Chapter 122: Husbands, Wives and Others
Scribbler dived into the waiting cab and barked out an address. Grinning, Sparky shot the little cab forward through the mostly-quiet street, but they soon hit traffic to make up for it. Scribbler knew better than to try to give directions to a New York cabbie, so he sat in the front seat sweating the time (and Sparky’s wide left turns). Sparky proved his expertise, however, and dumped the anxious reporter in from of his, er, dump with admirable aplomb. Scribbler patted his pockets, looking for another $20 to bribe the driver with, but Sparky just grinned.
“Get on with you,” he said. “Anybody who can hold on to their lunch while I’m making tracks like that—I can wait.”
Scribbler grinned back at him, feeling a little more plucky after his possible success with phone number one. Now for phone number two….
Scribbler took the stairs two at a time, vaulting up without heed of the rickety railing or threadbare carpet. To his considerable relief, Harve waved to him from the fourth-floor landing.
“Hey! Down here, Flash. I saw you pull up. Where’s the fire?”
“Los Angeles,” Scribbler panted. He scooped Harve up and continued to spring up the steps two at a time.
“Los Angeles?” Harve said, holding onto Scribbler’s trench-coat lapel. “What’s on fire in Los Angeles?”
“My patootie,” Fleet grimaced. “My boss called—wants me back—NOW—for the Academy Awards. But look—I have to tell you what happened today.”
“Your boss wants you in LA? Where does that idiot get off telling you—“
Scribbler waved his indignation away. “I know, I know,” he said. “But it’s paying the bills, and look—Harve, the most amazing thing happened today, but I need your help—“
“Sure thing, buddy-boy!” Harve said, and Fleet had to stop and grin.
“Better hear what I need you to do,” Fleet said, grimacing. “Besides, I’ve probably slandered your good name today.”
“Don’t tell the wife,” said Harve. “She’s house-proud and would defend me to the mob if she had to.”
“Lucky you,” Fleet said, feeling more buoyant by the second. If Harve would help him, they might pull this off after all. “Look, some low-life tried to nab Missy today. He grabbed her and tried to chloroform her but I—“
“Are you funnin’ me? Some crazy guy tries to hurt your girl and you’re here, talking to me? Are you insane?”
“She’s not my girl,” Scribbler insisted absently, waving Harve’s outburst away. He wanted to get the thing said so they could plan. “No help for it,” he panted, looking up at the remaining stairs balefully. Three more flights to go. “The boss called me home, and home I have to go, but she’s—Missy’s got security out the wazoo at the theater now. Some big lug with a carrot-top tried to pulverize me just because I had my arm around her—“
“You had your arm around her? Boy, you are one fast mover, buddy, cause last I heard—“
“Yeah, yeah,” said Fleet, blushing and grinning. “I saved the day and all that. The hero du jour. Punched the guy right in the jaw, and it was like it didn’t even phase him. But he ran all the same, and then I helped Missy up. She was…grateful.” Remembering, Scribbler paused and swallowed, remembering the way she had looked at him….
“She okay?” Harve asked. “Jeez-Louise—chloroform! What do you think he wanted?” Scribbler didn’t answer, but his jaw set in an angry line and Harve desisted, drawing the same conclusions and not liking them any better than his friend had. “But—but he’s still out there and you’re going out of town?” Harve finally said.
“That’s why I need your help,” Scribbler said. He paused on the landing second from his own, chest heaving, to catch his breath. “She’s supposed to call me, but I gave her your name. Well, not her, that security guard, so she might call me any minute but I don’t want her to.”
Harve had done his best, but he was lost. He put his little land on Scribbler’s cheek and patted. “You got to slow down,” said Harve.
“Just…one…more staircase,” the out-of-breath journalist replied, but Harve pinched his cheek gently.
“Not the stairs,” Harve said. “You need to tell me what’s going on—and slowly, so’s I understand—so I can help you do whatever it is you want me to do before you get on that plane.”
Scribbler nodded, his hands on his shaking knees. “I will,” he promised. “Let me catch my breath a minute.” He sat on the staircase just below his floor and turned to Harve. Quickly—as quickly as was feasible—Scribbler explained what had happened, how he had intercepted the pig-napping, how Missy had been grateful but had—inexplicably—shielded him and his identity. He told Harve about using his name, to which Harve grunted, clearly amused but refusing to show it. Then Scribbler explained about the phones, and the tux he had to pack, and the waiting plane and—eventually—Harve was in the loop, thinking hard how to help.
