Chapter 45: Suppositions
“C’mon,” Rizzo said, holding tight to Gloria Jean’s hand and tugging her after him through the crowd. “We’ve got to hustle or we’re going to miss our call.”
“If you get me in trouble with Howard—“ the dancer threatened, and Rizzo moved a little faster, dodging casino residents and workers left and right.
“But the show was good! You liked, right?”
“I loved,” said Gloria Jean. “How do you know those guys?”
“Worked together on a project. Nice guys, huh?” This last was half-bellowed, half-panted as they swam upstream through the crowd toward their own theater.
“Yeah, and cute, too,” said Gloria Jean, who giggled like a fiend when Rizzo stopped dead where he stood and turned to give her an indignant look. “Teasing,” she said saucily, and put an affectionate hand on his cheek—right before she passed him up.
“Hey!” Rizzo cried, and beat feet after her.
He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it silently, making no noise at all.
“Going somewhere?”
Scribbler paused, sighing inwardly and straightening. Sneaking hadn’t worked, so he would have to brave it out.
“The show?” he asked archly. His chin wasn’t strong, but it was thrust out pugnaciously. The chin didn’t carry it, but the tension animating his frame made up the difference. The hateful voice ramped back a notch or too, becoming merely mocking and annoying. Scribbler turned and faced his accuser—and employer. “You know—that thing I’m supposed to write about?” He patted his pockets in fair imitation of someone who has lost something besides his soul and looked up, his eyes wide. “Gosh—I hope I haven’t lost my crayon….”
“Nobody likes a wise-acre,” snarled the voice, ramping back up at the look of smug triumph on the reporter’s face.
Scribbler wrenched the door open and paused in the doorway. “Guess you’d know,” he said simply.
“You look—“
“No, you look! I’m a reporter—or at least, I used to be. Now I’m just a bozo on the trail of a story, but unless you fire me—which you won’t—I am going to do my job.” He did not say, It’s all I’ve got left, but it hung there between them in the fusty air.
“Exactly what job is that?” laughed the evilly smiling figure who sat with such composure in the room’s comfy recliner. “Last time I checked, I was the one who made the assignments.”
Some of Scribbler’s self-possession faltered, but he rallied as quick as he could.
“So?” he said pointedly. “You got new marching orders, spit ‘em out.”
There was a low chuckle that made Scribbler’s skin itch.
“Noooo,” said the voice languidly. “You go right ahead with what you’re doing. It may bear fruit yet. And I’ve got other, more immediate plans that may bear fruit sooner.”
Scribbler didn’t like the sound of that, but knew his place in the pecking order meant he could not demand information. He did what he had done in the past—he bluffed.
“Hey,” he said indignantly. “I don’t share my lousy little byline with anyone.”
“Your byline! Oh—that’s priceless! But not to worry, Scribbler. I’ve been exploring a more…hands-on approach to my amphibian problem,” said the voice with obvious relish. Scribbler felt his spine tingle with a sudden awareness of danger.
“What do you mean?” he demanded, pecking order be durned. His voice quavered a little, but he didn’t care. Piggy! He thought. Oh, oh no! Piggy….
“Never you mind,” said the voice dismissively, but he could not ignore the distinct air of satisfaction—and menace—in that low voice. “Now run along like a good little reporter. By all means, don’t let me keep you from enjoying the show.”
“I’m doing my job,” Scribbler shot back, as infuriated at himself for allowing his hackles to be raised as he was at the taunting figure across the room for baiting him.
“By all means,” mocked his employer. “Have at it.”
Scribbler started toward the door again, but hesitated.
His hand was on the knob again before the other spoke. “If you do a good job, I might even let you bring home…the bacon.”
Scribbler had started out the door, but his head snapped around.
“You leave her alone!” he almost shouted. Geez, what had he gotten himself into!
“I’m not after her. She’s more of a…side dish.”
Scribbler took a step forward, but stopped, angry and impotent—once again.
“Shut up!” he said, and the fire in his voice made up for any lack of physical presence. The mocking laughter stopped, but the erstwhile reporter felt himself to be the object of intense scrutiny. He stood very still, not knowing or caring how he fared in retrospect. At last, the fiend in the dark suit leaned forward, and the voice became wheedling, almost reasonable.
“I need results. As soon as possible.”
“I’m doing the best—“
“You’re hardly objective.”
“Look who’s talking!” he snapped back.
There was a patient sigh, but Scribbler wasn’t fooled. “Keep writing,” his boss demanded, “but—“
“But--?” Sign in blood on the dotted line…
“We need more fact and less fiction, Scribbler. I need a reporter who can do the job, not some teen-aged boy whose going to moon over the subject of his article.”
