Chapter 165: Diva Ex Machina (Diva in the Machine)
When you raise 147 kids, there’s bound to be some worrying, but Mabel had always been practical. You can always kiss booboos—no matter how big they got—and it pays to keep the tissues and superglue handy, but eventually you just have to trust that you’ve done the best you can and let them find their own way. Tricia had come to them later—a little blessing she had been, but so wounded, so full of distrust and skepticism. That still came out in her music, that fierceness and aloneness, but she had settled in without ever actually settling down. Thinking about Tricia settling down—metaphorically speaking—was like a Mobius strip: no matter how hard she tried to think of it in a straight line, it just kept twisting and turning.
So Tricia’s band was getting their big break. The Indie Vittles had had other breaks, to be sure, but nothing like this. This was the big-time, this was career-changing—heck, life-changing, and it had come about because of Clifford. Clifford, who also appeared to be having some life-changing breaks of his own.
Mabel could see it. She could see them happy, and together and making a life and a living, but being on the road at this point could be a real strain on a budding relationship. She wondered how they would do apart from each other, how that would change this exciting career opportunity for Tricia. She worried about Clifford, and not just for Tricia’s sake.
He had played the field for a long time, had painted himself as the happiest bachelor in the world, but the truth was that being on your own could be a lot like loneliness. Not for everybody, sure—some people were more solitary by nature. Jervis, bless his soul, from her 8th litter, could only tolerate the rest of their big, noisy family in small doses, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love them or miss them. When Jervis sent her cryptic little texts from his office at NASA, or posted the rare photo on Instagram, she knew it was as heartfelt as the long, newsy emails she got from Loralie, who had followed her husband all the way to Germany for an engineering job.
So lost in thought was she, that she didn’t hear Clifford approaching until he stepped up beside her and picked up a drying towel.
“How was the breakfast shift?” he asked, reaching for the bowl she’d been rinsing for the past four minutes.
“It was busy,” Mabel said, squinting up at him. “What have you been up to?”
“Writing a little music, I guess.” He grinned at her, self-conscious. “Guess I’ve been a little out of practice lately.”
“Maybe you’ve just been stretching other muscles?”
Clifford choked, and Mabel could have sworn his face flushed guiltily, and she thought back along what she’d said. Oh. Oh! So…so things had progressed. Mabel turned away to hide her own flushed face and opened her mouth to speak, but Clifford surged into the silence.
“If you are washing a bowl, I assume there was something in the bowl that might be worth investigating?”
Mabel laughed. “I made a strudel,” she said. “You like apricots?”
Clifford didn’t say anything, but he bent and kissed her on the top of her furry head. “You are the best mom on the planet.”
Mabel laughed and patted his waist. “Make yourself useful,” she said. “Run to the market and get me a few things.” She went and got the list off the fridge and handed it to him along with the car keys.
“I am the man,” Clifford said as he saluted and started out the door.
I think you might be, Mabel thought, and it made her glad.
“It was terrible,” Scoop said. “He couldn’t get on the right side of anything.”
Scribbler shot Harve and Gladys a quick look over his shoulder. They were all listening to Scoop’s report over the phone speaker, receiving the news with varying degrees of discomfort.
“So Kermit tried to take out what’s-his-face for being smart, um…aleck (He glanced apologetically at Gladys) about Miss Piggy?”
“I didn’t see him hit the guy or nothin’ like that,” Scoop said. “But three of his friends hustled him out before it got ugly.”
Scribbler was quiet for a moment, thinking. “You got your piece written yet?” he asked, and Scoop snorted.
“I wasn’t expecting this kind of story and, um—sorry, Fleet, I don’t mean anything by this but, well, my paper isn’t really looking for that sort of story. We’re not really, um, sensationalistic…and all…. No offense…?” Scoop trailed off, clearly uncomfortable, and Harve shot a look to see how his friend had taken the comment, but one look at Scribbler’s face told him that Scoop had nothing to worry about.