“So’s you want me to call the theater and tell how I’m Harve—which I am—and tell this Miss Piggy not to call the number you gave her.”
“The number I gave Security,” Scribbler corrected automatically. “Yes—I want you to call her before she calls my phone.” He handed Harve the blue phone, which was about like handing a human an armchair to hold. Harve hefted it without difficulty, flipping it open and looking at the display.
“That the number?” he asked, looking at “Recent Calls.”
“No,” said Scribbler, heaving to his feet and waving the silver phone. “That’s my number.” Harve’s grunted, understanding, and waved away additional explanation. “In a minute. Here’s the number you want.” He rattled off the theater number and Harve punched it in, waiting until it rang. The first time they got a recording, so Harve hung up and called again. This time, a harried voice answered with the name of the theater and a hasty, “This is not the box office.”
“Good,” said Harve, “because I don’t need the box office. I’m looking for Miss Piggy.”
“Yeah, buddy—you and about 300 others this week. Write her a letter like everybody—“
“This is Harve,” he said firmly. “She’ll talk to me.” Scribbler grinned ear to ear. In all his years of sweet-talking celebrating and selling, um, fake patents, he had never sounded as self-assured as choirboy Harve here lying through his whiskers, he thought.
The voice on the other end of the phone paused. Clearly the name meant something to her; there was hesitation in her voice, but not certainty.
“This is…Harve? The guy who—“
“The same,” Harve said. “The guy that saved her bacon today—and your theater’s, too. I know she’s busy but I want to talk to her or leave a message.”
Relief flooded the voice. “Oh. A message. I can take a message.”
“Taking a message is easy. Can you give the message to Miss Piggy?” Harve said, and Scribbler grinned in spite of himself at the little rat’s moxie.
“I, um, certainly, sir,” said the voice, chastened. “What message would you like to leave?”
“Tell her I’ve been called out of town but I have a new number for her. A new number. And here it is—I’ll repeat it.” He rattled off the ten digits easily. “Got it? Good—read it back to me? Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh—okay. Good. So tell her to call me on my new number and not my old number, okay? The old number is…it’s no good, okay? Tell her not to call the old number, capiche?”
“Got it,” said the woman. “Um, I mean, um, capiche.”
“Good. Thank you.” Harve hung up the phone and looked up at Scribbler, his little black eyes shining with mischief and his whiskers quivering with mirth. “How’d I do?”
Scribbler just grinned and heaved himself to his feet. “You ought to be on the stage,” he teased. “You’re a natural-born liar!” He scooped Harve up and hurried up the remaining steps to his door.
**************************
“Gonzo,” said Kermit with his polite, Sesame-Street voice. “You’re really nice to babysit me but I think I’ll be fine until Scooter and Sara come to get me and drive me home.”
“It’s no problem,” said Gonzo, cheerfully ignoring the signs that Kermit was about to lose his Sesame-Street veneer and erupt into arm-waving hysteria. “I got nothin’ better to do than hang out with you until Scooter gets back.”
“Really, I’m fine,” Kermit insisted. “I’m just waiting for the back-up copy to finish so I can take everything by the editor’s tonight.”
“Aren’t you supposed to pick up your tux tonight?” Gonzo asked, and his inflection was so much like Piggy’s that Kermit turned and stared at him. After a moment, Gonzo looked up from his sales circular and registered Kermit’s scrunchy face and arms akimbo. “What?” he asked.
Kermit took him firmly by his furry blue arm. “Thank you for auditioning,” Kermit said in a monotone. “The part of my wife has already been cast, but if we have any future parts that call for your particular talent, we’ll be sure to give your agent a call. Don’t forget to send in your glossies and a number where you can be reached.” Attempts to propel Gonzo out the door were not as successful as Kermit had hoped, but Gonzo did not appear at all fazed by Kermit’s bad humor.
“So is Scooter going to pick up your tux while he’s there?” Gonzo persisted. “And isn’t this the weekend that Thoreau and Howard were going to see Piggy?”
Kermit sighed and—seeing as how it wasn’t doing him any good anyway—abandoned his grumpiness.
