Chapter 51: Confessions and Conundrums
Piggy had calmed herself sufficiently to put on the full diva regalia that Thoreau has so painstakingly compiled, and she was almost calm by the time she began to put on her makeup. Kermit had apologized about twenty-five thousand times for not telling Piggy who was doing the interview, and he watched her with some concern and great contrition as she sat down in front of the little vanity.
“You look beautiful, Piggy,” he offered, his eyes hopeful, and was relieved when she only shot him a reproachful look and kept on lightly dusting powder over her flawless skin. She took out a little wand of mascara and carefully applied very black tint just to the very ends. Piggy did not really wear a lot of makeup, but she could do quite a lot with very little. That made Kermit think of her wardrobe, and he admired the silk lounging ensemble that lay is soft sibilant folds against her rosy skin. It looked very up-to-the-modern chic, but it had that old-Hollywood glamour that so fitted her. Unexpectedly, she met his eyes in the mirror and he saw only bemusement and exasperation. Kermit could not help smiling in relief: He had been forgiven. He leaned forward, daring karate-chop proximity, and Piggy proffered her cheek for his quick kiss. “A little notice would have been nice, Mon Capitan,” she said, but he could tell from her tone that she was calm and would be ready when the time came.
In fact, she had just draped herself artfully over the armchair when the doorbell rang—precisely on time. Thoreau startled and clamped a hand over his mouth to keep from squealing, then snatched up any of the unused pouf and fluff and whisked it out of sight. He slipped into the bedroom that had been empty, but now housed Foo-Foo’s modest luggage and shut the door firmly behind him. Kermit looked at Piggy and, after only a flicker of hesitation she nodded and waved one gloved hand languidly.
“Entrez vous,” she called, but Kermit went politely to the door. It opened and Brenda Starr, legendary reporter, stood framed in the doorway. Piggy did not show overt interest, but she watched furtively as Kermit performed his host duties, laughing and talking easily with their famous guest. For a moment, his small green figure was outlined in the doorway. Piggy’s nervousness fled, and she felt her heart flood with protectiveness. She would do anything for that frog—anything he needed. Piggy stood and swept smoothly toward the door, her gloved hand outstretched graciously.
“How nice of you to come, Ms. Starr,” said Piggy, coming to stand behind her husband. She felt him stiffen slightly in surprise, and the lovely reporter smiled and accepted Piggy’s greeting with approval.
“How nice of you to have me, Mr. and Mrs. The Frog,” said Brenda.
“Won’t you sit down?” said Kermit, ever polite, and Piggy saw her look at him with penetrating comprehension. She hoped—she hoped that she would see what they could all see—his sweetness, his fairness, his goodness. Without warning, Piggy found Brenda’s gaze locked on hers and she stood stock-still and looked back. There might have been a trace of defiance in Piggy’s gaze—it would have been worth a bet, at least—but, if anything, the reporter’s beautiful eyes softened just a tad.
“I’d love to,” said Brenda. They headed toward the furniture, and whatever revelations the afternoon would elicit. Piggy thought about what Scooter had said, and wondered if they had invited a lion into their very own den.
“So the blue silk shirt needs to be pressed, in case I wear my grey suit. But I need the white shirt too, cuz you just can beat the clean look of a crisp white shirt—know what I’m saying, Sal?”
“Well, sure Johnny,” said Sal immediately. He took the blue shirt and the white shirt carefully, determined to do a good job. “I’ll just get these ironed and get ‘em right back in your closet before—”
“Hang on there, you silly chimp,” said Johnny Fiama. “If I don’t wear the grey suit—cuz you know, sometimes it makes me look a little fat, you think?”
“Of course not, Johnny,” Sal said automatically. “Everybody feels that way in a double-breasted suit.”
“Really? You wouldn’t fun me now, would you Sal?”
“Of course not! You know I wouldn’t!” Sal turned toward the door again. “White shirt—extra starch. Blue shirt, watch the cuffs. Sure thing.”
“Hold it,” said Johnny. He draped an ivory slubbed silk shirt over Sal’s long arms. “This one is in case I decide to go without a tie, you know? Show a more casual side.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Sal said, careful to keep the sleeves from dangling onto the ground. “If you need to look good, I’m your monkey.”
