Chapter 132: Muses and Musings, Part 2
Decisions, decisions. Piggy had company this weekend, which meant she was too cossetted to be gotten to, but there was still her apartment to be isolated, and there was still the tantalizing possibility of the open backstage door that seemed to beckon to him every time he thought about it. Of course, now there was that stupid bear, but he wasn’t worried about him, not ultimately. In fact, he already had a plan for the bear, and it didn’t even involve getting his hands dirty. Although he was lacking in mere brawn, he was not without strength, and cunning and determination would often take you where you wanted to go when muscles weren’t enough. But, he concluded finally, there was no point in trying to get backstage tonight—not when she had company. He had briefly followed the couple Piggy had stopped to talk to in the restaurant but eventually dismissed them as nothing more than fans, mere distractions compared to someone like him, whose adoration was pure and unadulterated by adulation. Seymour paused on the busy thoroughfare and tapped his lip thoughtfully, thinking.
So lost in thought was he, that when the matinee released he found himself inundated by hordes of chattering theater-goers, and it snapped him out of his reverie. He was surprised to find that he’d lost track of time—something that was happening more and more often lately. He heard snatches of conversation, squeals and peals of laughter, the sound of her name on the lips of passers-by. His lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl and he seethed. They had no right to speak of her, no right to praise her or think her wonderful. That right belonged to him and him alone! SHE belonged to him. He raised his arms to protect his head and “waded” upstream through the people, toward the theater, muttering and cursing under his breath. He did not like crowds—not unless they were paying for seats in his own theater, losing money in his casino. No, he preferred a more private life, and once Piggy was his, they would hide from the noise and chaos of the world where noone—not the frog, not her agent, not the bear—would ever think of finding them.
“I see,” said Ms. Mansfield. “But when we complete the affidavit—yes. Well, that would be better. I mean, everything they work out beforehand is one less motion I have to file.” She paused, obviously listening to her partner, jotting notes on a legal pad. “Right, right,” she interrupted. “I still have to talk to the private investigator about that timeline. I thought it was a little open to interpretation, and you know how ol’ Broadside is about missing time in alibis…yes. I thought so, too. Just make sure—okay?” She laughed, clearly having been out-maneuvered. “Okay, okay. Yes. I am on vacation, and I know you’ve gotten everything all sewn up for court next week. I’m just—“ She laughed again, then grimaced. “Well, that was uncalled for,” she murmured, abashed. “I bow to your uncanny ability to pull the right rabbit out of the right hat. Satisfied?”
There was laughter on the other end of the phone, then some comment that made her smile.
“Point taken,” she said ruefully. “I withdraw my previous statement. I’ll be back in the office Tuesday. I will.” She paused again. “Yes. He was wonderful—as usual. I’m going to see my son-in-law tonight.”
The person on the other line asked a question, and Ms. Mansfield smiled and shook her head.
“Not yet,” she said. “Tonight, if I’m lucky. Tomorrow for certain. Speaking of—I’d better call a cab. Hold down the fort till I’m back, won’t you?”
There are few things as satisfying as making a grand entrance successfully, and the thrill of that had never paled for Thoreau. He knew there would be photographers hanging around the theater entrance, and he had dressed to the nines. His reputation as a fashion guru could never be underplayed. The first time you decided to run to the grocery in your less-than-amazing denims and a comfy sweater was the time you ran into the paparazzi, and he knew it. Sitting in the back of Mr. Finkel’s taxi, he was outwardly composed, but his earlier indignation at the tawdry, muck-spewing tabloid article brought a tinge of color to his hollow cheeks. Beside him, Howard was somberly if impeccably attired, having asked Thoreau to vet his eveningwear before they’d left California. A lot was riding on this trip for his friend, and he did not want his fashionableness (or lack thereof) to be a distraction. A limo would have been delicious, but it was better to arrive in the cabbie’s capable hands and sort of stun the waiting crowd with their sudden appearance. Piggy created quite enough of a stir by herself, but he was not without his hordes of admirers, and the resultant publicity was not onerous to her dressmaker.
