie Sue would probably be engaged. And by the time she felt able to return to the show, Annie Sue would have taken over her dressing room and Piggy would be shut out in the cold while Kermit and Annie Sue and their fifteen children went on their merry way without her. Piggy sniffed, and her eyes felt very drippy. She snatched three tissues out of the box and boo-hooed into them with energy.
Piggy might legitimately be accused of high drama, but high fever was probably more the culprit. She had taken a multi-symptom something-or-other but it had not made even a dent in the staggering headache—indeed, entire bodyache—that she was now experiencing. Her throat felt raw and scratchy, and she wished that someone would bring her a cup of…tea, maybe. The thought of hot cocoa—her favorite—turned her stomach a little, and she realized she was nauseated. She groped around on the bed for the telephone, thinking that if she called the house phone, someone might answer—someone who might bring her a cup of tea. She was just wiping her eyes and looking for the phone when there came a tentative rap on her bedroom door.
“Miss Piggy?” came the meliflourous voice of Dr. Bunsen Honeydew. Piggy looked around desperately for somewhere to hide, but the huge bed dominated this end of the room, and she knew both closets were crammed with fashionable options. There was nothing for it.
“Um, yes?” she answered cautiously. The door opened, and the bespectacled gentleman beamed his way into the room. Piggy pulled the covers around her protectively. “What do you want?”
“Oh no,” said Bunsen Honeydew pleasantly. “You mistake me. I don’t need anything from you—I have something you want.”
Like I haven’t heard that one before, Piggy thought, but she kept her thoughts to herself. The good doctor did not seem to be here to peek at her in her lingerie. She was just opening her mouth to ask what on earth he was talking about when, without knocking, Beaker bustled into the room carrying a strange apparatus.
The shock of being intruded upon had distracted Piggy at first, but she felt genuinely miserable, and she snatched a tissue with enough force to tear it in half. Annoyed, she blew her snout with gusto, making her ears pop and gurgle.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Honeydew, but I’m not going to be your guinea, um, pig,” she said firmly. Beaker looked somewhat relieved and somewhat disappointed, but Honeydew continued to beam at her beatifically.
“Of course not,” he said soothingly. “You’re not nearly furry enough.”
Had Piggy been feeling her best—or even, perhaps, her second- or third- best, this interview would have ended abruptly, with damage to the plaster walls. But though Beaker let out a shriek and cowered behind the monster of chrome and tubing in his hands, it seemed far too much effort to Piggy to haul herself out of the covers and send the mad scientist flying.
“Get out!” she growled.
“Oh, certainly!” said the orb-headed inventer. “We’re almost done.”
Again, Beaker gave a predictive shriek, but Miss Piggy just stared thickly. She had a sudden memory of being read stories of Winnie-the-Pooh, with his head all stuffed with fluff. “Yes,” she thought dully. “It’s just like that.”
At a peremptory nod from Doctor Honeydew, Beaker moved forward cautiously with the odd contraption.
“What is that, anyway?” Piggy demanded.
Honeydew had been beaming. Now he seemed to glow with pride. He coughed modestly and looked at the floor.
“Nothing much,” he said lightly. “Just a cure for the common cold.”
Beaker had been approaching warily. He was therefore unprepared when Piggy reached out and hauled him bodily toward the head of the bed. The lean lab assistant’s naturally fatalistic outlook on life stood him in good stead, however, and he did barely more than whimper.
Piggy’s fevered mind was racing. If this mish-mosh of tubing and metal could cure her, she could do the show this week! And not have to miss—OH! And she could bump that song-stealing, frog-ogling Annie Sue right off the stage!
“How does this work?” she demanded. “Hop to it, you idiot!”
Beaker hopped to it, and Honeydew just smiled.
“How does this look, Boss?” asked Scooter. He thrust the clipboard at Kermit, who perused the new line-up morosely. No doubt about it—Piggy’s absence made a pretty big hole in the line-up.
“Okay,” said Kermit, but he was not his usual chipper self. Scooter frowned thoughtfully. When everything was at it’s worst, Kermit was usually either steadfast and unflappable, or waving his arms hysterically over his head. This melancholy resignation did not sit well with Scooter.
“Maybe we should move the Linguini brothers to the end of the show?” he suggested helpfully, but he knew that the line-up wasn’t the problem. He’d seen this mood before, and there was always one reason behind it.
“If you think so,” said Kermit disinterestedly, and started to turn away. Scooter laid his clipboard and his efficient gopher persona aside in the same gesture and moved deftly in front of his boss and friend.
“How about if we save it till next week?” he asked. “Wouldn’t that work?”
Kermit hesitated, looking hopeful, then sighed. “No. We’ve advertised this show as a tribute to love songs and famous couples. We can’t change everything now.”
“We don’t have to change everything,” Scooter countered, beginning to dig his sneakered heels in. “We can just juggle things—hey!”
Lew Zealand’s fish, Doris, whizzed by their heads dangerously. Scooter and Kermit ducked automatically. There was nothing worse than a cod in the head—especially this time of year. (Excuse me, ma’am? The writer looked up from her laptop to find two soberly uniformed men standing behind her. Yes? Ma’am—we’re the Pun Police.” Instinctively, the author covered her keyboard protectively, trying to lounge nonchalantly in front of the screen. “This time we’re going to let you off with a warning. But if we see another one like that come through here, well….” He did not finish his statement. He did not have to. The author nodded faintly, eyes huge, and watched their departing backs until they had shut the door firmly behind them. She took up her notes and flipped through them thoughtfully, shaking her head from time to time. “That will have to go,” she murmured, “and that. Oh! And I know they won’t….” With a scowl, she slapped the sheaf of papers down on the table. After a moment’s hesitation, she squared her shoulders and began to type again. Devil take the pun police—she had a story to write!)
Frog and gopher spoke in unison. “No, Lew! Maybe next week!”
Sulkily, Lew collected Doris as she arced back toward them and slunk off. “Don’t worry,” he soothed his scaly partner. “Some people just don’t know talent if it hits them between the eyes.”
This comment brought Kermit and Scooter sharply back to the present. Kermit looked at Scooter with a little more interest than he had shown before.
“So,” he said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“But Honeybunch,” Gonzo said, walking meekly across the bare stage in Camilla impressive wake. He was carrying a heart-shaped box and a bouquet wrapped in green florist’s paper. “It was an honest mistake. How was I supposed to know it was your cousin? Chickens all look the same from the back!” If he had hoped to smooth ruffled feathers with that comment, he was sadly mistaken. Camilla turned around, made a rude suggestion, and stalked off majestically. Gonzo sighed and watched her go.