“I am not mooning! She’s—“ He caught himself with an effort, almost past caring what his employer thought—or guessed. “I can do the job. After I write this next review, there won’t be a producer in Hollywood who doesn’t want to steal her away.” His voice was defiant, but there was a touch of pleading in it too, and he hated the sound of it.
After a long pause, the dark head nodded.
“Good. And this time—I want to preview your copy. Capiche?”
Scribbler had very little dignity, but he wrapped his anger around him like a shield. “Capiche,” he echoed. “I’ll try to use small words.” He slammed out of the room, and the percussive sound of the door made two other casino guest peek into the hall in alarm.
Scribbler had enjoyed the split-second of fury his insult had evoked, but his elation was short-lived. He felt his gut wrench at the thought of what he might face when he returned, but he was, as he had pointed out, living in the heart of heck as it was. He couldn’t imagine things could get much worse.
But then, Scribbler was a reporter. Just the facts, ma’am and all that. He had never had a lot of imagination.
Backstage was a-bustle with activity. Kermit found himself more than usually nervous about, well, everything, but it was nervousness of the type he seemed to thrive on. He was, truth be told, a little worried about Robin in the sound booth, but that was probably just parental worry. He was a little worried about the new order of the show, which was probably just directorial worry. And he was, if he was honest with himself, just a little nervous about the new song and dance—particularly the dance part. He had not had the benefit of Howard’s grueling workouts, and he would be center stage, visible to all, if he screwed up. Oh well, he thought. That’s probably just performance anxiety. Ruefully, Kermit sighed. Great, he thought. Now I’m categorizing my worries. Maybe Piggy can help me file them later.
As if on cue, Piggy floated by. She stopped like she had the other evening and kissed him, but when her hands rested warmly on his shoulders and she felt the raging tension therein she paused and gave him a searching look.
“Are you okay, Mon Capitan?” Piggy asked. Her blue eyes were troubled. Kermit put his arms around her and tried to reassure her with a kiss, but Thoreau came by at that exact moment.
“I’d say ‘Get a room,’” snapped the designer, “but you’ve already got one. How about occupying it, Missy?”
Chastised, Piggy went, following Thoreau with only a worried glance back at Kermit. Kermit tried to smile rakishly, waving her off, but he still felt more jittery that he wanted to admit.
Robin can running up then, already dressed for his number.
“I’m all ready, Uncle Kermit,” he said breathlessly. “I’m going to run the sound for the first half after my song, and then I’m going to help in the second half, too.”
“Swell,” said Kermit. “Know your marks?”
“Absolutely,” piped Robin. “I’m ready.” He grinned at his uncle, and Kermit thought with a start that he wasn’t having to look down quite as far as he used to.
“Good boy,” said Kermit, patting Robin’s shoulder. Robin did what Piggy had done—took a double-take. “Are you okay, Uncle Kermit? You look kindof worried.”
Kermit tried to visibly relax, with mixed success. He was saved from explanation when Fozzie came running up. Next to Fozzie, Crazy Donald looked calm, so Kermit benefited in comparison.
“Kermiiit!” Fozzie wailed. “I can’t find my ukulele!”
For a moment, Kermit just stared, wondering if he were in the wrong show.
“Um.…” he began.
“You can borrow mine,” said Robin generously. “It’s in the sound booth.”
“Oh! Thank you, Robin! Thank you, thank you!”
“Yeah, but Fozzie—“ Kermit tried. “What do you need—?“
“Two minutes till curtain,” said Scooter, easing past them.
“Two?” said Kermit, astonished. “What happened to ten minutes to curtain?”
“I already did that,” said Scooter calmly. “That was eight minutes ago.” He reached out and brushed something off of Kermit’s shoulder. “There,” he said. “You look ready now.”
“Sheesh!” exclaimed Kermit. This had been a rather hectic day. Although he had eventually gotten what he wanted from the studio—due in part to Piggy’s wheedling, he felt certain, the entire day had taken on that one-foot-in-the-boat and one-foot-on-the-dock feeling that Kermit got when he was doing two completely different things at once. He had found himself rudely wrestled back into the world of studio deadlines and budgetary quandaries, but had, after all, gained the respite he had bargained for. Kermit had found himself more relieved than he could account for to have gotten the green light to stay longer here in Las Vegas, and a small part of his brain was worrying that like Rowlf with a kibble stick. Was it because Vegas had a sort of ethereal quality—what happens here stays here and all that? Was it because of the show? Because he was performing every day with Piggy and Robin and most everyone he called dear? Was it because he didn’t want to go back home…. Kermit shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He would have to worry about it later. Right now, he needed to slip into his gracious host most and greet the sold-out audience that was even now chanting for them to begin. And he would worry this problem later. Right after he worried about the ukulele.