“None taken,” Fleet grinned savagely. “More room at the bottom for the rest of us, right? Look, if you aren’t going to write it, maybe you could help me write it, then you could write a friendly little clarification piece—like last time. Whatdya say?”
“I could try. I’ve not really written anything like that,” Scoop said doubtfully.
“He sounds like a nice fellow, doesn’t he Harve?” Gladys whispered, and Harve put his arm around her waist. Gladys always saw the best in folks.
“Tell you what, Scoop. You just tell me what happened—what actually happened, and I’ll make up the rest, okay? I’m just looking to give Missy some, um, plausible deniability. Champions of truth and all that.”
“Okay,” said Scoop. “You had me at plausible.”
He ought to be elated, ought to be happy, but he wasn’t. True, he’d made it into her inner sanctum and dropped his little promise into her pocket, but she still wasn’t his, still wasn’t looking up at him in abject adoration, worried about displeasing him. His eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. She certainly hadn’t been worried about displeasing him the other night at the restaurant. True, he might have spooked her, moving too fast while she was still reeling from Kermit’s deceit, and she did have to think about her reputation, but he could still feel the shock of having her pull away from him, actually resist him. As rage-inducing as that was, the thought of overcoming that resistance when there were no witnesses around both calmed and excited him.
He just needed to work the plan, needed to keep at it. And he was good at making plans. Seymour frowned. He was good at making plans, so what was it that kept going wrong?
First, he’d never had a moment with her—not a moment—when they’d been in Vegas. Either she’d had the kid or her friends, or she was connected to that stupid amphibian by some sort of invisible bond. He remembered watching them dance together on the stage when they thought no one was watching, the way they had looked at each other, the way they had moved…. Abruptly, Seymour kicked the trash can in his hotel room, sending it skittering across the floor. Stupid frog, silly swine…ah, that was better. She was silly—just silly and unschooled—attracted to Kermit because she didn’t know any better, hadn’t really been exposed to someone who knew how to handle her, knew how to demand discipline. But he could fix that. With time and the willingness to do whatever it took to bend her to his will, he knew he could triumph. He just needed to be patient, but his patience was already strained.
Secondly, he needed to solve the mystery of her apartment. He had thought himself quite clever, changing rental cars so frequently, but those stupid New York cabbies seemed to disappear like magic, and she didn’t always go directly home. In fact, she rarely seemed to go straight home, but instead spent far too much time out with her friends. That would have to change, too. Once she was his, she’d not be allowed to gallivant all over the city at all hours. She should be home, ready and waiting whenever he arrived, ready and willing to devote herself to him. It had occurred to him that, if he wanted her all to himself, he might have to keep her all to himself and he had investigated a number of security devices that might do the trick. Once she learned that defying him was useless, she’d come around. Besides, once they got back from New York, he planned to take an extended vacation at home so he could dedicate himself entirely to her, and helping her adapt to her new responsibilities.
Finally, he’d been somewhat pleased at the progress made in the dissolution of their relationship. Kermit was apparently making the rounds at Hollywood parties without her, talking up starlets and giving every appearance of a frog-about-town with no particular ties to the lovely pig he had betrayed. Piggy could no longer cling to the idea that Kermit loved her—she’d been too far back on the back burner, behind the movie, behind the frog’s big-bootied bimbo. If only Piggy had taken the opportunity and crawled into his arms the other night, wanting comfort, he could have dispensed it in droves. As it was, she’d have to crawl to him after an even bigger fall, but he’d be generous, if not gentle.
With effort, he composed himself. He was supposed to go check out a new penguin act on Broadway later, and not just to keep his partners off his back. They’d become a little too interested in his schedule of late, and he wanted to have something to report. Penguin…penguins in Las Vegas. Novel, at least. It could work….