Rizzo backed onto the stage, eyes dreamy. “Okay, cuddlekins! It’s a supper date!” Gonzo stood his ground until the little rat smacked into him. “Oh,” said Rizzo. “Sorry—didn’t notice you.”
“Happens a lot,” said Gonzo philosophically. Rizzo was eyeing the box and the bouquet.
“Those for Camilla?” asked Rizzo. Give it to the little weirdo to come through with presents.
“They were,” Gonzo admitted. “But she’s mad at me now cause of that incident with her cousin.”
Rizzo put his hands on his hips. “Which one?” he asked tartly.
Gonzo started to make a sharp retort but, instead, just pursed his lips and shook his head. “Want to split a box of chocolates?”
“What kind?” asked Rizzo. He was an equal opportunity eater, but some of Gonzo’s choices stood investigating before you tossed them over the gums.
Gonzo read the back of the box. “Chocolate covered corns and meal worms,” he said at last. “No artificial preservatives.”
Rizzo shuddered. “Um, no thanks,” he said. “I’ve got a date for lunch.”
“I thought it was a supper date,” Gonzo began suspiciously, but Rizzo just grinned.
“Oh,” he said. “That date is for supper—I’ve got a different date for lunch.” He nudged Gonzo on the shoulder. “Want to come? She said she has a sister!”
Gonzo shook his head. “Naw,” he said. “I’m just going to go drown my sorrows in tapioca. After all, these are new shoes.”
“Suit yourself.” Rizzo hastened away to prevent himself from inquiring further.
With what looked like an up-ended colander on her head, Piggy looked a little like she was going to get a permanent. She hoped nervously that whatever she got wasn’t going to cause permanent damage.
“So, when you flip that switchy-thingy,” she said, “this thing will cure my cold and I’ll be able to do the show tonight.”
“Absolutely,” said Dr. Honeydew. Beaker just averted his eyes. He was quite familiar with that absolute optimism, and rather doubtful of it meaning anything at all.
“Well, get on with it,” said Piggy. “I only have four hours to get ready for the show!” She roused a little with excitement, feeling feverish on top of the fever. I’m coming, Kermie! she thought happily! As soon as this crackpot is done, I’ll fly to your arms and—“
At a signal from Honeydew, Beaker had pushed an ominous-looking read button, and the entire thingamajig on Piggy’s head began to buzz. It made her ears, which were tender already, vibrate uncomfortably, but it was obvious that something was happening.
“Mee meepmeep!” said Beaker excitedly.
“Yes!” Honeydew cried. “It’s working, it’s working!”
Of a sudden, there was a fat spark and the unmistakeable smell of…um, breakfast food. Piggy let out a little yelp and reached for the tip of one ear, which appeared to be smoking. There was a lot of hissing and chugging from the contraption, which gave one final heave and fell quiet and still. Beaker removed it hastily from Piggy’s head.
Since Honeydew is still breathing, it is not necessary to relate that Piggy’s hair was undamaged, Her ear, while singed, was not marred. She was, however, disappointed. If anything, the smoke smarted her drippy eyes and her throat felt worse than before. Honeydew was clucking over the machine.
“You nincompoop,” she yelled. “You burned my ear. And it didn’t even work!”
“I…I don’t understand it,” said the little scientist, mystified. Beaker saw Piggy wrestling her way free from the covers and attempted to hurry his companion out of the room. “It ought to have worked,” he muttered, distressed. “I was so sure….”
“Oh yeah?” Piggy bellowed. “Well, you’re about to be so flattened!”
With a shriek that could probably be heard at the Muppet Theater, Beaker grabbed Dr. Honeydew (who still clung to the smoking contraption) and ran with him like a star quarterback making a touchdown.
Piggy heard the clatter of his feet on the stairs and fell back, exhausted. “Not worth it,” she muttered, but she could not hide the dismal truth from herself. She simply did not feel well enough to chase them down. She fell back on the bed and made up names for all of Kermit and Annie Sue’s potential children.
“Not bad,” Kermit was saying. “How long will it take to--?”
“I’ve already got Hilda pulling wardrobe,” Scooter smirked. Backstage, which had been quiet a half-hour before, now buzzed like opening night—which was, after all, only hours away.
Annie Sue had greeted the change in plans with chipper enthusiasm, and she and Link had followed Rowlf obediently into the piano room. Janice and Floyd was unphased by the change of order in the program. Last-minute changes were not even novel to them. Gonzo had been approached with Kermit’s arguably brilliant idea and, while intrigued, had begged off.
“I can’t Kermit! I—I’ve already made a mess of things with the chicken of my dreams. If she see’s me cavorting with a whole hen-house, I’ll never get her to take me back!”
Fortunately, Lady Luck, to whom this day is busy and productive, provided for Camilla to be walking past during this discussion, and she joined the party at Scooter’s look of entreaty. Gonzo turned to her, flustered.
“I told them I can’t,” he said. “People might get the wrong idea about—“
“Bawk bwawk bawk,” said Camilla.
Scooter obeyed. “Miss Piggy was going to sing I Want to be Loved by You but she’s home with a cold. Kermit thought it would be fun for Gonzo to sing the song—but with a whole bunch of identically-dressed chickens.” Chickens can’t exactly smile, but something about the idea, and Gonzo’s nervous reaction to it (fiction imitating truth, perhaps?) amused Camilla. She allowed as how it might be possible, and added a couple of suggestions of her own.
“Great idea!” Kermit said. “I’d forgotten about those old chorus dresses! That will save Hilda a heap of time. And the masks are a brilliant idea.” Howard was dutifully bellowed for and a relieved Gonzo found himself tucked firmly under Camilla’s soft wing and dragged off to learn choreography.
Kermit and Scooter perused the line-up thoughtfully.
“Just about,” Scooted agreed with Kermit’s “hmmm.” “Now all we have to do is come up with is someone to take your places in the finale.”
At that moment, Bunsen Honeydew and his ill-fated assistant Beaker burst through the back-stage door and made their hurried way toward the back-stage area. An odor of smoke and something else wafted after them, and both males looked uncertainly toward the direction of the boarding house. Scooter hoped he’d remembered to re-vault his comic books in case the boarding house was burnt to the ground. Kermit hoped the insurance was paid up.
Further inquiries might have been made if Robin the Frog had not bounced through the door at precisely that moment.
“Hi Uncle Kermit!” he chirped. “Hi Scooter!” In addition to his school-bag he carried a paper sack adorned with red construction-paper hearts. His name was written in large letters on the bottom of the bag. “We had a great party, Uncle Kermit!” he said. “We had punch, and cookies, and chocolate-covered ants and candied knats and played games and gave out Valentine’s and everything!”