“Wait!”
Sal turned around. “If I don’t wear the grey suit, because, you know, I’m just not sure about the double-breasted thing. Ma’s been pushing the cannoli’s pretty hard lately, and I was just thinking the other day that—“
“Are you kidding?” Sal said loyally, before any admission of less-than-perfection could escape Johnny’s lips. “You look great. But what if you don’t wear the grey suit?”
“If I wear the blue suit,” Johnny said thoughtfully, “then I could wear the—“
“—blue shirt?” asked Sal. “That would look great. I’ll just get these—“
“The blue shirt with my blue suit? What are you, a moron? I can’t wear the blue shirt with the blue suit.”
“No?” said Sal. “Cause I thought it looked really great there—you had kind of a schematic color thing going last time you—“
Abandoning conversation, Johnny pilled three more shirts onto Sal’s outstretched arms. Sal cradled them carefully, but looked confused.
“You want I should iron all of these, Johnny?” he asked.
Johnny Fiama put his hands on his waist. “No, Sal,” he said in what might have actually passed for a Sesame Street voice. “I want you to wear them so I can go to my interview with Brenda Starr naked as a jaybird.”
Sal looked at him doubtfully. “Well, the arms are a little short for me. And look, I know you been working out and all, Johnny, but I don’t think you should go see that reporter lady in the—“
“Would you get outta here?” Johnny cried. “Just iron my stinking shirts, you dumb chimp! And try not to be so stupid, okay?”
Sal went, obedient but confused. “Sure,” he said. “Sure thing, Johnny.”
Clifford had been pressed into service trucking equipment from one side of backstage to the other, but he paused in his tracks when Dr. Honeydew wandered absently into his path.
“Hey Doc,” said Clifford. “Who’s that rocket scientist that I saw you with the other night?”
For a single guy, Clifford seemed to keep pretty effective track of who was doing what with who and where. Not that it helped his dating life very much.
Doctor Honeydew stopped and stared at Clifford myopically, just then seeming to register where he was, and then a huge smile broke over his face.
“Oh!” he cried. “You mean Shantilla! From the disco.”
“Yeah,” Clifford said, smiling. “That’s the one. You gonna see the lucky lady again?” Without malice, Clifford doubted it, but felt it only polite to inquire.
“Why yes!” said the scientist enthusiastically. “You know we’re sold out, of course, but Kermit said she could come and watch the show from the sound booth.”
Clifford’s eyes widened in surprise and he shifted the box on his shoulder. Apparently, Doctor Honeydew had made a better blind date than he would have expected.
“Well, that’s real nice, Doc,” said Clifford. “I’ll make a point to say ‘hi’ when I see her.”
“Oh, that would be very kind of you,” said the good doctor, beaming affably. At just that moment, Beaker joined them. He and Clifford waved languid fingers at each other in half-greeting as Clifford passed on.
“Mee me meep?” asked Beaker.
“Oh, just asking about Shantilla.”
“Me mee MEEP meep!” Beaker said. Fondly, he nudged his lab partner in the ribs, and Honeydew blushed and giggled.
“Oh, stop, Beakie,” he insisted. “We’re just going out dancing after the show.” Something seemed to occur to him. Puzzled, he stared after Clifford’s retreating back.
“That’s so odd,” he mused. Beaker looked at him quizzically.
“Mee?”
“Well, nothing really, I suppose,” said Honeydew thoughtfully. “I was just wondering how Clifford knew she was studying nuclear physics at CSU.”
Rowlf and Foo Foo were strolling through the casino. Foo Foo looked around, eyes shining, and seemed completely in her element in the bright lights and noise.
They stopped at one of the little eateries and found a quiet table. A well-polished young waiter took their drink orders and returned in short order with a couple of chocolate malts.
“So how’d you like the lady-with-the-grandkids gig?” Rowlf asked politely. “Was she nice?”
“Oh yeah,” said Foo Foo. “She’s a doll—one of my regulars. I see her three or four times a year when her grandkids visit. Sometimes I travel with her.”
Rowlf gave her a look of interest. He had never known a whole lot about Foo Foo’s work after she left Piggy.