Scribbler’s boss snatched the papers off the fax machine and looked at them, reading hastily. Unwillingly, a grunt escaped—a grunt of grudging approval—but it was quickly masked. Can’t let the slaves think too highly of themselves was a motto to live by. But the story was good. It was good enough to score some damage. Longingly, the memory of the hired-muscle-gone-wrong surfaced, but there was no use crying over unspilled blood. The way this sounded, the frog was right on the edge of a breakdown, ready to pound the next person who sounded off about that porky diva. An evil glimmer bloomed. Wouldn’t it be fun if that someone who sounded off near that stupid frog was…Scribbler. Then that goody-two-flippers Kermit would be hauled off in froggy handcuffs, and Scribbler would get the thrashing he deserved. Somehow, despite the way little Miss Porkrind had treated him, he still had some sort of thing for her, and no matter how mean-spirited his stories, somehow she always managed to come out with more public support from her fans than before. It was like some sort of cosmic boomerang—the more you threw things at these stupid Muppets, the more they clung together. Well, they’d just have to cling together on opposite coasts! Fang had leaned on a travel agent he knew who said that Kermit had booked a flight on Wednesday, just waiting to fall into his wife’s loving arms. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Then what would Piggy think of her frog-in-shining-armor? Not quite important enough to get on the agenda, are you princess? Ha! Let the stupid amphibian try to back-pedal his way out of yet another cancellation!
Maybe dismemberment was overrated. Maybe watching Kermit squirm in misery, knowing how much pain he was inflicting on his girl, would turn out to be more fun in the long run.
Something flicked on the cruel lips—something very like a smile. It was not a pleasant sight.
Sometimes the best part of an event was the ending of it. His dignity in shreds, Kermit had managed the social niceties expected of him with a gritted palate, but without further incident. Still, when his phone buzzed in his pocket, he checked the message, texted his acknowledgement and took his leave of his sponsors/hosts with a degree of relief that was almost indecent. He made his way outside, thankful that the event security had kept the paparazzi far enough from the door that he was not accosted as he scanned the lot for his ride. Gonzo had, at least brought a car, not a tractor, a segue or a unicycle, although—ever the showman—he had liveried up and looked like a doorman or a decorated general in a moss-green uniform that clashed with his fur.
Kermit climbed in the back and sat straight as Gonzo pulled into traffic, but when the car cleared the paparazzi and pulled out of traffic, their eyes met in the rear-view mirror and Kermit slumped.
“Thanks for coming, Gonzo,” Kermit said quietly. “I wasn’t in much of a festive mood.”
“No problem,” Gonzo replied, craning over his shoulder and changing lanes. “Rizzo and Pepe and I were just going out to lift a few.”
“Beers?” Kermit asked, surprised. He had never known Gonzo to drink beer.
“No—chicks,” Gonzo said, surprise written plainly on his face. “We’re going to the park.”
In spite of his glum mood, Kermit smiled. Best not to ask, he thought. “Sorry to interrupt your plans.”
“Like I said—no problem. Pepe’s probably still messing with his hair.” For a few moments, Gonzo drove without speaking, moving the big limo in and out of traffic with ease. Honeydew's tweaks to the controls had made the vehicle operational for many of Kermit’s size-challenged friends and co-workers. Gonzo caught Kermit’s eye in the rear-view mirror again. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not especially,” Kermit responded, then he sighed and seemed to rouse himself. “Maybe. It’s just—it’s just so frustrating, Gonzo. Everywhere I go, people stop talking when I enter the room, or they start trying to introduce me to
women. They don’t know anything about Piggy. They don’t know anything about us. If they did, they wouldn’t—they couldn’t think---“ Kermit stopped abruptly, staring with surprise out the window. They had taken an exit and he looked up to try to read the sign as they passed under it.
“Um, Gonzo—I think we took a wrong turn back there.”
“Nope,” said Gonzo cheerfully. “Not a wrong turn—a
right one.”
Inwardly, Kermit groaned. The last two times Gonzo had shown up to cheer him up had ended up with an impromptu party at his house or a bottle. He didn’t think he was up to anything of that nature after the week he’d had.
