Chapter 72: The Creatures Were Shaken, Not Stirring
There are few things in this world that will bring you more fully awake than having a small over-excited frog jumping on your abdomen. Kermit came to wakefulness rather suddenly, catching Robin under the armpits before his enthusiasm could land him again. Piggy rolled over in all her tousled splendor and Kermit was momentarily distracted by the thought that the way she looked this morning might be the best present he’d receive today.
“It’s Christmas, it’s Christmas, it’s Christmas Day already!"
Kermit dared a look at the nightstand. “Just barely," he yawned, a slight exaggeration.
To his surprise and chagrin, Piggy slipped out of bed, bright-eyed and alert. She pulled a silk robe over her silk pajamas and took Robin firmly in—and by—the hand.
“C’mon," she said. “I’m sure there’s something that Santa left that doesn’t have to be unwrapped.”
She shooed Robin out while Kermit yawned again and rubbed both hands over his face. It had been almost Christmas when they’d finally gotten all the parts of the train carted up to the room, and he had had a couple of bad moments while Dr. Honeydew helped him reassemble it, but it would be worth the effort just to see Robin’s face. If he didn’t miss it.
He tore out of bed as fast as his groggy body would allow, but heaved a great sigh of relief when he rounded the bedroom door and saw Piggy gently leading Robin, whose eyes were tightly closed, by an elbow.
“Can I open them yet? Can I?"
“Almost," she said, smiling at Kermit. “Just a couple more steps and then—go!"
It was worth it—every bit of it. Robin proceeded to jump for joy, bounding around the electric train as though mesmerized, his mouth hanging open in almost-disbelief.
“He brought it! Santa brought the train!" He turned and fixed Piggy with an exuberant expression. “Do you know what that means?"
“What does that mean, Robin dear?" Piggy asked indulgently, smiling fondly at her second-favorite frog. His next words made her inhale sharply, however, and she looked quizzically at Kermit.
“It means that bad man is going to stop writing stories about you two!" Robin cried.
Kermit also inhaled sharply and traded wary looks with Piggy.
“What’s that, Robin?" Kermit asked, trying not to appear too intent.
It was Robin’s turn to look indulgent, and he smiled at his uncle and aunt and explained. “I told Santa he didn’t have to bring me the train set if he’d make that reporter stop writing about you, Uncle Kermit," Robin chirped.
Kermit and Piggy tried to smile but exchanged another set of anxious looks.
“Well, yes but—“ Piggy began.
“Robin, what makes you think—“
“Don’t you see? He brought the train set anyway! That means he’s going to do it.”
“Um, do what, sweetheart?" Piggy asked. Sheesh, should kids come with an instruction manual or what?
“Make him stop writing things. I knew he would. Santa can do anything.”
Kermit was about to launch into a patient, awkward explanation of things that Santa was likely to be able to do verses what would be beyond his ability, but Piggy—as usual—saved him.
“What a nice thing to wish for!" she said, kissing him on the top of Robin’s smooth head. Her eyes, on Kermit, said they’d talk about it--later. “Let’s see what else is under the tree!"
Kermit brewed coffee, strong and black, shucked his pajamas and managed to give the illusion of attentiveness and alertness before people started showing up. Mabel arrived first with the food—or at least the first wave of it—and the manpower, er, rodent-power or thingamajig-power to move it. Gonzo and Rizzo carried in boxes and sturdy shopping bags, each one full of tantalizing smells. He tried to help unload but Mabel smacked his hand smartly with a wooden spoon and told him to go open something, so Kermit wandered over to where Piggy was. She was pulling presents out, examining the tags and then sticking them back under the tree. She did not appear to be looking for anything in particular—just looking because it was interesting.
“Here’s one for you, Kermie," she called out happily, and Kermit took it and looked at the neat flowering handwriting. For a person whose desk drawer was perpetually untidy, Piggy certainly had lovely handwriting. “You can open it.”
“Not until I find one of your presents," he insisted, and joined her in the hunt.