“Go anyplace interesting?”
“New York, to shop,” said Foo Foo. “Sometimes she wants me when her husband travels on business. We hang out during the day, and then I get the hotel room all to myself while she and hubby have a nice dinner and go dancing.”
“Sounds nice,” said Rowlf.
“Yeah,” said Foo Foo. “First class all the way, and a real nice lady.” She leaned back against Rowlf in the padded seats and smiled up at him. “What about you, Rowlfie? What are you doing after this show?”
“Make me an offer, Sweetheart,” he said in his best imitation of Bogie.
Foo Foo laughed and smacked him lightly in the chest. “No, really,” she said. “What’s next for ol’ brown eyes?”
The good-natured canine shrugged. “Some studio work,” Rowlf said. “And of course we’ll finish the movie. Then I’ll be on my own for a bit if I want to be, but I may stick around and see what else Kermit has going on.”
Foo Foo smiled impishly. “Kermit’s a good guy,” she said. “A little uptight, maybe, but a real good guy. He and Piggy seem, um….good.”
Rowlf heard the hesitation in her voice and looked at her, trying to read her expression.
“Yeah,” he said, wondering how much more to say. “You and Piggy had a chance to catch up yet?”
“Just a little,” Foo Foo hedged. “Just talked about our work. And, of course, the interview was looming so…” She looked at Rowlf again, and her dark eyes were clearly worried. “Is she—are they really okay? I’ve been reading a lot of…um, stuff in the paper.”
“I wouldn’t piddle on any of that trash,” Rowlf almost growled. “Garbage, all of it.”
Foo Foo looked relieved but not really happy. “Oh, good,” she said. “I was—I was worried. I was really happy to get your call.”
Rowlf pulled back and looked at her, his expression bemused. “Is that all I am to you, Foo dear? A means to an end?”
Foo Foo laughed and closed the distance between them. Her pert little face smiled up into his. “I guess it depends,” she said.
“Depends?” Rowlf cried indignantly. “On what?”
She put her cold little nose up close to his ear so she could whisper. “I guess it depends on which end you mean,” she murmured. She nipped Rowlf smartly on the ear, then slipped from the booth took off running for the door. She paused just inside the door and looked back over her shoulder at Rowlf’s startled face. “So,” she said archly. “You comin’ or what?”
Rowlf hit the floor running.
The Mayhem had arrived, taken their rehearsal by storm and were drifting off again to fill the afternoon before showtime. Perhaps because of the earlier shenanigans backstage, Dr. Teeth was careful to keep the rehearsal cranking along in a professional manner. The music always soothed this collection of savage breasts and he watched with almost parental concern as they filed away. Floyd seemed to have gotten over whatever had pushed him over the edge, but he still looked tense and there was a slump to his shoulders that was not usually there. He and Janice walked off together, and he saw them at the edge of the stage in earnest conversation. Janice’s body language clearly said, “Awwww,” and she stretched up to kiss Floyd below his coppery mustache, but then she moved away. Floyd watched her go, staring after her like a child watching his balloon float out of reach.
Dr. Teeth hesitated. Something was up—no, something was down, but he didn’t know what to make of it what he was seeing. Until this morning, he had thought that a live show would be a great cure-all for anything that ailed them. It had been too long—too long indeed—since they had heard the stamp and clap of an audience not ten feet away But somewhere along the road to the city that tells no tales, something had caused Floyd’s usually unflappable (heck, near-comatose) nature to unsettle. Uncertainly, Dr. Teeth watched Floyd, finally making up his mind to initiate a talk with his bass player but as he approached, Floyd ambled out the door.
Forgotten, Animal strained at his leash and looked after his usual keeper, but Dr. Teeth moved hastily into the void.
“Not to worry, big guy,” he said soothingly. “Let’s take ourselves on a promenade around the strip.”
“Promenade!” cried Animal. “PROM! IH! NAHD!”
If the good doctor of music had hoped to catch up to Floyd, he was disappointed. There was no sign of the bass player beyond the hall.