“Yes and yes,” he said resignedly. “Scooter’s going to pick up my tux for me. Thoreau won’t like it but I can’t risk him noticing I sound like I have a head cold.”
“Yeah,” Gonzo said dryly. “Being mostly frozen will do that to you.”
Kermit ignored him. “If Thoreau thinks I have a cold, by the time Piggy gets the news, she’ll be convinced I have pneumonia.”
Gonzo nodded. Kermit had been hospitalized for pneumonia once and it had sparked a rather…heated debate that still resurfaced occasionally at the The Frog household. After his health had declined appalling over the course of an unbelievably taxing week, Kermit had only allowed himself to be hauled (kicking and muttering, Gonzo and Rizzo had told everyone) to the hospital after Scooter had threatened to quarantine the entire cast and crew at the studio if he didn’t. This had followed an Oscar-worthy performance by the leading frog to convince his wife that he was not faint and ill and coughing so hard he thought he might split his gills open.
Piggy had been slated to do a charity appearance and a talk show that day and—after seeing her off in Marty’s capable hands, and without consulting her or asking for her input, Kermit had allowed himself to be admitted to County Hospital—and banned Piggy from visitation as long as he was contagious. There had been, he’d heard, a sizable betting pool taking odds on whether or not he’d survive once he was released from the hospital—not because of the pneumonia that was wrestling him into exhaustion, but because Piggy was going to kill him when she got her satin-gloved hands on him. When she was really mad at him, the hurt of this betrayal surfaced—right after accusations of hankering for Annie Sue. Kermit was unrepentant, and it was this treason that made Piggy stomp and growl and want to murder him, but it did little good.
“So you’re not going to tell her,” Gonzo said, glaring at Kermit, arms akimbo.
“It won’t do any good, Gonzo,” Kermit shot back angrily. “What—if she thinks I’m in trouble she’ll break her contract and coming running back to protect me? I wish!” he snapped, too angry to be careful of his words.
But Gonzo had noticed that Kermit would not look him in the eye. “That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? That she will break her contract and come back and—“\
“And ruin her career! That’s all! The career she’s worked for years to build! And if she thinks I’m not able to keep from falling into open freezers—“
“You were pushed!”
“—or keep from blowing up the laundry room—“ Kermit stopped suddenly, looking evasive, but Gonzo had heard enough to be piqued.
“What about the laundry room?” Gonzo said, and Kermit squirmed and didn’t really answer.
“Look, I don’t really wash that many clothes….” He muttered. “Besides, Zany says they’ll have the suds out of the guest room by—“
Gonzo reached out suddenly and clamped Kermit’s lips shut so the distraught amphibian would look at him. “Okay,” he said gently. “I get it. This is a big deal to Piggy and you don’t want to do anything to spoil it. I got it. Really. But I think you ought to at least tell her you miss her and need her now that she’s gone.”
“But I don’t want to make her feel guilty,” said Kermit, feeling guilty himself.
Gonzo shook his head. “She’s a woman,” said Gonzo. “Feeling guilty is second nature.”
The almost silent hiss of the machine ceased, and Kermit and Gonzo both looked down as Kermit removed the disc and wrapped it protectively in a paper jacket as well as a plastic case.
“Looks like you’re done for the day, once way or the other,” said Gonzo. “I’ll go with you to drop this off, and then I’m going to take a look at your clothes washer.” He gave Kermit a coy look. “Sometimes I think you forget I used to be an amazing plumber.”
“I didn’t forget, exactly….” the stressed amphibian muttered, bowing to the inevitable. “I was just sort of hoping you had.”
Gonzo just laughed, irrepressible, and walked with Kermit out the door.
*****************************
“Wow,” said Scooter, for about the 42nd time. And Sara blushed, also for about the 42nd time, but she dared not move as Thoreau inspected the hem, walking around her and glaring at each little sequin and crystal in turn. At last, Thoreau declared himself satisfied, brilliant and busy, hurrying them, laden with packages, toward the exit.
“Tell Kermit he’s on my list!” Thoreau said severely, then kissed a shocked Sara on each cheek and bustled them out the door.
“So, what kinds of monsters are we talking?” asked Susie. “Anybody I could dance with without looking at the top of their head all evening? I’ve given up on my own species.”
Clifford was thoughtful, half-turned around in the passenger seat of the van to face the others. “Maybe,” he said. “It sortof depends on who’s there. A couple of the guys that dance with us—they’re tall, and I heard Sweetums has cousins out this way. Sweetums would probably have to look at the top of your head, even in those heels.”