“Yeah," said Scooter. “I’ll, um, do that and, um, come right back and, um, you know, be there with you and…stuff.” In his distraction, he almost backed into Mabel and a tray full of orange-marmalade jelly rolls. He whirled when his back touched the tray, apologizing and righting the tray and the cook.
“Sorry, sorry," he muttered. “I’m sorry, Mabel.”
Mabel patted him on the arm and at his pale face. “You okay, Sport? You’re looking a little like your boss.”
“I am?" Scooter touched his face and self-consciously smoothed his hair.
“Yeah," said Mabel, eying him. “You look a little green around the gills.”
“Green around the—oh. Oh! Got it. I mean, I do?" He looked not only greenish but miserable. He opened his mouth so speak again, shut it, then looked down at his hands. Mabel noticed that his silk shirt with the French cuffs was misbuttoned and began to be a little worried.
Mabel put her tray down. She had not known this rag tag little band of performers for long, but she knew enough and had raised enough children to know that something was seriously wrong.
“What’s a matter, Scooter?" she said, dipping her head so she could peer into his eyes. “I’ve not seen you with so much as a haircut out of place before now.” She put a careful hand on his arm and looked over at Kermit and Piggy nervously. “Anything…up?"
So preoccupied was Kermit’s personal assistant that he didn’t catch Mabel’s glance, but she was glad later that he hadn’t.
“Yes. I mean, no, not really. I’m just, you know, wanting Christmas to be special.”
“Like, Merry Christmas lover," said Janice. She handed Floyd a package that looked like it might contain a coffee mug, brightly festooned with holiday paper and a big white ribbon. Not about to be caught short, Floyd dug in his back pocket and withdrew a smaller, if equally festive, package. It looked suspiciously like a jewelry box. They traded packages and unwrapped them eagerly.
Floyd was faster, ripping the paper to open the box underneath. “Oh, Babe," Floyd said, pulling out the wadded fabric and spreading it out carefully. He looked up to find her watching him with all the delight of a child. He gave the garment a sniff and his eyes opened wide, furry eyebrows rising. “Is this what I think—“
“Like, for sure, Honeybunch.”
“But, whoa, babe—The Stones…whoa.”
She reached out and pulled out the rumpled and rather aromatic black tee shirt. She turned it around to show the illegible writing on the bottom. “When I told them it was for you, they signed it for me," Janice said triumphantly. “They were jazzed about it. Here—put it on.”
Reverently, Floyd put on the black tee that had seen a million screaming fans and rock and roll like the earth breaking apart. His sensitive musician’s fingers grazed the well-worn fabric, absorbing. His long droopy mustache quirked up in a smile. “How do I look?"
“Hotter than Mick did," Janice said breathlessly, and put her wonderful body against his. Her kiss, hot on the trails of her gift and her recent surprise, made him gasp and wonder if he had somehow died and gone to heaven without realizing it, but the warm, solid clasp of her form brought him back down eventually. He remembered his gift—the one he’d bought for her after a lot of soul-searching and the advice of more than one expert in the subject.
“Open yours," he insisted, shifting his weight nervously.
Janice obeyed, holding the little velvet box up to flip the top. The light caught the item inside, making it flash with reflected light.
“Oh!" said Janice. “Oh, oh Floyd!" She looked up, delight on her face and her wide, generous smile. “I can’t believe I finally got one!" Gingerly, she lifted the gift, admiring the way it felt in her hand.
“Ooh!" said Sally Ann with a laden plate and a present under her arm. “Janice—what did you get?"
Janice extended her hand and Sally Ann let out a little yelp. “OMG!" she breathed. “Is that really one of Janice Joplin’s guitar picks?"
“Like, really," Janice beamed. She turned and bestowed one of her million-watt smiles on Floyd, who beamed back at her. “Is my man the greatest, or what?"
“And besides opening jars, it also sounds an alarm if someone wants is trying to steal your cheese!" Gonzo said triumphantly. Camilla gave him a sideways look, containing both tenderness and exasperation.