After the show, they were hitting the town in the most extravagant, showy way possible. It had been deemed appropriate to tout their mutual celebrity in a very public way. Good for Piggy’s domestic image, and good publicity for Thoreau’s fashion line pitch. Howard, while a true hog of the spotlight onstage, did not clamor for attention from the maddening crowds. He was perfectly content to anticipate basking in the reflected glow of his luminous friends and felt no need to compete for attention himself. In fact, he thought that—of the three of them—he was going to have the more enjoyable evening. When he was not plying his trade—working out choreography or herding the choreographed--Howard was steady and dependable and calm, the perfect foil for either of his favorite prima donnas, but dealing with two of them at once was going to be a challenge. The cab pulled up near the entrance, artfully dodging the huddled masses, eager hordes and confident scalpers.
“Here’s where you get out, gents,” Moishe said. “I’ll be here to collect you and the little lady afterwards.” He endured being extravagantly tipped—this time by Howard—and drove off shaking his head. These artsy types, he mused fondly. Not a lick of common sense among them.
Jolalene tugged Rowlf by his collar and he submitted with relative docility. There was no sense arguing about it when she got an idea in her head, so he had learned to go along to get along. He was grateful, however, that she wasn’t dragging him by an ear.
Truthfully, dragging wasn’t really a fair description. When their sultry singer had demanded an escort (and pack mule) for a trip through the quaint little shops downtown, the drummer had made himself scarce and Rowlf had made himself available. As a matter of fact, there were worse places to be than trailing along after Jolalene’s svelte form and watching her try on haute couture and pricey shoes.
“I don’t see why you bother with shoes,” Rowlf had commented, his only contribution to fashion critique, but Jolalene had flashed her pointed canines at him in a toothy smile.
“I like the way they show off my ankles,” she had quipped.
“I’m pretty sure there are already plenty of people watching your…ankles,” Rowlf had grinned, but Jolalene had only laughed her open-mouthed laugh and swished her long, fluffy tail in amusement.
Yep. Worse places to be for sure, Rowlf thought. It had taken a little maneuvering for them to set their mutual boundaries for being band mates, but they had finally reached an agreement that suited them both. Generally speaking, Jolalene felt free to accost his person and demand his presence when she wanted company. Generally speaking, Rowlf went along with whatever she wanted. It had been working pretty well so far—no drama, no strings attached. Rowlf was easy-going enough to not be flummoxed by demands or put off by being roundly ignored for several days if she found someone else more interesting at their current venue. She was smart and feisty and could run circles around him in Frisbee, so there was always something interesting to do, and it helped pass the long hours on the road.
Truth be told, Rowlf loved the open road—especially if you could hang your head out the window on the way—but he had lost count more than once of where—exactly—they were that day. The music was good, and he had had his pick of slightly-out-of-tune pianos in honky-tonks where the food was cheap and plentiful and the audience knew how to whoop and holler their appreciation. For now, he was content to let himself drift, enjoying the music, the road and Jolalene. He was not anxious about the next project coming his way. Heck, he wasn’t worried about the next meal coming his way. Everything was nice and good and pretty darned easy, and it was nice to forget about all the recent trouble.
Except that he hadn’t. When time and the gods of wi-fi allowed, he’d been keeping up with doings back home, and things had sounded kind of grim. The divine Mrs. the Frog was faring pretty well in New York from what he’d heard, but he wasn’t sure about Kermit, mainly because of what he hadn’t heard. So he had traded favors with the delectable Jolalene, to be her chauffeur/baghandler while she worked her way through the shops today in exchange for holding his hand tomorrow night while the Academy Awards were on. He had been nice, but firm that, if the afternoon set ran past showtime, he was gonna leave them to it and go on back to the hotel to watch the show.
“They’re my friends,” Rowlf had said. “I wanna be watching and wishing them well.” Jolalene had looked at him for a long moment, her head cocked to the side and one ear perked appealingly, and then she had smiled her slow, easy smile.
“I’ll move the crowd along, Rowlfie,” she promised, “and be there to hold your paw.”
Rowlf thought that sounded just fine.
“Awww…. How come you didn’t bring tall, purple and handsome with you,” Tootsie complained.
“Yeah,” Tia said, polishing Bob with a fine-textured cloth. “He’s a real sweetie.”
“Sweetie is at home recovering from the afternoon,” Tricia said airily, but stammered and blushed when the Indies all giggled.