Susie grinned, and wiggled her blue-painted toenails in the four-inch wedges. “Sounds promising,” she said.
“As long as they don’t mess with my instruments or Bob,” said Tia. She had names for all of her horns and Clifford had learned that Bob was her saxophone and should be referred to as another member of the band.
“I don’t think they’ll bother your instruments,” said Clifford, hoping it was true. “And Bob can usually handle himself in a crowd, right?”
“He’s usually a popular guy,” Tia agreed dryly, and there was the sound of giggling. Despite the fact that the van was not roomy with all the band members crowded into it, they had managed—no, insisted—on shoehorning Clifford in with them instead of having him drive alone.
“What’s the stage like?” Coraline asked. Tricia had been right—Coraline wasn’t the least bit put off by the monsters, but she was worried about the stage area and how much room she’d have to cut loose.
“The manager said it’s modeled after the first Bat, Bolt and Skull in Hensonville,” Clifford explained, “so it should be pretty decent. We’ve had, maybe, six different couples doing a dance number on that stage at one time, so I think you’ll have plenty of room—and plenty of fans.”
A lull fell on the ladies in the van, quietly contemplating their upcoming show. In the stillness, Tricia took one hand off the steering wheel of the van and reached out and took Clifford hand.
“Thanks,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “Thanks for setting this up, Clifford.”
Clifford just smiled, and kept hold of her hand until they pulled into the club.
There was the sound of a doorknob turning and the lone occupant of the room startled at the unexpected noise.
“Where on earth do you keep your dress socks?” Autumn demanded through the cloud of steam in the little room. Ed snatched at the shower curtain reflexively.
“Top drawer on the left!” he said, then added, “You could at least wait until I’m out of the shower!”
“But darling, I can’t, or we’ll miss our plane. I told you, we don’t have time to dither around.”
“I was not dithering!” Ed snapped. “I was working on my collection when you barged into my apartment, threw me into the shower and started up-ending all of my belongings trying to pack for me!”
“I’m sorry it was such a surprise,” Autumn said, not sounding sorry at all. She leaned on the doorframe and Ed could hear her smile. “You know how my schedule is—I rarely know from week to week where I’m going to turn up.”
“Well…as long as you do turn up,” Ed said warmly, making nice after his earlier snarkiness. He turned off the water and reached for where he’d left his towel. His groping hands encountered nothing, then Autumn put a big, fluffy towel in his hands and kissed him on the cheek.
“Oh, sweetheart—you even shaved!”
“I don’t do scruffy,” Ed said with dignity, and Autumn kissed him again—not on the cheek. They lost a few moments of time there.
“You know I’ll always turn up for you, dearest,” Autumn said. “But you’d better hurry. I’ve almost got you packed for New York, but I don’t think you’re quite ready to get on the plane like this.”
Ed snorted. “You pack. I’ll dress. And for goodness sake, warm me a cup of coffee for the road. I’ve been up a while.”
Autumn laughed her musical laugh. “Worried about staying awake on the flight?” she teased, but Ed’s answer made her smile even wider.
“Not at all. I assure you, sleep is the furthest thing on my mind when you’re around.”
************************
That’s odd, thought Scribbler. Someone dropped a colorful potholder out by the mailboxes. He bent to retrieve it and—somewhere between his bend and his reach—Harve let out a low moan and Scribbler realized with horror that it was no colorful potholder. It was Gladys’ apron, and was currently adorning Gladys’ crumpled form. What he had initially mistaken for a potholder was actually Harve’s wife Gladys, her tidy little form now pale and still. Harve had recognized the apron before his friend, and he ran down Scribbler’s sleeve and cradled his wife’s head gently in his arms, patting her face and making anxious sounds of comfort. With profound relief, Fleet saw the shallow rise and fall of her ribcage.
Carefully, using a manila envelope, Scribbler lifted the rats off the floor, grateful to find that she was still warm, still breathing. She stirred restlessly, moaning, and Fleet almost cried out himself at the sight of her writhing in pain. Harve’s face was a study in anguish, devastated by this horror, but his voice and his hands were steady.
“I’m here, Honey,” Harve said. “I’ve got you now.” He checked her over, fingers probing gently. “I think she must have fallen,” Harve said hollowly. “I—I think I feel broken ribs.”