I’m sure there’s someone here at the hotel what appreciates a good clothes ironer, thought Sal truculently. He waddled down the hall with an enormous armful of beautiful shirts. When Johnny had wanted all of them ironed for his expected interview with Brenda Starr, Sal had seen his afternoon of expected leisure evaporate like steam from an overheated iron. An overheated iron that he had wielded with great care over Johnny’s expensive shirts. Sal knocked expectantly on the door, waited an inordinate amount of time for Johnny to answer it and then found himself met with considerable enthusiasm.
“Sal!” Johnny cried. “I’m glad you’re here!’
Sal didn’t just smile. His whole furry body broke into a wriggle of pleasure. “Aw, thanks, Johnny,” he began. “I’m glad to—“
“This place is a mess! You gotta clean up around here in case she wants to come to my room.”
Sal looked around the room which, less than forty-five minutes earlier, had been tidy. It was now strewn with half of Johnny’s considerable wardrobe, and the room service tray on the bed contained the remains of what looked to have been a delicious sandwich combo. Sal felt his mouth water and his stomach rumbled. He had not stopped for lunch, anxious to finish Johnny’s ironing.
“Well, yeah, Johnny, but I was gonna—“
“Whatever it is, do it later, you know what I’m saying? I’m countin’ on you, Sal—don’t let me down.”
“Oh! No!” said Sal hastily. “I wouldn’t let you down Johnny. You know I’d never let you down.”
“Great, great,” said Johnny, looking at himself in the mirror in his grey suit—sans shirt—and trying to suck in his stomach. “I don’ know, Sal. I don’t think it’s the suit.”
Sal was not as hasty to offer reassurances, eying the half a pickle and scatter of chips left on Johnny’s plate. He reached for the slice of dill, but Johnny came up behind him and grasped his shoulders.
“Sal! What are you doin’? We gotta get ready for my interview.”
Sal sighed and turned away from the picked-over plate, trying not to think about food, and began to put the hotel room to rights.
“So, that’s about it for the movie and the show,” said Kermit. For the last half-hour he and Piggy had regaled Brenda with funny stories and anecdotes from the movie set and the show. Piggy had been at her most charming, but Kermit thought that if he put his hand unexpectedly on her back that she might just jump across the room, so wound up was she. Up until this point, Kermit had felt calm. As long as they stayed in the realm of the professional, he was fine. Now, they were heading for uncharted waters, and Kermit felt his own nervousness begin to rise. “Um,” he said. He looked up at Brenda, and reached for Piggy’s hand. “I guess you want to, um, know about the other stuff,” he began uncomfortably. “I don’t—do we have to talk about the other stuff?”
“What other stuff?” said Brenda Starr. Her eyes were gentle, but shrewd.
Kermit looked confused, but Piggy’s eyes narrowed slightly. She’s good, Piggy thought admiringly, but her admiration was tempered by caution.
“Oh!” Kermit said. “I thought Marty would have told you…”
He trailed off as Piggy squeezed his hand and turned to look at his wife—just in time to see her narrow her eyes and give Ms. Starr one of the warning looks that even Gonzo knew to heed. “Oh, I’m sure Marty told her,” Piggy said sweetly. “Check your notes, dear—I’m sure he mentioned it.”
Brenda smiled at Piggy, and her eyebrow arched just a tad. She’s good, Brenda thought admiringly, but her admiration was tempered by determination. If Piggy intended to set herself up as the, um, dragon at the gate, Brenda intended to find a way to either quench the dragon’s fire, or appease the dragon enough to let her in. She turned to Piggy and smiled broadly.
“Marty did mention that you are having some slight trouble with the rumor mill….” She suggested mildly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Piggy sputter for a second or two before she clamped her composure back on her beautiful porcine face.
“Well, I don’t know if I’d say slight,” Kermit muttered. “There’s this reporter that seems to want people to think that Piggy and I—“ He paused, uncertain, and looked at Piggy. She squeezed his hand again in a reassuring way and his mouth tipped into a smile. “That Piggy and I are having trouble.” The look on his face was eloquent testimony to the untruth of such rumors, and Piggy’s answering look of bemusement seconded his words. Kermit turned back to Brenda. “The only trouble Piggy and I are having is with this reporter, and the rumors flying around.”