“Bawk begawk?" she asked dryly.
Gonzo looked astonished. “That’s amazing!" he said. “How did you know Rizzo helped me pick it out?"
“What’s that you’re eating?" Howard asked Thoreau suspiciously. Thoreau stood there for a minute with his mouth held carefully.
“Nuffink," he said, around a mouthful of something wondrous.
Howard tsk-tsk’d and rolled his eyes. “Just tell me where you got it," he sighed.
Thoreau pointed.
“Ah thought you’d like on of these things," Sweetums boomed. Fozzie looked at the box in surprise.
“For me?"
“That’s right!" the big muppet thundered. “Ah saw it in a store and it made me think of you. You’re the funniest bear Ah know!"
Fozzie already felt grateful for Sweetums and his generous spirit, not to mention the compliment, but he tore into the gift back with alacrity.
“An arrow through the head! Oh, Sweetums! I love it!" He put it on. “How do I look?" he asked anxiously.
“You look funny," said Sarah, grinning widely as she passed by. “Merry Christmas, Fozzie.”
The cluster of leggy chorines traded bags of nice-smelling things—cookies, lotion, perfume—and Clifford hovered nearby just for ambiance. This party was a cornucopia of smells and sounds and family-ness and he was enjoying himself. Later today, he’d get to play a little mellow bass and makes the audience happy. This was shaping up to be a great day.
“…seen Sarah?" Scooter asked.
“Mee me meep moo," said Beaker, pointing. Scooter listened attentively and, out of sight of Beaker, opened his pocket-sized Guinea pig-to-English dictionary and looked, then looked puzzled.
“Follow the arrow? What arrow?"
“Pour vous," said Kermit, with his best high-school French. Piggy took the little package eagerly, not at all put off by the smell of hot-and-spicy thoraxes today. She ripped the paper off, opened the little box and let out a gasp of pleasure.
“Oooh! Kermie! It’s so…” Words failed her.
“Sparkly?" teased Kermit. “Robin voted for sparkly.”
She touched the delicate amethyst pin with her gloved hands, tracing the curve of the dragonfly body.
“How did you find one like this? Do you know what this makes me think of?" she asked, her blue eyes huge.
Kermit stepped closer and put his arm around her waist. “Um hum," he murmured. “That day we picnicked by the swimming hole.”
“And you wanted me to swim with you," she said, smiling and blushing. “But I didn’t have a bathing suit.”
“Why do you think I—“
“Do you like it Aunt Piggy?" Robin interrupted, appearing out of nowhere. “Uncle Kermit had it special made!"
If Piggy had been pleased with the gift before, she was enthralled with it now. She turned bright eyes on Kermit. “You had it made? Oh, mon Capitan!" She put her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.
“Hey Uncle Kermit," Robin cried happily. “I think she likes it!"
“…any more of those raspberry tarts?" Dr. Honeydew asked hopefully.
“Right here, sugar," Mabel responded. She waved the plate under his nose and let him pick two.
“Oh, man," said Rizzo around a mouthful of biscuit. “These sausage biscuits are to die for.”
“They will be if Miss Piggy hears you say that," Zoot replied laconically.
Rizzo fixed him with a beady stare. “I’ll have you know that these are tofu sausage," he snarked back.
Rowlf looked at the half-eaten biscuit in his hand. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle," he said. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“It’s not really that hard, Sweetie," said Foo Foo as she passed, throwing him a flirty look over her shoulder.
“I resemble that remark," Rowlf muttered, then grinned and trotted after her.
“Oh, hi!" said Sarah, stopping with her tray long enough to lean in and kiss Scooter on the mouth. “I have a present for you!"
“Oh, gee, that’s great, Sarah, and I have something for you," he responded. “I—“
“Does it involve lots of smooching?" Sarah teased, making Scooter blush as red as his hair.
“I was sortof hoping so," he admitted sheepishly, and she laughed out loud.