Gladys moaned again, not quite conscious, and Harve flinched, then turned wet eyes up to Scribbler. In a split second, Scribbler made a decision. Plane be durned. He was going to do what he could to help, and if the plane was still waiting—fine. If not—so be it. Hastily, he opened the apartment door, careful not to jostle the rats. Once inside, he ran to bedroom and place Gladys and Harve gently on his pillow, then carried the pillow back into the living room and set it on the couch.
“What can we do?” Harve said. “She needs a doctor, but I don’t think we can move her.”
“I know a guy,” said Scribbler. “He…he might know someone. Stay with Gladys and let me check.”
He pulled out his old phone—his “real” phone—and looked up a number, but when he dialed it, he used his new silver phone. The party answered on the third ring.
‘Yeah—who is this and what do you want?” the voice demanded.
“It’s Scribbler. Fleet Scribbler. We talked the other day.”
“Oh.” The voice did not sound enthused. “What do you want?”
“A favor.”
“Figures,” the voice sighed. “What do you want?”
“You—you used to know a guy—“
“I know lots of guys,” interrupted the man.
“—a guy who used to do some, um, body work—off the books like.”
“Oh.” The tenor of the voice changed, sounding surprised.
“Do you still have a number for him?”
“It’s been a while.”
“Do you still have a number?”
“I still have the number. But I don’t—“
“Please,” said Scribbler. “Give me the number. I will owe you a favor—a huge favor, if you can please just give me the number.” He did not say, “before it’s too late,” but it hung there in the silence.
“Fine,” the voice said. “Give me a sec—“
“Hurry! Please, I—“
“212—“
Scribbler repeated it, and continued to repeat the other numbers until he had them all. Frantically, while still on the phone, Scribbler typed the numbers into Harve’s blue phone and pushed “Send.”
“Thanks,” he said breathlessly. “Thanks a bunch. You need a favor—you call!”
“I will,” said the man dryly, and hung up.
The phone rang once, twice, then--
“Who got shot?” the voice demanded. Scribbler’s mind scrambled for a moment.
“Um, no one got shot,” he said, then—sensing he was about to be hung up on—he blurted out. “We think she’s been kicked.”
He felt as much as saw Harve give him a quick look of horror and surprise and…certainty. Scribbler had not wanted to say it, to suggest it, but it had been there in his mind the whole time. He saw on Harve’s face that his buddy believed his guess to be accurate.
“Aw. A dame. That’s a shame,” said the voice, sounding genuinely sympathetic. “Where you at, buddy? You know how this works—right:?”
Scribbler hesitated for a split second. “Sort of,” he admitted. “You, um, help my friend and I, um, I do a turn for you in turn.”
“That’s about right,” said the voice, clearly amused. “Give me an address and I’ll run on over.”
In a surprisingly short period of time, a second taxi pulled in front of the shabby apartment building. Sparky eyed it suspiciously in the rear-view mirror, and was about to get out of the car and defend his fare when he saw Scribbler run out of the building toward it. Before Sparky could protest, however, the taxi was driving away, and his fare turned and ran up to the cab window. No one appeared to have gotten out of the cab—it must have been a delivery.
“We’ve got a little bit of an emergency,” said Scribbler. “Hold fast until I can come down again.”
Sparky looked at his watch, and raised his eyebrows at Scribbler.
“I’m good,” he said, “but maybe not good enough if we don’t hit the road soon.”
Scribbler’s face was solemn. “I have implicit faith in you,” he said. “I’ll be down as soon as I can.”
The cabbie shrugged, mollified, and sat back to read the sports page, then grinned. “Implicit faith,” he muttered. Sheesh! I’m driving a hot-shot English Professor!
The lower half of Gonzo protruded from behind the washing machine, but his voice carried through the hollow metal of the machine drum.
“I’ve cleared out the drain line of all the soap crystals,” he said. “I think you’ll be fine next time, just maybe extra sudsy.” He wriggled back out and looked at Kermit. “Now I’m gonna clean out your dryer hose.”
Kermit shrugged. “You don’t have to,” he said, but Gonzo just grinned, his eyes widening in excitement.
“I want to!” Gonzo said, then turned and wriggled into the lint tube. Gonzo’s voice carried from inside the tube as well as it had from behind the washer.