Kermit stood valiantly against this onslaught of words, nodding at intervals.
“Um, how much candy did you have?” he asked at last, shooting Scooter a look.
“Enough,” murmured Scooter, but Robin chimed in over the top with, “LOTS!”
This ought to be interesting, Kermit thought. Although Robin didn’t have a part in tonight’s show, he would be back-stage. He calculated hopefully when the sugar rush might dissipate and eyed Robin’s schoolbag.
“Haven’t you been home, yet?”
“Nope,” said Robin. “I hopped right down the street after the school bus dropped me off at home.”
“Well, give me a second,” said Kermit. “And I’ll walk you home to drop off your book-bag and valentines, okay?”
“Okay,” said Robin, bounding up the stairs with a big pink valentine in his hand. “But hang on—I have a valentine for Miss Piggy.” He knocked on the door. Nothing happened. He knocked again, turning to look at his uncle in surprise. “Where’s Miss Piggy?”
“Um, she’s home, Robin. She has a cold and doesn’t feel good enough to do tonight’s show.”
“Oh.” Robin digested this piece of information (no small task with all the sugar running rampant through his veins), then his face brightened. “I can take it to her at home!” he thought. “That will cheer her up.”
Kermit agreed, thinking private that Robin’s valentine might pave the way for his own later that evening. “That sounds great,” said Kermit. “Come on—I’ll walk you home.”
As mentioned before, Valentine’s Day is an extremely busy day for Lady Luck. Turning chance meetings into romance and late lovers into romantic heroes is not picnic. She must therefore be excused from not intervening twice in the same hour.
There was a bustle and shout on the far side of the stage, and Kermit’s guidance and help was deemed necessary. Scooter was there in the trenches with him but, at last, the Swedish Chef was pressed upon to escort Robin home to drop his school things, change clothes and procure a more substantial snack than candied gnats.
They pushed thought the door, Chef’s thick accent mingling with Robin’s bell-like chirping, in time to hear the telephone ring. Chef picked it up in the lobby, but after several incomprehensible moments, Chef looked at the phone owlishly and handed it to his young charge.
“Der pig,” he said, and Robin tactfully took the phone.
“Muppet Boarding House. This is Robin the Frog. Can I help you?”
It was the first nice thing that had happened to Miss Piggy all day.
“Looking good,” said Kermit approvingly. Floyd and Janice walked by. He could not say with any certainty that the clothes differed at all, but the wigs were definitely effective. Janice’s blond locks had been covered with a waist-length fall of straight black hair, and Floyd’s flaming red do was now a dark, slightly-shingled bob, against which his red mutton chops flamed incongruously. The effect was funny, and fun; Kermit was satisfied.
Hilda, although loving to kvetch under normal pressure, proved to be a trooper after all. The aforementioned evening gowns from the old chorus number were procured, and she set about transforming the masks that had originally been intended for the lobster banditos into sequined masquerade masks that complimented the dresses wonderfully.
From somewhere backstage, he could hear Link Hogthrob’s baritone warbling “Yummy, yummy, yummy….” Kermit smirked to himself. Link’s plodding, sentimental lugubriousness and Annie Sue’s perkiness seemed well-matched in this song. Now, if they could just find someone to take his place and Piggy’s in the finale….
It is quite possible that Lady Luck knows what she is about. The Swedish Chef might be incomprehensible and a little careless with kitchen implements, but he had a surprisingly good bedside manner. After Robin had communicated Miss Piggy (by now) desperate pleas for hot tea, he had prepared it with alacrity—along with a icy glass of orange juice and some toast—and helped Robin ferry it up the stairs. Once there, however, his intentions changed immediately.
As a cook, his culinary skills were doubtful, but there was no question that he was wary of things that were going bad. From the looks of things, Piggy was well past “nasty cold” stage in well into something more menacing. He shooed Robin from the room, commandeered the tray and—against all protests—took Piggy’s temperature with a meat thermometer. This served two purposes—it gave him a gauge of her very obvious fever, and it stopped her talked long enough for him to think. Once the thermometer had confirmed what he’d suspected, the chef had made short use of the phone, talking a length while casting appraising eyes on Piggy’s pale and fevered form. He rang off, then proceeded to fluff Piggy’s pillows with just the right maternal bullying, and left her in quiet after dimming the lights.
Piggy must have drowsed, for she woke to a knock at her door. A man bustled into the room, preceded by his black doctor’s bag, and if Chef had not bustled in immediately after him, Piggy would have thought she was seeing double.
He must have been a doctor of some experience, because he thoroughly cowed Piggy by taking her blood pressure, flashing a penlight into her red-rimmed eyes and demanding that she say, “Der ahhh” at the same time. Overwhelmed, Piggy complied meekly as he swabbed her sore throat with something that felt like a mop, rubbed the results onto a slide and examined it with many sounds of consternation under a pocket microscope. At last, he turned to her and she found herself the focus of two mustachioed and solemn faces.
“Not der cold,” said the doctor with finalisty. “Der flu.” He turned and gave Chef a litany of instructions that Piggy could not begin to fathom. He pulled child-proof bottles from his bag and pressed them on Chef, who asked a couple of questions and seemed, by his hand held down to about Robin’s height, to be asking if Robin was in any imminent danger. The doctor shook his head firmly, handed “der bill” to his double, and made a brisk departure. Piggy struggled up in bed as Chef came toward her with a glass of water and a capsule the approximate size of Ohio.
“Der horsey pill,” said Chef placidly.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she complained, but she managed to down it with difficulty. Chef bustled out, leaving her alone.
She did not have time to feel sorry for herself, for moments after the unexpectedly kindly Chef departed, Robin pushed through the door and hopped up on the foot of the bed.
“The Swedish Chef says you have the flu,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m sorry you don’t feel good.” He brought his little green hand forward. In it was a pink construction paper heart, affectionately festooned with magic-marker hearts. “But I made you a valentine.”
Piggy took the valentine, moved enough to offer amnesty to all frogs of her acquaintance.
“Thank you, Sweetie,” she said faintly. “I’m afraid I didn’t get any valentines bought.”
“You’ve been busy,” said Robin, with that same chipper frankness. “Getting ready for Uncle Kermit’s show.”
“Yes,” said Piggy, and felt tears well up again. Getting ready for the romantic valentine show that she wasn’t going to get to be in.
She heard the front door open, and what might have been Scooter’s voice, then Chef arrived and shooed Robin out. He gave her a look that was hard to read, turned off the light and shut the door firmly. Exhausted and drowsy from the pill, Piggy snuggled down and slept.