“Care to share?” Susie drawled.
“Yeah, spill,” said Coraline.
“That’s not what I meant!” Tricia sputtered. “I just meant that you all, well, all of us wore him out this afternoon !”
“I wish,” someone murmured, and Tricia rounded on them.
“Talking about the record deal!” she snapped. “Give him a break—he’s not used to putting up with…with all of us at once.” Noone said anything to this, but Susie and Tootsie traded quick looks. Tricia saw it and scowled fiercely at them.
“Oh, leave it,” she groaned. “Look—can we just start practice already? I wanna get the order solid tonight so we don’t bumble around when we get to the studio.” She stomped over to her place and fiddled with the neck strap of her bass without looking at any of them. Noone said anything else, but there was plenty being thought at her. Tricia knew it an tried to push the thought away. Okay—so she’d been the dateless wonder for…well, for a while. She guessed it wasn’t the end of the world if they teased her about Clifford. She tightened a string that didn’t need tightening, then had to loosen it, feeling her cheeks still hot with embarrassment and…something else. Something new. She puzzled on it till her puzzler began to ache while they dove into the first song, and somewhere around the chorus it hit her. Jealousy. She was feeling jealous. She had not liked it when they had commented on Clifford’s rating on the hunk-o-meter, and the hot stab of indignation she had felt was not actually indignation. It was way too soon and way too fast, but she was already feeling rather proprietary about a fellow that she knew good and well wasn’t interested in anything serious. It made her sober, and cleared her head. Good thing we’re going on the road, she thought, relieved and disappointed by the same thought. The last thing I need right now is another complication.
“Ed, Darling,” Autumn murmured, her lips moving against his ear. “The only thing I regret more than the fact that you can’t see how stunning I look tonight is that you can’t see how wonderful Miss Piggy looks tonight.” She proceeded to describe, in exquisite detail, what Piggy was wearing in the first scene. So discreet was she, however, and so conscientious of the other patrons, that even her seatmate on the opposite side was not disturbed by her play-by-play. This necessitated, however, sitting exceptionally close to her fashionably-dressed companion and letting the soft skin of her lips brush against his, um, aural organ. Ed found her focused attention understandably distracting, but he listened with all the attention he could summon to what she said. He could hear the show perfectly, and liked the strong soprano voice of the woman who played Sandy. The playbill said it was Kristen somebody-or-other, and Ed liked the mental image of her he was getting just by listening to her sing.
“I’m sure you’re doing a superb job of explaining everything,” he whispered back. Autumn was telling him about the stage set-up, the other actors, her impression of the fellow that played Kemickie. “Lovely brawny fellow—lots of reddish-blond hair. Looks like a farm boy.”
“A fan boy?” Ed teased, and Autumn nipped him smartly on the outside edge of his ear. Surprised, Ed yelped, attracting the interested looks of other theater-goers. He could feel himself blushing, but Autumn was unrepentant—and she was moving on, describing the change of scene without so much as a fare thee well. Ed made a disgruntled sound but kept future teasing to himself—at least until intermission.
So this is what it’s like when you belong to somebody, Scooter thought. He shifted slightly and Sara stirred, burrowing deeper into his arms, but did not awaken. Carefully, Scooter pulled the quilted cover over her shoulders and pressed his lips against her temple. For almost as long as he could remember, Kermit and the other Muppets had been the only real family he’d known. Nepotism had gotten him the job as Kermit’s gofer eons ago, but it had been born of convenience more than affection, and Scooter had always suspected (but never really wanted to know) that it had had as much to do with keeping him out of sight and out of the way as giving him a leg up on his career. Little could his birth family have suspected how successful their attempts to farm him out had been. He had put down roots in that motley garden and had flourished, blooming in the knowledge that he was wanted and needed and genuinely loved.
That had been amazing, life-sustaining—but it was not as good as this. This was like being at the absolute center of a benevolent universe, with the planets tilting wildly around him. This was like having the best dream in the world and discovering it wasn’t a dream. This was like…like nothing else. He didn’t think there were enough words in the world to describe how he was feeling.