“So how come you’re having domestic disasters? Wow! Look at the size of that dust bunny! Neat! I mean, Piggy doesn’t do this stuff when she’s here either, so why are you doing it? Where’s the maid service?”
Kermit sighed. It seemed that there was not going to be one aspect of his personal life that was not commented on, so he sighed, gave up any claim to privacy and answered his friend.
“I gave the maid service a break. I really don’t need all of the things they do when Piggy isn’t here. I’m a pretty low-maintenance guy,” he said.
Gonzo emerged, covered in damp lint balls and looked at Kermit carefully.
“A paid break—am I right?”
Kermit squirmed. “It’s—they’ve been really nice, but the first week they came after Piggy left the house seemed so…clean and…empty,” Kermit said. “I felt sort of guilty having them come over when there really wasn’t that much to do.” He colored, remembering his first week of bachelor suppers. “I’ve, uh, got the kitchen thing under control and once that’s done, well….”
Gonzo was looking down at himself with satisfaction. “Wow,” he said. “I look really good covered in lint. Look at the way the grey really sets off the blue of my fur.”
In spite of himself, Kermit smiled. “You’re a regular fashion trendsetter,” said the amused amphibian. “You’ll put lint brushes out of business.”
“Really?!” Gonzo’s eyes widened even more. “Maybe I could start a line of lint brushes that actually put link on your clothes! What do you think?!”
Kermit smiled and clapped his damp, linty blue friend on the back. “What I always think, Gonzo,” Kermit said. “You never cease to amaze me.”
The penguins had made themselves at home in the living room, and Kermit was on the verge of politely inviting them to leave when the doorbell rang. He went to answer it, unfearful of paparazzi. Now that Piggy was gone, reporters no longer camped on the lawn or followed him to work. He did see the occasional photog snapping a picture when he and Scooter wandered down to Starbucks or he dropped into the bait shop for a snack, but he was acutely aware that his life was far less interesting without Piggy in it.
Scooter and Sara stood on the front porch, garment bag in hand. Kermit smiled and welcomed them into the living room full of penguins, and it was a testament to Sara’s sangfroid that she took this in stride without so much as turning a hair. Shortly after their return from Vegas, he and Piggy had talked about Scooter’s new love and new living situation, and how things seemed to have fallen into place so easily. Sometimes Piggy seemed to know just what he was thinking and what he wanted to talk about.
“But Sweetie,” Piggy had said. “Sara is a magazine reporter. She is used to unusual people and unusual situations when she is doing a story.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But we’re just a little more unusual than most. I hope that doesn’t scare her off.”
“It didn’t scare me off,” Piggy had said, matter-of-factly, then shrugged and kissed him. “The heart wants what it wants,” she added. “And Sara’s heart wants Scooter. Putting up with penguins in the bathroom and drummers on a leash and insecure bears on your sofa after a PG-13 movie—“
And when he finally laughed, she had kissed him again. Kermit was thinking about that now as Sara came in, hung Kermit’s tuxedo in the coat closet and greeted her host, a host of flipping penguins and a lint-covered Gonzo without a raised eyebrow. Scooter grinned, watching her.
“Wait until Sunday night!” Scooter said. “Sara looks like a million bucks in that dress!” He did not mind at all the way she looked now, wearing jeans and a light cotton sweater. “And Thoreau said to tell you you’re on his list, but he wasn’t really that mean about it.”
“Thoreau’s bill is worse that his bark,” said Kermit.
“Yeah, but is his bark worse that his bite,” Scooter teased.
“I don’t know,” Kermit answered seriously. “He’s never bitten me.” They stood and grinned at each other, impressed with their own cleverness. Kermit realized suddenly that it had been an incredibly long, trying and fairly awful day, and gave an involuntary shudder when he remembered the cold of the freezer. Scooter steered him toward the living room.
“You can fire me tomorrow but I’ve ordered pizza all around,” he said. Scooter looked around the enormous house which usually seemed so full of life when Piggy was here. Fuller, still, when Robin cam and claimed his room downstairs. Even with the penguins, it was quiet in comparison.