“Look, I appreciate the effort—”
“You
should,” Gonzo said complacently, practically preening with satisfaction.
“Gonzo—look. I know you mean well—”
“Don’t I always?” Gonzo murmured.
“Well, yes, but—but I really just want to go home.”
“You don’t want to go home.”
“No,” said Kermit. “I mean—yes, I do. I do want to go home. Now, please.”
“You don’t want to go home,” repeated Gonzo. “Home is depressing. Piggy’s not there, the house is quiet as a tomb, and you’ll just be lonely and miserable.”
Kermit’s whole body slumped. “Gee, thanks, Gonzo.”
“It’s true,” the furry blue whatever said. “Going home alone is the last thing you need.”
Despite his depressed state, Kermit felt something stir to life in the vicinity of his solar plexus, something familiar. He fought it back, trying to stay articulate, but found he was leaning forward against the pull of his seatbelt and gripping the passenger-seat back with white-knuckled hands.
“I’m perfectly capable of deciding what I need by myself—”
“Said the frog who sent his pig to New York without him!”
“And while I appreciate the ride, I just want you to take me home. Now.”
Scooter would have recognized the deadly calm in that voice for what it was, but he wasn’t here. Piggy would have recognized the warning in that collected voice and exploited it, but she wasn’t there either. Gonzo, for all his daredevil ways, was cheerfully and completely oblivious to the fact that arm-waving hysteria was approaching at a fast clip.
“Not happening, buddy,” said Gonzo. “This is for your own good.”
It didn’t happen in that moment, but it did happen later. Later, Kermit would realize what it was like to have people who loved you decide what you wanted and needed without consulting you, and would understand just a little of what Piggy must be feeling in New York. But that was later, and in the moment Kermit found he was, instead, thinking of where he might hide Gonzo’s body. Before that thought could communicate itself into irrevocable action, the car stopped.
“Gonzo, why are we—?” He looked out the window in confusion. “Where are we—is that the airport?”
“Yep.” Gonzo turned and looked at Kermit over the back of the seat. “Out there on the tarmac is Mr. Lord’s private jet. You’re going to get on it.”
The practical, rational Kermit was struggling to surface. “But, that isn’t…Gonzo—don’t be ridiculous. I can’t take Mr. Lord’s private jet!”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Gonzo said fondly. “You’re not taking it—you’re hitching a ride. He’s going to check out a new penguin act on Broadway.”
“Wha…
what?”
“Penguins. New York. Private jet. Miss Piggy. Sheesh, do I have to draw you a picture?”
Kermit swallowed, his eyes feasting on the plane while his sense of duty kept him rooted to the spot. “But—but I’ve got a meeting Monday with the money people. We’re supposed to—“
“We’ve got it covered,” Gonzo said serenely, glad Kermit could not see his hastily crossed fingers. Scooter would manage—they would manage—somehow, without him.
“But—I….” Kermit felt lightheaded and confused, but Gonzo’s words had triggered a homing beacon inside him. Not a homing beacon to his house, but a homing beacon to the only one on the planet who would always mean home to him. Piggy…. He swallowed, struggling to take it all in, then looked longingly toward the plane. “I didn’t pack,” he said faintly.
Gonzo threw a duffle bag over the seat. “Fozzie packed for you—so don’t complain to me about content. And Pepe helped him—so just plan on going green most of the time. It’ll save time anyway,” he muttered.
Kermit picked the bag up with both hands, almost daring to hope.
“I didn’t—she doesn’t know I’m coming.”
“Surprise her.”
Kermit’s heart began to hammer with excitement. He opened the limo door and the sounds of the airport assaulted their ears. “Gee, thanks Gonzo,” he said. It seemed woefully inadequate. “Thank Fozzie and Pepe, too.”
Please—we’re tired of you moping around. You’re sucking the joy of living out of all of us. Go—see your pig.”