It was ten till show time when she startled awake. Chef was back, this time with a bowl of roasted vegetable soup, and he fussed and bustled until he had turned her little television where she could see it from the bed. He clicked it on and bustled out. Piggy looked at the little screen unhappily, not anxious to watch her absent valentine crooning with pert little Annie Sue, but Robin bounded into the room and hopped up on the bed.
“It’s almost time for the show!” he cried, and settled down. Piggy composed her face and her feelings and watched the familiar opening credits. Gonzo’s trumpet obediently sent out a spray of pink bubbles, and then there was Kermit.
“Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here, and it is my very great pleasure to welcome you to this week’s special Valentine’s Day tribute to l’amour.” He looked into the camera uncertainly. “That’s, um, love,” he added unnecessarily. “Before we get started, I’m sorry to let you know that our very own Miss Piggy had been striken with the flu, so she’s not going to be with us tonight.” There was a collective “boo” from the audience that made Piggy smile faintly. “But we’re glad you’re here, and we’re going to muddle along as best we can. Without further ado—let’s celebrate love!”
The curtains opened as Kermit trotted off stage.
Seeing Annie Sue wasn’t as devastating as Piggy had presumed. This was probably because, instead of singing Piggy’s song with Kermit, she had been saddled with Link. Piggy watched them sing Yummy Yummy Yummy I’ve Got Love In My Tummy with her attention focused on two fronts. First of all, it was a cute, goofy song, made cuter and goofier by Annie Sue and Link, respectively. Secondly, she wondered a little uncertainly who Kermit would sing the duet with. Janice, she knew, was going to sing “I’ve Got You, Babe,” with Floyd, so….
Robin started giggling the moment Gonzo came onto the stage flanked by a bewildering bevy of identically-dressed chickens. The choreography, as Gonzo attempted to identify and embrace his “one true love” without being sidetracked, was entertaining. While just a teensy bit indignant, Piggy had to admit that Gonzo didn’t do any harm to the song that she had planned to sing solo. Gonzo and his cache of chickens bustled off the stage, and the familiar music of Vetrinarian’s Hospital came up.
Piggy was amused to note that Kermit himself had put on surgical scrubs and taken over her lines as nurse Kermit. Their attempts to treat their “love-sick” patient was amusing, if not effective, and Rowlf managed to adlib a line about “the nurses getting uglier.” Piggy and Robin both laughed at Kermit’s suitably huffy expression, then the curtain closed.
Fozzie’s monologue about love was not half bad. It wasn’t half good, either, making it about typical. The two old guys in the balcony heckled him mercilessly until he begged them to “Have a heart!” Before they could give a snappy rejoinder, Fozzie plunged in triumphantly—“Oh! I forgot! You’re still waiting for a transplant!” The audience clapped, not unhappy to see the bear score once in a while.
Onward, then, and Janice and Floyd did their duet, suitably backed up by The Electric Mayhem. Backstage, there was a false sense of time. You were either moving at light speed trying to get changed for your next show, or time was dragging as you waited, pumped and ready to go on. Here, sitting up in bed with Robin’s cheerful company, the show seemed to fly along.
Kermit came out again, introducing the finale. They had dusted of “We’ve Got Us,” and the stage was full of famous couples of ALL sorts. Floyd and Janice reappeared as Sonny and Cher, Fozzie had been joined by Statler and Waldorf, who seemed to make up in enthusiasm what they lack in singing ability. Annie Sue and Link was back in their evening gown and top hat and tails look, and Piggy was highly entertained to see Bunsen Honeydew and Beaker dressed as Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Here came Hilda, dressed in Piggy’s old Cleopatra wig and something that looked like a choir robe, with Scooter playing Marc Antony with a ivy leaf over his red hair. The audience was cheering, and Piggy felt cheered. Robin waited until the credits had run before climbing down and turning off the television.
“That was fun, Miss Piggy,” said Robin. “I’m usually back-stage.”
“Me, too,” said Piggy wistfully. “But thank you for sitting with me.” A sudden worry seized her. “Oh, Robin!” she exclaimed. “The flu! I hope you don’t catch the flu!”
Robin shook his head firmly. “Don’t worry about that, Miss Piggy,” he said firmly. “The doctor said that amphibians can’t catch the swine flu.” He started out the door. “Do you need anything else?”
Piggy shook her head. By all accounts, this should have been a dismal Valentine’s Day, but she couldn’t feel dismal anymore. She sagged back into the covers and was drifting again when she heard the door open quietly.
Piggy sat up in bed, groping for the nightstand light. The glow of the bulb revealed Kermit tiptoeing into the room with a heart-shaped box of chocolates in his hands. He smiled at her.
“How’s the patient?” he asked. “Chef said you had the flu.” Kermit smiled his lop-sided smile. “At least, that’s what we think he said. You feeling better?”
“Some,” Piggy admitted. “Robin came to keep me company.”
Kermit sat down on the edge of the bed and, seeing the box of candy in his hand, offered it to her. She took it, looking down.
“I’m sorry about Valentine’s Day,” he said. “Last year, I made a mess of it, and this year….”
“This year, I’m a mess,” said Piggy. Kermit smiled. If she was worried about her appearance, she must be feeling better.
“Not a chance,” said Kermit gallantly (and untruthfully). “Did you see the show?”
“I did. Robin came and we watched it together. You didn’t—“ She trailed off, remembering her ideas about Kermit and Annie Sue and a litter of kids. Her cheeks flushed. “You didn’t do the song,” she said faintly.
“Not a chance,” said Kermit. He slid onto the bed beside Piggy, but chastely, with her beneath the folds of comforter and him over them. He slipped a slim arm around her shoulders. “I expect you to get better and do that song with me by next week!”
Piggy turned her face into his shoulder. She felt tired and achy and…oddly content. “I didn’t even get you a valentine,” she murmured.
“You’re my Valentine,” said Kermit. He bent a pressed a kissed atop the tumbled blond curls. “And that’s quite enough for any frog.”
“Oh!” said Dr. Honeydew. “Well then—that explains it.”
“Mee meep?” asked Beaker, puzzled.
“My gizmo was designed to cure the common cold,” said Dr. Honeydew complacently. “It won’t do anything for the flu.”
There was no question she’d have to miss the show this week, she thought dismally. Attempts to power on through on sheer nerves had only sheared her nerves as she felt increasingly rotten, and it had become obvious to everyone—and eventually to Piggy herself—that performing that week was impossible. Piggy had given in without her usual grace (which, unfortunately, was saying something) but with little choice but to do so. She had come back to her room to drown her sorrows and her throbbing head in the folds of the big featherbed.