“Why do you think he’s doing this?” Brenda asked thoughtfully. Kermit hesitated, at a loss. She knew who “this reporter” was, but she tactfully refrained form saying his name. If Scribbler was only looking for his 15 minutes of fame, she didn’t want to give it to him. But, her mind prompted fairly, he’d already had more than his 15 minutes. In fact, once upon a time, his byline had been highly recognized, and there hadn’t been a paper in the world that wouldn’t have printed a story with his tag on it. What had happened in the interim was a puzzle, and the thought made Brenda frown. She didn’t like puzzles—at least, she didn’t like the unsolved kind. She put that thought away for future study. She would need her wits about her to keep ahead of Piggy.
That sort of challenge she liked and…and she liked this couple that sat before her with such solidarity. As a reporter, it was her job to try to chink through the façade of perfection they were projecting and get to know the real frog and the real pig that lay beneath, and to use that information to rebut the rumors that were whirling through the air. That is, if the rumors weren’t true. Marty said they weren’t, and Brenda was prepared to take Marty’s word on, well, just about anything, but she could not do her job on hearsay. Hearsay was the problem, after all. There was something odd and inexplicable about the bother they were experiencing, and it roused her sense of justice and made her want to cry foul.
“It’s always hard being a public figure,” Kermit said hesitantly. “I mean, sure, there are lots of entertainers that are more recognizable than us—“
Beside him, he felt Piggy stiffen in protest, then subside.
“—and you just have to rise above all the people who want to make your life difficult.”
“And if you can’t rise above them, you might have to raise them right off the ground with a great left hook,” Piggy muttered. Kermit looked aghast, but Brenda grinned.
“I’ve seen the articles,” the lovely reporter admitted, “and I don’t blame you for thinking about it.”
“Now now,” Kermit said, striving to soothe Piggy. “Violence isn’t going to solve this problem.”
“Neither is ignoring it, Dear,” said Piggy. She loved Kermit--she loved his gentleness and she loved the way he could turn the other cheek when provoked, but Piggy was a firm believer in the fact that restraint wasn’t always the answer.
“I’m not ignoring it!” Kermit said to Piggy. He took a deep breath, then turned to Brenda pleadingly. “I’m not ignoring it,” he insisted quietly. “I’m—I’m just trying to do the show. And the movie.” He shot a sideways look at Piggy. “And protect Piggy from all of this.”
Piggy’s blue eyes widened and her lips gave an involuntary tremble.
] “Oh, Kermie,” she cried. “Sweetie!” She turned to Brenda for support as though they had been sorority sisters. “See how he is!” she demanded, exasperation in every line of her body. “As though this were just happening to me and not to us.”
“I can see how this would affect your ability to do the show.”
“Forget the show!” Piggy exclaimed passionately. “What about my frog?”
“What about your frog?” Brenda asked. "Tell me what you want me to know." She was leaning forward and she and Piggy seemed to be speaking on an almost subliminal level Kermit couldn’t quite plumb. The rattled amphibian gulped.
When Scooter had suggested this, Kermit had had some vague idea that this interview was going to be a calm, collected affair, with him and Piggy putting on their company manners for a professional and thoughtful article. Now that they had taken an unexpected turn into this emotional minefield, Kermit had a wild desire to flee the room.
“Anybody want tea?”
“Nope” and “No thanks,” came the terse replies.
“Petit four?” Kermit suggested. “Scone?”
Both women stopped suddenly and laughed. Piggy reached over and took Kermit’s hand, looking at him meekly, and Brenda flashed Kermit a smile of such warmth that most of his worries fled.
“Scone?” Brenda laughed.
“Well, I was going to say ‘crumpet,’” Kermit admitted, “but I didn’t think anyone would bite.”
Piggy’s demeanor was proper, but she gave him a quick look that said she might bite after all. Kermit felt a blush tinge his cheeks. He thought he might have to lie down before tonight’s show.
To his relief and astonishment, Brenda had stood up. She was proffering her hand and making leaving noises.
“I know you need to get ready for tonight’s show,” she said firmly. “We’ll finish up later.” She smiled and Kermit felt somehow fortified by the friendliness in her tone. He walked her to the door.