“I miss her,” Kermit said, feeling like it was not enough to say.
“Of course you do. Have a great time.”
“I will.”
Kermit got out of the car and took two steps forward, then turned back toward the car. Gonzo had gotten out and was grinning at him as though he’d just come up with some stunt that would give their insurance company a heart attack. Kermit took a step toward him and Gonzo closed the distance and hugged his amphibian friend.
“Thank you, Gonzo,” Kermit said, muffled against his shoulder. “Thank you—I, thank you!”
“Get out of here,” Gonzo said gruffly.
Kermit sprinted toward the big plane.
“Come back
tired,” Gonzo called after him, accompanied by a wicked laugh. He could have sworn the back of Kermit’s neck grew red, but he didn’t look back again—not even once.
Sara knew that look. She walked over and pressed a kiss against the nape of Scooter’s neck while he sat hunched over his tablet. He looked up quickly, but distractedly, and tried a smile that came out more like a grimace.
“Going down in flames again?”
“The press is—it’s like he has a target on his back.”
Sara nodded and sank down next to him at the table. He hadn’t even really settled in since he’d come in, just dropping his satchel on the floor and sliding haphazardly onto a chair. “Poor Kermit. He’s having a tough go of it.”
Scooter made a rude noise, then looked up. “Oh—hey, sorry. I wasn’t doing that at you—I was just….” The compassion in her face stopped him in mid-apology. Scooter reached for her hand, twining his fingers with hers. He kissed the back of her hand. “If I ever decide to let you run away to Broadway—”
It was Sara’s turn to make a rude noise and Scooter grinned.
“—or Paris or something for a job opportunity—“
“Ooh!” said Sara. “I’ve always wanted to see Paris!”
He pushed back from the table and pulled her onto his lap, the tablet forgotten. “Not helping,” he grumbled.
“You’d let me go, though,” Sara said earnestly. She put her arms around his neck and teased the little untamable curls that always disappeared into his collar when he needed a haircut. “You’d want me to go.”
Scooter sighed. “I would,” he admitted. “Kermit would kick me in the seat of the pants if I didn’t…if I wouldn’t….” He shook his head. “There’s nothing to do to fix this until he’s up there.”
“Wednesday’s coming,” Sara said gently. “It will come.”
“Thank goodness,” said Scooter, stretching to kiss her.
He never quite made it. His phone, sitting on the table, began to buzz insistently.
“Better look,” Sara whispered. “It might be Kermit.”
Scooter looked and made a face, debating. “It’s Gonzo,” he said. “Probably just—”
“Answer if you want to,” Sara said, smiling. “With Gonzo, you never know.”
Scooter shook his head, leaning to kiss her. “It can go to voice mail. I’ll check…later.” Their lips met with a satisfying degree of enthusiasm as the phone stopped ringing.
“Later is good,” giggled Sara, beginning to unbutton his shirt.
“Later is very good.” He moved to help her, and the phone buzzed again, bumping against the cup of tea Scooter had not touched. They broke apart and looked at it, sighing.
“Gonzo again,” Scooter said.
“They still let you have one phone call,” Sara said practically. “You might be it.”
Scooter sighed again and reached for it.
“Hello, Gonzo—is this your one—what? What?! You just…just now? And he—he was okay?”
Sara tensed, worried but quiet, knowing Scooter needed to listen. He listened, one hand clutching his hair.
“But there’s that meeting Monday with—you know what? Nevermind! I got this. Nevermind the meeting—there’s nothing Kermit can tell them that I can’t. This is…this is good.” His head bobbed up and down as though Gonzo were in the room with them and could see him. “Okay. Okay—no, that’s fantastic. Really.” He grimaced. “Yes Gonzo, I said you were fantastic, okay? Good job. Honestly—really, really good job. I—thanks. Thanks, Gonzo. Yeah.”
Sara waited anxiously, biting her lip to keep from asking, and watched Scooter shake his head in disbelief. He stood suddenly, whooping with delight, and started down the hall with her in his arms.