That grasping little Annie Sue would probably sing her duet with Kermit—the one they’d been practicing for two weeks. And someone would get her lines in Pigs in Space, not to mention take all her best jokes in Veteranarian’s Hospital (such as they were). Kermit wouldn’t care—he’d be just as happy with Annie Sue as he was with Piggy. In fact, he was probably glad she was sick and couldn’t do the show—probably delighted to sing the flirty little song with a cute young sow. By the time she felt better, Kermit and Annie Sue would probably be engaged. And by the time she felt able to return to the show, Annie Sue would have taken over her dressing room and Piggy would be shut out in the cold while Kermit and Annie Sue and their fifteen children went on their merry way without her. Piggy sniffed, and her eyes felt very drippy. She snatched three tissues out of the box and boo-hooed into them with energy.
Piggy might legitimately be accused of high drama, but high fever was probably more the culprit. She had taken a multi-symptom something-or-other but it had not made even a dent in the staggering headache—indeed, entire bodyache—that she was now experiencing. Her throat felt raw and scratchy, and she wished that someone would bring her a cup of…tea, maybe. The thought of hot cocoa—her favorite—turned her stomach a little, and she realized she was nauseated. She groped around on the bed for the telephone, thinking that if she called the house phone, someone might answer—someone who might bring her a cup of tea. She was just wiping her eyes and looking for the phone when there came a tentative rap on her bedroom door.
“Miss Piggy?” came the meliflourous voice of Dr. Bunsen Honeydew. Piggy looked around desperately for somewhere to hide, but the huge bed dominated this end of the room, and she knew both closets were crammed with fashionable options. There was nothing for it.
“Um, yes?” she answered cautiously. The door opened, and the bespectacled gentleman beamed his way into the room. Piggy pulled the covers around her protectively. “What do you want?”
“Oh no,” said Bunsen Honeydew pleasantly. “You mistake me. I don’t need anything from you—I have something you want.”
Like I haven’t heard that one before, Piggy thought, but she kept her thoughts to herself. The good doctor did not seem to be here to peek at her in her lingerie. She was just opening her mouth to ask what on earth he was talking about when, without knocking, Beaker bustled into the room carrying a strange apparatus.
The shock of being intruded upon had distracted Piggy at first, but she felt genuinely miserable, and she snatched a tissue with enough force to tear it in half. Annoyed, she blew her snout with gusto, making her ears pop and gurgle.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, Honeydew, but I’m not going to be your guinea, um, pig,” she said firmly. Beaker looked somewhat relieved and somewhat disappointed, but Honeydew continued to beam at her beatifically.
“Of course not,” he said soothingly. “You’re not nearly furry enough.”
Had Piggy been feeling her best—or even, perhaps, her second- or third- best, this interview would have ended abruptly, with damage to the plaster walls. But though Beaker let out a shriek and cowered behind the monster of chrome and tubing in his hands, it seemed far too much effort to Piggy to haul herself out of the covers and send the mad scientist flying.
“Get out!” she growled.
“Oh, certainly!” said the orb-headed inventer. “We’re almost done.”
Again, Beaker gave a predictive shriek, but Miss Piggy just stared thickly. She had a sudden memory of being read stories of Winnie-the-Pooh, with his head all stuffed with fluff. “Yes,” she thought dully. “It’s just like that.”
At a peremptory nod from Doctor Honeydew, Beaker moved forward cautiously with the odd contraption.
“What is that, anyway?” Piggy demanded.
Honeydew had been beaming. Now he seemed to glow with pride. He coughed modestly and looked at the floor.
“Nothing much,” he said lightly. “Just a cure for the common cold.”
Beaker had been approaching warily. He was therefore unprepared when Piggy reached out and hauled him bodily toward the head of the bed. The lean lab assistant’s naturally fatalistic outlook on life stood him in good stead, however, and he did barely more than whimper.
Piggy’s fevered mind was racing. If this mish-mosh of tubing and metal could cure her, she could do the show this week! And not have to miss—OH! And she could bump that song-stealing, frog-ogling Annie Sue right off the stage!
“How does this work?” she demanded. “Hop to it, you idiot!”
Beaker hopped to it, and Honeydew just smiled.
“How does this look, Boss?” asked Scooter. He thrust the clipboard at Kermit, who perused the new line-up morosely. No doubt about it—Piggy’s absence made a pretty big hole in the line-up.
“Okay,” said Kermit, but he was not his usual chipper self. Scooter frowned thoughtfully. When everything was at it’s worst, Kermit was usually either steadfast and unflappable, or waving his arms hysterically over his head. This melancholy resignation did not sit well with Scooter.
“Maybe we should move the Linguini brothers to the end of the show?” he suggested helpfully, but he knew that the line-up wasn’t the problem. He’d seen this mood before, and there was always one reason behind it.
“If you think so,” said Kermit disinterestedly, and started to turn away. Scooter laid his clipboard and his efficient gopher persona aside in the same gesture and moved deftly in front of his boss and friend.
“How about if we save it till next week?” he asked. “Wouldn’t that work?”
Kermit hesitated, looking hopeful, then sighed. “No. We’ve advertised this show as a tribute to love songs and famous couples. We can’t change everything now.”
“We don’t have to change everything,” Scooter countered, beginning to dig his sneakered heels in. “We can just juggle things—hey!”
Lew Zealand’s fish, Doris, whizzed by their heads dangerously. Scooter and Kermit ducked automatically. There was nothing worse than a cod in the head—especially this time of year. (Excuse me, ma’am? The writer looked up from her laptop to find two soberly uniformed men standing behind her. Yes? Ma’am—we’re the Pun Police.” Instinctively, the author covered her keyboard protectively, trying to lounge nonchalantly in front of the screen. “This time we’re going to let you off with a warning. But if we see another one like that come through here, well….” He did not finish his statement. He did not have to. The author nodded faintly, eyes huge, and watched their departing backs until they had shut the door firmly behind them. She took up her notes and flipped through them thoughtfully, shaking her head from time to time. “That will have to go,” she murmured, “and that. Oh! And I know they won’t….” With a scowl, she slapped the sheaf of papers down on the table. After a moment’s hesitation, she squared her shoulders and began to type again. Devil take the pun police—she had a story to write!)
Frog and gopher spoke in unison. “No, Lew! Maybe next week!”
Sulkily, Lew collected Doris as she arced back toward them and slunk off. “Don’t worry,” he soothed his scaly partner. “Some people just don’t know talent if it hits them between the eyes.”
This comment brought Kermit and Scooter sharply back to the present. Kermit looked at Scooter with a little more interest than he had shown before.