It had been an emotional evening. Sara’s fear had turned to dismay, then anger, then outright terror, and it had taken all the resources he possessed to comfort and reassure her that he was here, and hers, and not leaving this mortal coil without a fight. He had always known that Kermit depended on him, and that he was loved, but he had never felt so vitally important to someone as he was to Sara. It made him realize, suddenly, what it might be like to have had that and to have lost it, and the universe really did spin around him, making him dizzy with comprehension. He wasn’t just aware of the way he felt about Sara—he was extraordinarily aware of how she felt about him.
He suddenly understood why Miss Piggy had been so, well, irrational during the filming of The Muppet Show. He had known—they had all known—that her moods were tied directly to Kermit’s behavior, and that his behavior was tied by unseen threads to her moods, but that mystery had been, well, a mystery before. Now it made sense. Scooter did not think he would be able to stand loving Sara the way he did and not know that she felt the same way about him. Just proposing—when he had been fairly positive of her affection and regard—had been excruciating. What would it have been like to propose and not know for certain the answer to your question?
Scooter lay in bed with his arms around his soon-to-be wife and thought about all the years he had assisted Kermit and run interference for him, and partnered with him in the pursuit of whatever it was he was trying to do at that moment. He thought about how he had helped Kermit with the ultimate proposal, when he had finally asked for Piggy’s hand in marriage. While Kermit had not seemed calm at all leading up to the big day, Scooter nevertheless marveled that he’d still been able to even function with that sort of uncertainty looming over him.
He hoped Kermit had talked to Miss Piggy about what had happened that day with the freezer. Although their comfort would have to be offered long distance, Scooter knew that Piggy would do many of the things that Sara had done—cry, shout, smother Kermit with affection. He thought Kermit was making a mistake, withholding the knowledge of what had happened, but he had not been able to convince Kermit of that. He felt a twinge of guilt and quickly shifted his mind away from it, knowing it for what it was. It was the impulse—however treacherous—to call Miss Piggy himself and tell her what had happened, and let the chips—and the frogs—fall where they may.
He’d thought about it, but he hadn’t done it. Kermit had been right about the proposal, but was he right about this? Maybe, Scooter admitted. After all, after Piggy had yelled and cried and sent her frog scores of kissy-kissys over the phone, they would still be on opposite ends of the country, unable to do more than talk. And unlike his situation, they still didn’t know who had attacked Kermit. There would be no peace of mind for Piggy if she knew what had happened in her absence but had no reassurance that it wouldn’t happen again. In the darkness, Scooter shivered, and Sara responded, even in sleep, by tightening her hold on him. Scooter smiled, feeling safe, and wished the same for Kermit.
Kermit walked in the door and made a beeline for the bedroom. The thought of a beeline made him hungry, but he walked determinedly up the stairs, intending to drown his unsettledness in slumber. The sooner he went to bed, the sooner this day was over. The sooner this day was over, the sooner tomorrow came, the sooner tomorrow came…. Kermit stopped, staring at his phone. Piggy would still be doing her show, and they had already talked several times today. He didn’t want to appear needy and clingy, and the thought of appearing so repelled him. It was part of his nature, part of what had made admitting he wanted and needed Piggy so difficult in the first place. But Kermit sat for a moment and stared at the phone, wanting reassurance from some quarter that the day hadn’t been a loss or a waste or—
He dialed.
Scribbler sighed and pushed back from the little formica-topped table wearily. He wasn’t sure what was hurting the worst—his ear, from talking on the phone, his wrists, from typing on the not-quite-level table, or his soul, which was stewing in misery. He’d once been at the top of the heap—well, within sight of the top, at least—and now he was down below ground level chasing after the almost famous, the not-quite-talented. Time was, he had been welcomed in almost any after-party, had noticed the talented and beautiful waiting surreptitiously for their turn at his mic, but that time had run out.
After several hours of slogging around with agents and publicists and idiots, he’d finally had a glimmer of inspiration. He’d fed it liberally with a lot of, um, fertilizer, and the little idea had positively blossomed into a full-fledged plan. A few phone calls to shore up what he had, a few texts and tweets to plant an idea or an insinuation or to pretend interest, and he was pretty satisfied with the day’s work. And exhausted. And hungry. He wondered if Harve wanted to split a--
Scribbler looked up and around his apartment as though suddenly realizing where he was, and it was as though he were seeing the place through new eyes. With the possible exception of better furniture—which was highly debatable—his apartment here was no better than his apartment in New York. In fact, his apartment there was now cleaner than this one…and more inviting. He looked around the apartment, thinking that there was nothing here save a few clothes in the closet that looked like he lived here—that looked like anyone lived here. The little apartment in New York was positively homey in comparison. The thought was sobering.