Surprise made her tighten her arms around his neck and she looked into his grinning face.
“Good news?” she asked. Piggy had probably trounced the press on behalf of her beleaguered frog.
“The best!” Scooter beamed at her, stopping to finally claim a kiss.
“That was the best,” Sara murmured, pleasantly befuddled. “What happened?”
Scooter resumed his march toward their bedroom, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I’ll tell you all about it,” he said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
Although she would not have admitted it to anyone, Rory’s little jibe about her kissing during the matinee had tweaked her pride. Piggy took her kissing very seriously, so she brought a lot more of her own luscious self to the second performance of the day and the crowd practically swooned. Rory came backstage rubbing the back of his neck and giving her a wary look.
“Dang,” he said. “You trying to kill me or something?” he grumbled.
Piggy just batted her eyelashes at him. “If Kermie were here, he’d kill you himself after that,” she said sweetly. While she had done as Marty asked and avoided the tabloids, she’d seen a few tweets that suggested that Kermit had brought his green-eyed monster with him to the charity event. Poor Kermie, Piggy thought, but even as she thought it her cheeks bloomed with color. Kermit would always defend her, always protect what was his, and it inevitably reminded her of the first times that he had shown his true feelings for her. He always appeared cool as a cucumber until one of their costars fell under her spell and tried to pitch a little woo, then Kermit would come in swinging and pitch it right back at them.
Watching her bite her lip, blushing, Rory wondered—again—what was going on between those two velvety ears, but this time it didn’t seem to be making her unhappy. He watched her step inside the dressing room and was turning to go when Kristen grabbed his wrist and pulled him after her down the hall. She looked carefully up and down the hallway before speaking.
“Loverboy just tried to take out some overgrown teenage heartthrob!” she hissed.
“What? Now?”
“At the charity event. It’s all over the internet.” Kristen showed him her phone, flipping through at least four salacious gossip sites. Scribbler’s was one of them, and Rory let out a grunt of surprise. As he read the article, his eyes narrowed angrily and a muscle jumped in his jaw. What was that little muckraker trying to do? Piggy seemed to think he had come to her rescue, but this article wasn’t going to make her happy. It sounded like Kermit had come to the event all slicked-down and gussied up, making small talk with the ladies until someone suggested that Piggy wasn’t quite as much Team Kermit as he liked to think. Reading closely, it was obvious that the reporter wasn’t willing to say an actual fist-fight broke out between the child-star and the former children’s entertainer, but something had happened, something that just supported the idea that Kermit was a hothead more concerned with his own reputation than Piggy’s happiness. Rory read it a third time, grudgingly aware of the artistry of the nasty little article. It implied more than it said, and it did the trick right enough. Kermit’s reputation would take a hit—no question about it.
Kristen watched him read, but when he looked up, their eyes met and she made a face.
“Talented little scumball, isn’t he?” she said.
“Yep,” Rory agreed. “Why on earth is he wasting his time with this rag?”
Kristen shrugged, but then her face turned thoughtful. “You know,” she said. “That’s a good question.” She pursed her lips. “I wonder if I know anyone who might know,” she said.
“Who
would know?” Rory said. “Who the heck knows why he does anything?”
“Love makes you do strange things,” Kristen said, and Rory jerked back.
“Love? You think Scribbler loves her?”
Kristen shrugged. “I’m going to do some asking around,” she said. She looked back to the dressing room door. “We need to try to keep Piggy occupied so she doesn’t see this stuff.”
“Marty told her not to look at it,” Rory ventured, but he knew well how Piggy could say one thing and slip around the edges of her promises if she wanted to. Kristen’s snort told him she thought the same thing.
“We’ll think of something,” she said.
Rory tried to believe it.
(Note to readers--the spacing and layout gods obviously work for Scribbler's tabloid. I just do the writing--sorry if the layout isn't pretty.)
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