“Sheesh!” said Kermit feelingly. “There’s more?” But his mouth quirked up at the corners, belying his dismay.
Brenda took a quiet leave of them, and Kermit closed the door and turned to his wife. His smile was wry.
“I feel like I’ve run a marathon—or like I’m about to,” he said wearily. “I can’t believe there’s going to be more.”
Piggy came over and put her arms around his shoulders. Her gaze was solemn, but there was a glimmer of merriment around her mouth and eyes.
“There’s always more,” she insisted. “More to know. More to tell. More to learn.”
Kermit leaned forward and kissed her, not quite able to say what he wanted to say. Piggy put a gentle hand on his face when they broke apart and looked into his eyes.
“More where that came from?” he suggested hopefully. Piggy just nodded, and proved his point for him without any further urging.
“Hey Honey,” said Gloria Jean. “Why so glum?”
“Yeah,” said Laura May. “We know it isn’t boyfriend problems!”
Janice looked up and tried to smile, but her usually sparkling eyes were clouded with worry. She touched her cheeks ruefully, feeling the frown on her face. “Oh, I guess it’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing,” said Gloria Jean gently. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping.”
Janice smiled and nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Like, I’ve been really bummed by all the negativity around here.” She stopped and looked up hastily, worried that she might have been misunderstood. “Not you guys—not the gang. Just the..the other.”
“Oh,” said Gloria Jean dryly. “That.”
“Yeah,” Janice said sadly. “That. It’s bumming my guy out, putting a damper on everything. And this month is supposed to be special because—“
“Well, if you ask me—and I know you didn’t—“ broke in Amy Lu, “I think all of this tabloid stuff is terrible. It’s making everyone miserable.” She looked at Janice and patted her arm. “And you’re guy is all worked up over it, too. That’s sweet.”
Janice brightened. “Yeah,” she chimed in hastily. “He doesn’t always say a lot, but he feels things, you know?”
Gloria Jean nudged her with a shoulder. “We know what you mean,” she teased. “But tell us anyway!”
“Oh, you guys!” Janice cried, laughing and blushing. “That’s not what I meant.” She broke into a wide smile. “But now that you mention it—“
The room full of girls erupted into a flurry of giggles.
“So, tell me about this top-secret dress that Piggy’s dressmaker is making for you,” challenged Sally Ann. “What’s it for?”
“How did you--?”
“I have my ways….”
“Oh, stop it, Sal! You know you overheard Kermit talking about it! We all did!”
“Kermit?” wailed Janice. “Like, how does Kermit know?”
“Well, he doesn’t, apparently. He just knows that he can’t get in Piggy’s dressing room now that Thoreau has taken it over, and he knows that you were getting fitted for a dress that wasn’t for the show.”
“But it’s not—it isn’t a dress!” Janice protested.
“What then? Lingerie!” She pronounced it linger-ee, making them all laugh.
The room erupted again.
“Nooooooo,” Janice insisted, but something in her tone made them all stop and look at her eagerly.
“Tell us!”
“Yeah! What’s the big secret!”
“C’mon! Don’t hold out on your girls!”
“Well,” said Janice, giving in with delight. “So, like, it isn’t a dress. It’s. well, it’s like something that I wore a long time ago for a rully special occasion. See, this month is--”
“Does this special occasion have a special person attached to it? Say---a certain bass player of our acquaintance?”
Janice nodded. “Yep! Fer sure!” she confirmed.
“And the special occasion was...?”
Janice looked down, suddenly shy. “Well, when we were filming in England—“
There was a loud knock on the door. Janice broke off abruptly, and they all looked at each other. Shrugging, Laura May got up to answer the door. Clifford’s distinctive dread-locked profile was visible.
“Hey,” said Clifford, looking furtively behind him. “Is, um—?“
“Coming,” said Janice. She looked an apology at the girls, got up from the stool where she sat and went to the door.
“Look,” said Clifford urgently. “We have a problem.”
“What’s wrong?” Janice cried. “Did somebody tell about—“
“No. Not so’s I know, anyway, but this is getting uncomfortable. Look, Janice--I can’t—I don’t like this secrecy stuff. Why can’t you just tell him?”