“You are too adorable," she said.
“Well, while that thought is foremost in your mind, I wanted to—“
“Just a mo, sweetheart. Let me take this tray back to Mabel and I’ll be right back.”
“But I was just—“
She leaned in to buss him again. “Mmm," she murmured. “Peppermint.” And she was gone.
Alone again, Scooter sighed.
Kermit thought at one point that it was going to take and act of God, or at least of Congress, to get all of the people in his suite down to the theatre in time for their matinee performance, but—this being a holiday—neither was likely to happened. Scooter happened, instead, herding people into the elevator and the stairwells like a drill sergeant.
“The kid’s got potential," Howard said in grudging admiration to Piggy.
“To be what?" she demanded. “A dictator?"
“Takes one to know one," Howard sing-songed.
“You better believe it," Piggy rejoined. They stepped into the elevator with Kermit and Fozzie and Sally Ann and Robin pressed the button. Kermit looked a little anxious, so Piggy reached out and clasped his hand.
“We’ll put it together," she said brightly. “We always do.”
Kermit had the good grace to look abashed. “I’m just worried about Rizzo fitting into his costumes," he grumbled.
“And how many mini quiches did you have?" Piggy asked.
Kermit looked indignant. “Um, four. Maybe five.” He looked thoughtful. “Okay—no more than seven, but I have a fast metabolism.”
“Just don’t go to sleep during our duet," Piggy said dryly, and Kermit snorted.
“During our duet? Not likely!"
The show went off with very little hitching. There were a couple of bad moments—mostly backstage, mostly Kermit—but the audience received the stellar show they’d come for and the applause was the proof in the pudding.
“Speaking of pudding," said Rizzo hopefully, “I heard a rumor that a traditional figgy pudding was going to make an entrance after the matinee.”
“I don’t know where you heard it from but I’d say you’ve got good sources," Mabel admitted fondly. “I’ve put out a new spread upstairs while you guys were singing and dancing.”
There were groans and a smattering of applause as the cast and crew headed back upstairs to continue merry-making.
“Good show," said Kermit, patting Scooter on the back. “You run a tight ship.”
Scooter looked pleased but distracted. “Thanks, boss. I’m not feeling all that organized right now.”
“It was great," Kermit insisted, hoping to cajole Scooter out of his mope. He might have said more but Piggy tugged his arm, pulling him away.
“But I think Scooter is worried about something," Kermit said earnestly to Piggy. “I think something’s wrong.”
Piggy opened her mouth to speak and then closed it thoughtfully. When she finally spoke, she said, “I think Scooter just wants a little time alone.”
“Alone? On Christmas?" Kermit looked over his shoulder at Scooter standing by himself. “I don’t think he ought to be alone on Christmas.”
Once again, Kermit got the impression from Piggy that she wanted to say something but was refraining from doing so. “Just give him a few minutes, okay? I think he’ll be fine.”
The merrymaking continued. Eggnog was brought out in modest amounts, there still being another show to do that day, and there were party games and stories. Fozzie told some jokes, a few of which were actually funny, and played the harmonica.
Kermit was relieved to see Scooter come through the door alone after about a half hour, and was even happier to see him dancing with Sarah a little later.
“I’m glad you asked me to come with you," Sarah said warmly, her bare arms around his shoulders. Scooter’s jeans and sweater were his concession to festiveness, but he had definitely been impressed with Sarah’s party clothes. Something about the way the little dress moved—or perhaps the way Sarah moved in the dress—seemed to improve his mood tenfold.
“I’m glad you came with me," Scooter said. He cleared his throat. “I know this isn’t the Christmas you were expecting. I know you thought we’d be at your house with your parents, eating Christmas dinner with them.” He cleared his throat again and Sarah hastened in to reassure him.
“Oh, please—don’t talk to be about missing Mom’s Christmas dinner. I’ve eaten so much today I could pop.”