“So,” he said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“But Honeybunch,” Gonzo said, walking meekly across the bare stage in Camilla impressive wake. He was carrying a heart-shaped box and a bouquet wrapped in green florist’s paper. “It was an honest mistake. How was I supposed to know it was your cousin? Chickens all look the same from the back!” If he had hoped to smooth ruffled feathers with that comment, he was sadly mistaken. Camilla turned around, made a rude suggestion, and stalked off majestically. Gonzo sighed and watched her go.
Rizzo backed onto the stage, eyes dreamy. “Okay, cuddlekins! It’s a supper date!” Gonzo stood his ground until the little rat smacked into him. “Oh,” said Rizzo. “Sorry—didn’t notice you.”
“Happens a lot,” said Gonzo philosophically. Rizzo was eyeing the box and the bouquet.
“Those for Camilla?” asked Rizzo. Give it to the little weirdo to come through with presents.
“They were,” Gonzo admitted. “But she’s mad at me now cause of that incident with her cousin.”
Rizzo put his hands on his hips. “Which one?” he asked tartly.
Gonzo started to make a sharp retort but, instead, just pursed his lips and shook his head. “Want to split a box of chocolates?”
“What kind?” asked Rizzo. He was an equal opportunity eater, but some of Gonzo’s choices stood investigating before you tossed them over the gums.
Gonzo read the back of the box. “Chocolate covered corns and meal worms,” he said at last. “No artificial preservatives.”
Rizzo shuddered. “Um, no thanks,” he said. “I’ve got a date for lunch.”
“I thought it was a supper date,” Gonzo began suspiciously, but Rizzo just grinned.
“Oh,” he said. “That date is for supper—I’ve got a different date for lunch.” He nudged Gonzo on the shoulder. “Want to come? She said she has a sister!”
Gonzo shook his head. “Naw,” he said. “I’m just going to go drown my sorrows in tapioca. After all, these are new shoes.”
“Suit yourself.” Rizzo hastened away to prevent himself from inquiring further.
With what looked like an up-ended colander on her head, Piggy looked a little like she was going to get a permanent. She hoped nervously that whatever she got wasn’t going to cause permanent damage.
“So, when you flip that switchy-thingy,” she said, “this thing will cure my cold and I’ll be able to do the show tonight.”
“Absolutely,” said Dr. Honeydew. Beaker just averted his eyes. He was quite familiar with that absolute optimism, and rather doubtful of it meaning anything at all.
“Well, get on with it,” said Piggy. “I only have four hours to get ready for the show!” She roused a little with excitement, feeling feverish on top of the fever. I’m coming, Kermie! she thought happily! As soon as this crackpot is done, I’ll fly to your arms and—“
At a signal from Honeydew, Beaker had pushed an ominous-looking read button, and the entire thingamajig on Piggy’s head began to buzz. It made her ears, which were tender already, vibrate uncomfortably, but it was obvious that something was happening.
“Mee meepmeep!” said Beaker excitedly.
“Yes!” Honeydew cried. “It’s working, it’s working!”
Of a sudden, there was a fat spark and the unmistakeable smell of…um, breakfast food. Piggy let out a little yelp and reached for the tip of one ear, which appeared to be smoking. There was a lot of hissing and chugging from the contraption, which gave one final heave and fell quiet and still. Beaker removed it hastily from Piggy’s head.
Since Honeydew is still breathing, it is not necessary to relate that Piggy’s hair was undamaged, Her ear, while singed, was not marred. She was, however, disappointed. If anything, the smoke smarted her drippy eyes and her throat felt worse than before. Honeydew was clucking over the machine.
“You nincompoop,” she yelled. “You burned my ear. And it didn’t even work!”
“I…I don’t understand it,” said the little scientist, mystified. Beaker saw Piggy wrestling her way free from the covers and attempted to hurry his companion out of the room. “It ought to have worked,” he muttered, distressed. “I was so sure….”
“Oh yeah?” Piggy bellowed. “Well, you’re about to be so flattened!”
With a shriek that could probably be heard at the Muppet Theater, Beaker grabbed Dr. Honeydew (who still clung to the smoking contraption) and ran with him like a star quarterback making a touchdown.
Piggy heard the clatter of his feet on the stairs and fell back, exhausted. “Not worth it,” she muttered, but she could not hide the dismal truth from herself. She simply did not feel well enough to chase them down. She fell back on the bed and made up names for all of Kermit and Annie Sue’s potential children.
“Not bad,” Kermit was saying. “How long will it take to--?”
“I’ve already got Hilda pulling wardrobe,” Scooter smirked. Backstage, which had been quiet a half-hour before, now buzzed like opening night—which was, after all, only hours away.
Annie Sue had greeted the change in plans with chipper enthusiasm, and she and Link had followed Rowlf obediently into the piano room. Janice and Floyd was unphased by the change of order in the program. Last-minute changes were not even novel to them. Gonzo had been approached with Kermit’s arguably brilliant idea and, while intrigued, had begged off.
“I can’t Kermit! I—I’ve already made a mess of things with the chicken of my dreams. If she see’s me cavorting with a whole hen-house, I’ll never get her to take me back!”
Fortunately, Lady Luck, to whom this day is busy and productive, provided for Camilla to be walking past during this discussion, and she joined the party at Scooter’s look of entreaty. Gonzo turned to her, flustered.
“I told them I can’t,” he said. “People might get the wrong idea about—“
“Bawk bwawk bawk,” said Camilla.
Scooter obeyed. “Miss Piggy was going to sing I Want to be Loved by You but she’s home with a cold. Kermit thought it would be fun for Gonzo to sing the song—but with a whole bunch of identically-dressed chickens.” Chickens can’t exactly smile, but something about the idea, and Gonzo’s nervous reaction to it (fiction imitating truth, perhaps?) amused Camilla. She allowed as how it might be possible, and added a couple of suggestions of her own.
“Great idea!” Kermit said. “I’d forgotten about those old chorus dresses! That will save Hilda a heap of time. And the masks are a brilliant idea.” Howard was dutifully bellowed for and a relieved Gonzo found himself tucked firmly under Camilla’s soft wing and dragged off to learn choreography.
Kermit and Scooter perused the line-up thoughtfully.
“Just about,” Scooted agreed with Kermit’s “hmmm.” “Now all we have to do is come up with is someone to take your places in the finale.”
At that moment, Bunsen Honeydew and his ill-fated assistant Beaker burst through the back-stage door and made their hurried way toward the back-stage area. An odor of smoke and something else wafted after them, and both males looked uncertainly toward the direction of the boarding house. Scooter hoped he’d remembered to re-vault his comic books in case the boarding house was burnt to the ground. Kermit hoped the insurance was paid up.