“I can’t!” Janice wailed. “I—I’m not ready yet!”
The women in the room were wide-eyed with horrified interest. Eavesdropping seemed indecent, but it was impossible not to perk their ears toward the conversation in the doorway.
“Yeah, well you better get ready, Lady J. I’m about to get my lights punched out. Look—you know I’d do anything for you, but this is not working out quite like I planned.”
“Just a little longer, Clifford,” Janice pleaded. “Then the secret will be out and it won’t matter if—“
Clifford cast another furtive glance, half-questioning, into the room. Janice saw the look, then responded by drawing her erstwhile caller out into the hall, shutting the door behind her.
There was a stunned silence in the room and the young ladies looked at each other in various degrees of puzzlement and dismay.
“Crikey!” said Laura May. “Wrong bass player!”
“I’ll say!” echoed Sally Ann. “What’s that all about? You don’t think--?”
“I don’t,” insisted Gloria Jean firmly. “I mean, there’s got to be another explanation. She was just talking about Floyd, right?”
“Well, if she was, she was talking about Floyd being bummed by all the negativity,” said Laura May ominously. “Gosh, I hope this isn’t what it looks like.”
“Me, too! It seems like all of the—“
The door opened again, and Janice backed into the room.
“So!” Gloria Jean said with false brightness. “That’s how I got Rizzo to put on a clean shirt so we could—oh! Hi, Honey! Gonna finish telling us what the big occasion is?”
Janice’s cheeks were flushed and she looks distressed. “Ooh, like, maybe later, ‘kay? I’ve got to, um, go deal with something,” she muttered, and was gone before they could stop her.
It was a sober little hen party in the ladies dressing room.
“Wow,” said Amy Lu. “I hope….”
“The end of an era,” said Laura May. “Just like—“ She bit her lip and did not finish her thought.
Gloria Jean was all business, but her cheeks flamed with color. “We don’t know anything,” she insisted. “I mean, things aren’t always the way they look, you know? Think about what’s happening to Kermit and Miss Piggy,” she reminded them. This, contrarily, seemed to cheer them, at least as it related to Janice and Floyd. The ladies nodded solemnly, then Amy Lu looked down at her watch and let out a little squeal.
“Omigosh!” she cried. “We’re late!”
Three heads snapped and looked at the clock on the wall, then vaulted toward the door in a scramble of spandex. Howard was going to have their heads!
Sal once again found himself trundling down to the guest laundry to make use of the professional iron. His stomach was grumbling, and Johnny had been in such a mood that even his loyalty had been tried. He turned the corner and saw a door open. To his surprise, Janice and Clifford came scurrying furtively down the hallway together, and the sight struck him so unusual that he stopped in the doorway of the ice machine alcove to think.
Sal was not a quick thinker, so he was still there when the bevy of leotard-clad bodies hurtled past him toward the elevator.
“Hi Sal!” cried Amy Lu. “Look out! We’re late!”
Sal heeded her advice and pressed back against the wall, but yelped as a character shoe almost landed on one of Johnny’s shirt-sleeves, which was trailing the floor. “Hey!” he cried. “Hey! Watch it, will ya? These are four of Johnny’s best shirts!”
“Sorry!” called Sally Ann, but Gloria Jean made a rude noise.
“Why can’t that oily crooner iron his own shirts!” she crabbed.
Johnny! Sal felt a twinge of resentment, so small and so myopic that it couldn’t go far, but he felt it nonetheless. “You know,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not much fun when the person you care about most in the world doesn’t feel the same way about you!”
“Yeah,” came a raspy voice from the corner. Sal started and whirled around in time to see Floyd Pepper unfurl himself from the shadows of a wall he’d been leaning against. There was no telling how long he’d been there, but he’d been there at least before Sal had stopped.
Floyd stopped near the downcast primate, dejection in every line of his body. He spoke to the little monkey, but didn’t actually look at him. “Yeah, Sal. I know what you mean.” Floyd heaved a sigh and walked slowly down the hall.
“Gosh,” Sal said, suddenly forgetting his own troubles—and to hold onto Johnny’s shirts. “Gosh oh gosh.” He bent hastily and picked up the fallen garments.
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