“Me too," Scooter admitted. “But I wasn’t really trying to talk about the food. I just meant that, you know, sometimes you think things will turn out one way, and they do, but other times they don’t, so sometimes it’s hard to know exactly what’s going to happen.” He cleared his throat again. “Do you know what I mean, Sarah?"
“I think so," Sarah said, not at all sure. Scooter had been acting so…so, well, weird all day. She wondered if anything were wrong, and immediately thought about Scribbler, and the cloud of rumor and unease that hovered over this little company. She looked into Scooter’s eyes. Was he trying to tell her that something was wrong?
“Because I wanted to tell you something," Scooter said. He sounded nervous, and her adrenaline spiked. “Look, I’ve been trying to tell you—“
“Speech, speech!" the crowd around them began to chant. Scooter and Sarah looked up, started, and Sarah saw annoyance pass over his boyfriend’s face. Kermit and Piggy were standing in front of the tree, and there seemed to be some sort of push for Kermit to make a Christmas address.
“I think you ought to know what’s, um, going on here," Scooter tried to continue, having almost to shout. “Because, you know, it involves you.”
Sarah felt dread seize her heart. She had come to feel like a part of this little band of fellows, to feel that their concerns and troubles were her own. Scooter seemed to be trying to tell her that what concerned them, concerned her, too.
“Okay," she said solemnly, turning toward Kermit. “Let’s listen, then.”
But Kermit’s speech—if it could even be called that—was strictly a Merry-Christmas-y-what-a-great-show type of speech. It was followed by more dancing and eating, but Scooter now seemed disinclined to do either. Sarah took his hand and squeezed it.
“Don’t you want to dance anymore?" she asked.
Scooter sighed. “What I want is to—“
“Hey Scooter--we ought to get down there a little early, don’t you think?"
“I wanted to check the tuning on my—“ “…probably need to find another mango, after what happened this afternoon—“
“Isn’t this going to be the last show with the Christmas stuff? Or are we going to do this show tomorrow, too, and the New Year’s show—“
Sarah watched with pride as Scooter heaved a huge sigh and started making organization out of chaos.
“It’s still Christmas, it’s still Christmas, it’s Christmas for almost six more hours!" cried Robin. While he was bouncing around backstage in paroxysms of joy, the rest of the cast and crew were moving around him indulgently.
The chorus girls were dressed, despite dire predictions of not being able to zip up, and there was the lovely expectant calm that occurred just before a storm—or a show—broke. Kermit looked around with satisfaction, feeling sated and happy and remarkably mellow. Everything had gone swimmingly today, thanks to everyone’s efforts—especially Scooter’s. And Piggy. Kermit cut his eyes over to Piggy. He watched her talking earnestly with Thoreau about something clothing related and sighed. She’d certainly done her part to make his Christmas bright and merry. He was brought out of his reverie by his right-hand man appearing suddenly at his right hand.
“Boss—can I take five before the show?" Scooter asked anxiously. “I’ve been trying to do something all day.”
“Sure. Of course. I’m sure we can manage without you for five minutes.”
“You'd think," Scooter said darkly, but leavened it with a smile. “I just need to find out something before the show.”
Kermit waved him away, beneficent, and watched him stalk off purposefully. He marched up to Sarah and tapped her on the shoulder where she stood in conversation with Clifford about some small question or problem about their dance number. He saw Sarah turn, flash a brilliant smile at his assistant, then turn and follow him with a laugh and backward wave to Clifford.
“I need to talk to you, Sarah," Scooter said. He wanted his voice to come out deep and manly and authoritative but was worried that it had squeaked just a little out of nervousness.
“Sure, Honey," Sara said. She looked into his eyes and the look there made her catch her breath and wet her lips nervously. She gave a breathy little laugh and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Scooter grazed her chin with his thumb, cupped her cheek in a brief caress and then he took her left hand in his. He let it rest on the palm of his right hand, then reached to cover it with his left hand.
“Sara," he said, and his voice sounded husky. “I wanted to ask you something—something important.”