Further inquiries might have been made if Robin the Frog had not bounced through the door at precisely that moment.
“Hi Uncle Kermit!” he chirped. “Hi Scooter!” In addition to his school-bag he carried a paper sack adorned with red construction-paper hearts. His name was written in large letters on the bottom of the bag. “We had a great party, Uncle Kermit!” he said. “We had punch, and cookies, and chocolate-covered ants and candied knats and played games and gave out Valentine’s and everything!”
Kermit stood valiantly against this onslaught of words, nodding at intervals.
“Um, how much candy did you have?” he asked at last, shooting Scooter a look.
“Enough,” murmured Scooter, but Robin chimed in over the top with, “LOTS!”
This ought to be interesting, Kermit thought. Although Robin didn’t have a part in tonight’s show, he would be back-stage. He calculated hopefully when the sugar rush might dissipate and eyed Robin’s schoolbag.
“Haven’t you been home, yet?”
“Nope,” said Robin. “I hopped right down the street after the school bus dropped me off at home.”
“Well, give me a second,” said Kermit. “And I’ll walk you home to drop off your book-bag and valentines, okay?”
“Okay,” said Robin, bounding up the stairs with a big pink valentine in his hand. “But hang on—I have a valentine for Miss Piggy.” He knocked on the door. Nothing happened. He knocked again, turning to look at his uncle in surprise. “Where’s Miss Piggy?”
“Um, she’s home, Robin. She has a cold and doesn’t feel good enough to do tonight’s show.”
“Oh.” Robin digested this piece of information (no small task with all the sugar running rampant through his veins), then his face brightened. “I can take it to her at home!” he thought. “That will cheer her up.”
Kermit agreed, thinking private that Robin’s valentine might pave the way for his own later that evening. “That sounds great,” said Kermit. “Come on—I’ll walk you home.”
As mentioned before, Valentine’s Day is an extremely busy day for Lady Luck. Turning chance meetings into romance and late lovers into romantic heroes is not picnic. She must therefore be excused from not intervening twice in the same hour.
There was a bustle and shout on the far side of the stage, and Kermit’s guidance and help was deemed necessary. Scooter was there in the trenches with him but, at last, the Swedish Chef was pressed upon to escort Robin home to drop his school things, change clothes and procure a more substantial snack than candied gnats.
They pushed thought the door, Chef’s thick accent mingling with Robin’s bell-like chirping, in time to hear the telephone ring. Chef picked it up in the lobby, but after several incomprehensible moments, Chef looked at the phone owlishly and handed it to his young charge.
“Der pig,” he said, and Robin tactfully took the phone.
“Muppet Boarding House. This is Robin the Frog. Can I help you?”
It was the first nice thing that had happened to Miss Piggy all day.
“Looking good,” said Kermit approvingly. Floyd and Janice walked by. He could not say with any certainty that the clothes differed at all, but the wigs were definitely effective. Janice’s blond locks had been covered with a waist-length fall of straight black hair, and Floyd’s flaming red do was now a dark, slightly-shingled bob, against which his red mutton chops flamed incongruously. The effect was funny, and fun; Kermit was satisfied.
Hilda, although loving to kvetch under normal pressure, proved to be a trooper after all. The aforementioned evening gowns from the old chorus number were procured, and she set about transforming the masks that had originally been intended for the lobster banditos into sequined masquerade masks that complimented the dresses wonderfully.
From somewhere backstage, he could hear Link Hogthrob’s baritone warbling “Yummy, yummy, yummy….” Kermit smirked to himself. Link’s plodding, sentimental lugubriousness and Annie Sue’s perkiness seemed well-matched in this song. Now, if they could just find someone to take his place and Piggy’s in the finale….
It is quite possible that Lady Luck knows what she is about. The Swedish Chef might be incomprehensible and a little careless with kitchen implements, but he had a surprisingly good bedside manner. After Robin had communicated Miss Piggy (by now) desperate pleas for hot tea, he had prepared it with alacrity—along with a icy glass of orange juice and some toast—and helped Robin ferry it up the stairs. Once there, however, his intentions changed immediately.
As a cook, his culinary skills were doubtful, but there was no question that he was wary of things that were going bad. From the looks of things, Piggy was well past “nasty cold” stage in well into something more menacing. He shooed Robin from the room, commandeered the tray and—against all protests—took Piggy’s temperature with a meat thermometer. This served two purposes—it gave him a gauge of her very obvious fever, and it stopped her talked long enough for him to think. Once the thermometer had confirmed what he’d suspected, the chef had made short use of the phone, talking a length while casting appraising eyes on Piggy’s pale and fevered form. He rang off, then proceeded to fluff Piggy’s pillows with just the right maternal bullying, and left her in quiet after dimming the lights.
Piggy must have drowsed, for she woke to a knock at her door. A man bustled into the room, preceded by his black doctor’s bag, and if Chef had not bustled in immediately after him, Piggy would have thought she was seeing double.
He must have been a doctor of some experience, because he thoroughly cowed Piggy by taking her blood pressure, flashing a penlight into her red-rimmed eyes and demanding that she say, “Der ahhh” at the same time. Overwhelmed, Piggy complied meekly as he swabbed her sore throat with something that felt like a mop, rubbed the results onto a slide and examined it with many sounds of consternation under a pocket microscope. At last, he turned to her and she found herself the focus of two mustachioed and solemn faces.
“Not der cold,” said the doctor with finalisty. “Der flu.” He turned and gave Chef a litany of instructions that Piggy could not begin to fathom. He pulled child-proof bottles from his bag and pressed them on Chef, who asked a couple of questions and seemed, by his hand held down to about Robin’s height, to be asking if Robin was in any imminent danger. The doctor shook his head firmly, handed “der bill” to his double, and made a brisk departure. Piggy struggled up in bed as Chef came toward her with a glass of water and a capsule the approximate size of Ohio.
“Der horsey pill,” said Chef placidly.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she complained, but she managed to down it with difficulty. Chef bustled out, leaving her alone.
She did not have time to feel sorry for herself, for moments after the unexpectedly kindly Chef departed, Robin pushed through the door and hopped up on the foot of the bed.
“The Swedish Chef says you have the flu,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m sorry you don’t feel good.” He brought his little green hand forward. In it was a pink construction paper heart, affectionately festooned with magic-marker hearts. “But I made you a valentine.”
Piggy took the valentine, moved enough to offer amnesty to all frogs of her acquaintance.
“Thank you, Sweetie,” she said faintly. “I’m afraid I didn’t get any valentines bought.”
“You’ve been busy,” said Robin, with that same chipper frankness. “Getting ready for Uncle Kermit’s show.”