“Oh—it’s lovely,” said Piggy. She looked at the little dainty in Thoreau’s hand. “Is that—is that the whole thing?”
“Yep,” said the designer complacently. “It seems to do the trick.”
“What about a fitting?”
“Going to take care of that as soon as we can lose the significant other.”
Piggy snorted. “Fat chance of that,” she muttered.
Thoreau rolled his eyes. “Who knew what I was getting myself in for when you called me?”
Piggy fixed him with a look, and Thoreau gave in.
“Oh all right,” he sighed dramatically. “I knew it would be an adventure.”
“And…?” Piggy prompted.
“And it’s been fun,” Thoreau admitted. “I—I didn’t know it would be this fun.”
Piggy stretched forward and Thoreau allowed her to bus his cheek chastely.
“Glad you could join us,” Piggy said dryly, then turned and presented her back. “Be a dear, won’t you, and make sure my belt isn’t twisted.”
Thoreau fixed the belt and tweaked the lay of her beaded collar.
“There!” he said. “You’re gorgeous.”
Piggy paused at the door and gave him a saucy look.
“You say that like it’s news!”
“Not to me, Darling,” Thoreau said exuberantly, and Piggy shook her head and smiled all the way out to the stage.
“Hi ho, Kermit the Frog here to wish you all a very happy and joyful Christmas!”
The crowd did not need warming up. They were already downright self-combustible, but Kermit found that their energy relaxed him. Watching unseen from the wings, Piggy assessed the crowd. They were thrillingly close to selling out every show, even with the three additional nights they’d added. That was all the studio would allow, but it was enough of a respite to sell a lot more tickets.
Although she’d been surprised and a little flustered to see Mr. Strathers earlier today, she had to admit that the casino—and the casino owners—had been more than supportive since they’d arrived. They seemed to know how to treat performers, and Piggy peeked at her husband across the stage and smiled fondly. He looked…at home, she thought absently. A frog in his natural element. Kermit had been performing even before she’d met him, and he seemed more at home on this stage that Piggy had seen him look in some time.
He was a genuine entertainer at heart, Piggy thought. Although she had certainly found reasons to love other mediums—and the still camera seemed to love her as much if not more than the movie camera—Kermit had never been more himself than when he was playing to an attentive crowd. She remembered with great fondness the way he always managed to be showing off some talent or skill during their first months of working together, and Piggy would have had to be blind not to realize that this extended effort was for her benefit. And yet…and yet it had taken him so very long to make his move and stake a permanent claim on her heart. However long it had taken, Piggy was glad it had happened.
Piggy shook herself out of her reverie, laughing a little at her own nostalgia. That had been a long time ago—a measure of full and wonderful years. She acknowledged with great satisfaction that they had built on the foundation of mutual attraction and respect to have a love and a relationship that most would envy, especially if they knew the depth of feeling that preceded and sustained it.
“Dear Kermit,” thought Piggy, smiling. “The one who takes care of everone and everything.” She sighed, counting her blessings, and waited for her cue.
“Ready for your big dance number?” Scooter teased. Sara looked at him and nodded, but Scooter laughed and put his arms around her. “You’d be more convincing if you weren’t holding your breath,” he teased. Sara let out a shaky sigh and leaned into the comfort of Scooter’s arms.
“I’m—I’ll be fine,” she said firmly, furious with the nervous quaver in her voice.
“You’ll be wonderful,” said Scooter. He stepped back against the wall to get out of the way of Sal and Rizzo, who were helping Clifford haul some musical equipment down the hallway. Something felt funny to Scooter, and he sifted his memory carefully to figure out what it was. Mabel poked her head out of the kitchenette—she had planned to be on call during the entire performance tonight—and flagged down the men as they returned so they would stop in for something on their way back. It took Clifford’s affectionate wink to tell him, and then Scooter smiled from ear to ear.
“What?” asked Sara, seeing his secret smile. “What’s so funny?”
Scooter blushed a little. “Well,” he said, looking sheepish. “I’ve kindof grown up backstage, I guess. My uncle farmed me out to be the company gofer when I was a teenager.”
Sara reached out and touched his face, smiling at him. “You’re not a teenager any more,” she said softly.
“I know,” Scooter said softly. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“And you don’t seem shy to me,” Sara said pointedly. Scooter just grinned.
“I’m allowed,” he said serenely, “to change my image if I want to.” Scooter might have kissed her then, but his headset was talking again.
“Gotcha,” he said, then gave Sara a quick smooch and disentangled himself. “Gotta go!” he said suddenly. “But I’ll see you for Dream Girls.”
“It’s a date,” said Sara, and went off to practice some more on her shimmy.
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