“Pizza sounds wonderful,” said Kermit honestly, and went and sat down on the couch. Word of food travels fast, and before long, the living room and most of the downstairs was full of muppets and pizza and penguins and lint. Link and Strangepork had arrived, bored now that filming was over and catching wind of the pizza party Bored now that filming was over, Link and Strangepork had caught wind of the pizza party and arrived to add to the noise and confusion. Kermit found it oddly comforting to have pigs in the house, and wondered idly how Thoreau and Howard were doing. They were going to see Piggy tomorrow, going to give her the present he’d sent, and he envied them without malice. Sunday night, he would see Piggy during their live shoot, and though it wouldn’t be in person it would be in real time and he was looking forward to it. The party (which this impromptu gathering had surely become) swirled around him, but Kermit didn’t mind. It made the house feel useful and happy. He consumed another piece of mushroom and snap-bug pizza, liking the crisp texture of the bugs alongside the mushrooms and tomato sauce, and closed his eyes in contentment. The day had been miserable, but right now wasn’t so bad. When all of these, er, people left, he would call Piggy when her show was over for the night and hear about her day. It made him smile, and sigh and slip silently into slumber.
“You were right about the broken ribs,” said the little rat, whiskers quivering. And her collarbone might be fractured, but I can’t tell. Arms and legs are okay,” he said, smiling. “A concussion, maybe, but mild if at all.”
“Thank you,” said Scribbler. “I—thank you.”
The rat had regarded him kindly but calmly. “You’re welcome,” he said, “but remember how grateful you feel right now when I call in my chits, okay?”
Soberly, Fleet had nodded, determinedly pushing the thought of what might be asked away.
Between the time of the rancid phone call and now, the whole thing had taken about an hour—a surreal hour, Scribbler thought later—where time stopped and everything that was important happened, or was happening, in this room. But Gladys had been bandaged, dosed with a few grains of something for the pain and released into the care of her husband. She had revived enough to tell them what had happened—how she’d found the landlady going through Fleet’s mail and protested, how she’d been swept angrily from her perch on the mailboxes, and kicked twice by the landlady’s shoddy shoe. That had been about two hours ago when Harve thought she’d gone to the store, so they were all aware—though no one said—that there had not been any internal bleeding. Harve sat beside her, patting her hand and kissing it every so often until they had arranged a comfy bed for her in the folds of Scribbler’s pillow.
“Buddy, you go to go,” said Harve. “Go or you’ll lose your job.”
“But—“
“I’m fine,” insisted Gladys, wincing. It was obvious to everyone that she was not fine, but might become so with care. “Go on with you. We’ll hold down the fort.”
“If you go now, we can share a cab,” called the little rat physician. “You going to the airport, right?”
Finally, in an agony of indecision, Scribbler had bolted for the cab downstairs, been driven like the cab was on fire and run through the airport like some sort of action hero. He sat currently wedged into his seat in coach and thought back along the day and everything that had happened.
He pulled out his phone and dialed a number he still remembered.
“Yeah—what do you want?” growled a once-familiar voice.
“I need to tell you something.”
Marty was too hard-shelled to give a sharp inhale of surprise, but Scribbler felt the wariness, the watchfulness in the silence that followed.
“You know who this is?” Scribbler asked.
“I know who this is,” said Marty. “State your piece.”
“Someone tried to chloroform Missy today,” he said. He wondered if she would ever forgive him for this betrayal.
Marty’s control was phenomenal, but not perfect. He inhaled sharply and Scribbler almost smiled as he heard his fingers squeak as he gripped the old-style phone tighter.
“I assume she’s okay.” She had not called him, so she must be okay.
“She’s okay, but—“
“Spit it out, man and get off my phone!”
“I don’t know who it was. Whoever did it, he’s still out there.”
Marty let out a low whistle. “But she’s okay?”
“She didn’t call you, and she didn’t call him,” Scribbler said, feeling suddenly mean. “I guess she must be okay!!”
He actually heard Marty choke back what he’d started to say, then Marty’s voice softened. “How come you told me? Especially when you know she didn’t want me to know?” Piggy’s agent asked.
“Somebody ought to be looking out for her and I…I can’t. I’m…on assignment.”
Marty held the phone away and looked at it, flummoxed, but before he could speak, Scribbler spoke again.
“Because you’ll do something about it,” he said. Marty heard the note of pleading in his voice and almost felt sorry for the cad.
“I will,” Marty said. “Thanks for calling.” He hung up the phone.
As the plane raced toward California, Scribbler closed the silver phone and slept the sleep of the righteous.
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