“Yes,” said Piggy, and felt tears well up again. Getting ready for the romantic valentine show that she wasn’t going to get to be in.
She heard the front door open, and what might have been Scooter’s voice, then Chef arrived and shooed Robin out. He gave her a look that was hard to read, turned off the light and shut the door firmly. Exhausted and drowsy from the pill, Piggy snuggled down and slept.
It was ten till show time when she startled awake. Chef was back, this time with a bowl of roasted vegetable soup, and he fussed and bustled until he had turned her little television where she could see it from the bed. He clicked it on and bustled out. Piggy looked at the little screen unhappily, not anxious to watch her absent valentine crooning with pert little Annie Sue, but Robin bounded into the room and hopped up on the bed.
“It’s almost time for the show!” he cried, and settled down. Piggy composed her face and her feelings and watched the familiar opening credits. Gonzo’s trumpet obediently sent out a spray of pink bubbles, and then there was Kermit.
“Hi-ho! Kermit the Frog here, and it is my very great pleasure to welcome you to this week’s special Valentine’s Day tribute to l’amour.” He looked into the camera uncertainly. “That’s, um, love,” he added unnecessarily. “Before we get started, I’m sorry to let you know that our very own Miss Piggy had been striken with the flu, so she’s not going to be with us tonight.” There was a collective “boo” from the audience that made Piggy smile faintly. “But we’re glad you’re here, and we’re going to muddle along as best we can. Without further ado—let’s celebrate love!”
The curtains opened as Kermit trotted off stage.
Seeing Annie Sue wasn’t as devastating as Piggy had presumed. This was probably because, instead of singing Piggy’s song with Kermit, she had been saddled with Link. Piggy watched them sing Yummy Yummy Yummy I’ve Got Love In My Tummy with her attention focused on two fronts. First of all, it was a cute, goofy song, made cuter and goofier by Annie Sue and Link, respectively. Secondly, she wondered a little uncertainly who Kermit would sing the duet with. Janice, she knew, was going to sing “I’ve Got You, Babe,” with Floyd, so….
Robin started giggling the moment Gonzo came onto the stage flanked by a bewildering bevy of identically-dressed chickens. The choreography, as Gonzo attempted to identify and embrace his “one true love” without being sidetracked, was entertaining. While just a teensy bit indignant, Piggy had to admit that Gonzo didn’t do any harm to the song that she had planned to sing solo. Gonzo and his cache of chickens bustled off the stage, and the familiar music of Vetrinarian’s Hospital came up.
Piggy was amused to note that Kermit himself had put on surgical scrubs and taken over her lines as nurse Kermit. Their attempts to treat their “love-sick” patient was amusing, if not effective, and Rowlf managed to adlib a line about “the nurses getting uglier.” Piggy and Robin both laughed at Kermit’s suitably huffy expression, then the curtain closed.
Fozzie’s monologue about love was not half bad. It wasn’t half good, either, making it about typical. The two old guys in the balcony heckled him mercilessly until he begged them to “Have a heart!” Before they could give a snappy rejoinder, Fozzie plunged in triumphantly—“Oh! I forgot! You’re still waiting for a transplant!” The audience clapped, not unhappy to see the bear score once in a while.
Onward, then, and Janice and Floyd did their duet, suitably backed up by The Electric Mayhem. Backstage, there was a false sense of time. You were either moving at light speed trying to get changed for your next show, or time was dragging as you waited, pumped and ready to go on. Here, sitting up in bed with Robin’s cheerful company, the show seemed to fly along.
Kermit came out again, introducing the finale. They had dusted of “We’ve Got Us,” and the stage was full of famous couples of ALL sorts. Floyd and Janice reappeared as Sonny and Cher, Fozzie had been joined by Statler and Waldorf, who seemed to make up in enthusiasm what they lack in singing ability. Annie Sue and Link was back in their evening gown and top hat and tails look, and Piggy was highly entertained to see Bunsen Honeydew and Beaker dressed as Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Here came Hilda, dressed in Piggy’s old Cleopatra wig and something that looked like a choir robe, with Scooter playing Marc Antony with a ivy leaf over his red hair. The audience was cheering, and Piggy felt cheered. Robin waited until the credits had run before climbing down and turning off the television.
“That was fun, Miss Piggy,” said Robin. “I’m usually back-stage.”
“Me, too,” said Piggy wistfully. “But thank you for sitting with me.” A sudden worry seized her. “Oh, Robin!” she exclaimed. “The flu! I hope you don’t catch the flu!”
Robin shook his head firmly. “Don’t worry about that, Miss Piggy,” he said firmly. “The doctor said that amphibians can’t catch the swine flu.” He started out the door. “Do you need anything else?”
Piggy shook her head. By all accounts, this should have been a dismal Valentine’s Day, but she couldn’t feel dismal anymore. She sagged back into the covers and was drifting again when she heard the door open quietly.
Piggy sat up in bed, groping for the nightstand light. The glow of the bulb revealed Kermit tiptoeing into the room with a heart-shaped box of chocolates in his hands. He smiled at her.
“How’s the patient?” he asked. “Chef said you had the flu.” Kermit smiled his lop-sided smile. “At least, that’s what we think he said. You feeling better?”
“Some,” Piggy admitted. “Robin came to keep me company.”
Kermit sat down on the edge of the bed and, seeing the box of candy in his hand, offered it to her. She took it, looking down.
“I’m sorry about Valentine’s Day,” he said. “Last year, I made a mess of it, and this year….”
“This year, I’m a mess,” said Piggy. Kermit smiled. If she was worried about her appearance, she must be feeling better.
“Not a chance,” said Kermit gallantly (and untruthfully). “Did you see the show?”
“I did. Robin came and we watched it together. You didn’t—“ She trailed off, remembering her ideas about Kermit and Annie Sue and a litter of kids. Her cheeks flushed. “You didn’t do the song,” she said faintly.
“Not a chance,” said Kermit. He slid onto the bed beside Piggy, but chastely, with her beneath the folds of comforter and him over them. He slipped a slim arm around her shoulders. “I expect you to get better and do that song with me by next week!”
Piggy turned her face into his shoulder. She felt tired and achy and…oddly content. “I didn’t even get you a valentine,” she murmured.
“You’re my Valentine,” said Kermit. He bent a pressed a kissed atop the tumbled blond curls. “And that’s quite enough for any frog.”
“Oh!” said Dr. Honeydew. “Well then—that explains it.”
“Mee meep?” asked Beaker, puzzled.
“My gizmo was designed to cure the common cold,” said Dr. Honeydew complacently. “It won’t do anything for the flu.”