There did not seem to be enough air back stage. Sara opened her mouth to speak—
“Scooter!" But it was not Sara’s voice that spoke. “Scooter, tell Howard to get off the stage, man. We’re supposed to have the stage now for the next six minutes. Kermit said—“
Scooter closed his eyes and gave a grunt of annoyance, but the call of duty was too strong.
“Just a sec," he said, and walked toward the sounds of shouting.
“C’mon, just suck in," Sal entreated. “Just suck in your gut a little and pull.”
With Sal’s encouragement, Johnny Fiama managed to finish dressing.
“How do I look, Sal," the crooner asked, looking at his profile in the mirror.
“You look great, Johnny," Sal answered. If his answer was clouded with fondness, he should be absolved in the name of charity.
“You don’t think I look a little chunky today?"
“Chunky? No—svelte, Johnny. Very svelte.”
The noise level backstage swelled. Seating had not begun and the cast and crew were the only occupants of the theater. While she waited for Scooter to come back, Sara smiled at the snatches of conversation that she overheard.
“And I was thinking that the lighting on our song in the second act ought to be more, you know, sunset-y, if you know what I mean—“
“Cant wait for the new New Year’s numbers. I’m so excited about the new songs.”
“Wonder if we’re going to have a New Year’s party? You have to admit, Piggy throws a great party.”
Pepe’s voice cut in above the rest. “What is that noise? I think we are hearing an earthquake.
Camilla turned her head pertly, trying to identify the sound that she heard. It was a low growl that seemed to be building in volume and intensity, much like the revving of a motorcycle. Around her, she could see others pause in their conversation to listen.
“Bawk?" she asked Janice. “Bawk be-gawk buk buk?"
But before Janice could answer, the rumble exploded into a roar of sound.
“Everybody SHUT UP!" roared an almost familiar voice. “Just for five minutes! Just for two minutes! I’ve been trying to say something all day!"
Every eye backstage was treated to the sight of a wild-eyed, tousle-headed Scooter bellowing for silence and looking more agitated than they had ever seen him.
“Is…everything all right?" ventured Gloria Jean, but Scooter turned on her with a snarl.
“NO! Everything is NOT all right!"
The tension in the room thickened, congealed and held them all fast in the grip of dread.
“What is it?" This was whispered, as though the speaker wished to remain anonymous.
“Well if you MUST know—and apparently you MUST—I have been trying to propose to the most wonderful girl in the whole wide world for the past eleven hours, but you bozos keep interrupting me! For your information, I gave up my holiday to come here and I brought her with me so I wouldn’t have to wait to pop the question but if you don’t shut up and let me say what I have to say I’m going to be single and lonely and miserable forever!"
The room was still congealed, but in a bemused, affectionate and supportive way. No one so much as coughed or wiped their nose as Scooter swung back to Sara, who had all she could do to collect her jaw from the floor and to keep the tears from obscuring her vision of the most wonderful guy on the planet. Kermit’s personal assistant made a vain effort to smooth his hair down and reached to straighten his collar. The first time he tried to speak, his voice came out husky and gravelly.
“So?" he said finally, without eloquence or panache. “Will you?"
Sara’s answer was obvious to everyone—even Scooter—but, having gained the floor, Scooter found he could not quite relinquish it.
“I mean, I know that my life is kindof crazy, but I may go crazy if you don’t say that you’ll marry me, and put up with me, and—“
Sara threw her arms around Scooter’s neck and kissed him—kissed him “to stay kissed” as they used to say—and the two erstwhile lovers were immediately swamped by a veritable sea of humanity—er, muppetdom. Somewhere in the midst of all the noise and movement, Scooter managed to slip a ring on her finger—a ring he had saved toward for months and which had—with great solemnity—received the approval of Miss Piggy the Frog. Sara didn’t actually see the ring then—but she would take a long time admiring it later over Scooter’s shoulder while they traded slow, earnest kisses and made plans for forevermore.
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