In New York, there was Missy. True, she hadn’t made it over to his place yet, but when he got back…. He grimaced a little, wondering if she would be horrified by his reduced circumstances, but a sudden surge of pride and anger flared. It had been good enough for her once—he had been good enough for her once—and it would jolly well be good enough for the way she had treated him! He felt the bile rise in his throat and stood up, as much to force his mind to veer off as to move his body.
The cabinets had little to recommend them, but he eventually found a can a soup with a questionable expiration date on it. He was tempted to eat the soup, cold, right out of the can, but smiled at the thought of what Gladys would say to that. She’d been horrified at his bachelor ways, and had made no secret of the fact that she was trying to “civilize” him. Scribbler smiled in spite of himself, remembering her fierce expression, and then his mind flashed on the sight of her, crumpled, on the hallway carpet. He felt a pang of sorrow and emptiness that the promise of food could not alleviate, but there was noone here to share it with.
He was spartan as well as tidy, and found one of his two bowls stacked where he had left them in the warped cabinet. It looked a little dusty, and he wiped it out, poured the soup into it in a big glob and added some water from the sink, thankfully remembering to let the pipes run a moment beforehand. He caught himself watching the bowl trundle around the glass microwave plate and made himself stop. Gladys would have fussed at him and over him, and Harve would have given him a hard time. Scribbler sighed, feeling lonely, and reached for his phone to call Harve, but the microwave beeped and he opened the door.
Back in New York, Gladys had stitched together about sixteen little potholders from her kitchen to make one patchwork one that was suitable for Scribbler-sized hands, and it hung on the hook next to the stove. Here, there was nothing but a roll of wrinkled paper towels, and he burned his thumb a little getting the food out. The bowl was hotter than the food, but it was food and he was hungry and he grabbed a plate, slid the bowl onto it and carried the whole thing with him. He did not want to eat at the table—he had spent the better part of the afternoon working at the table—so he sat on the couch, and kicked his shoes off and ate his soup and, when the soup was all gone, he called Harve and checked on Gladys and felt better about everything.
The soup had taken the edge off—or fatigue had—and he thought—he thought—he could actually sleep tonight. Tomorrow he had a lot to prove, and proving it might get him closer to what he wanted—on all fronts. He sighed, and let his head rest against the back of the couch. In a minute, he was going to get up and go into his bedroom and fall—face first—onto the mattress and sleep until morning. In a minute. In a minute, he might call Piggy’s phone just to see if she had picked it up, or maybe leave her a message. In a minute, when he wasn’t so sleepy. In a minute, he was…asleep.
Something was buzzing. Reluctantly, he surfaced from the depths of the dream he’d been having—something to do with monsters and ice cream sundaes—and slipped out of bed to look for the source of the noise.
“Oh, hey boss,” said Scooter, pulling his phone out of his pants pocket and slipping into the hall so he didn’t disturb Sara. “Hang on a second,” he whispered, his lips against the mouthpiece of the phone. Carefully, he closed the bedroom door behind him and edged down the hall so he could talk.
“Sorry to bother you, Scooter. I just wanted to make sure everything was…okay. With, um, you and Sara after the, um, you know, incident today.”
Someone else might have waved it away, but Scooter did not. He had felt his own mortality today in a way he hadn’t before, and it had sobered him a little. “I’m fine, Kermit,” Scooter said gently. “Really. It’s okay.”
“Good. Is Sara okay?” Kermit asked. Scooter heard the worry in his voice and felt his mouth tug up a little at the corners.
“She’s…well, she’s fine now,” Scooter hedged. It had been rough going there for a while, but things were okay now. Kermit was quiet, waiting and listening, and Scooter sighed and told him. “First she cried,” he admitted. “Then she yelled at me—a lot. Then she cried some more and, um, kissed me…and, um….” He broke off, wondering if Kermit could hear him blush.
“Is she still mad at you?” Kermit's voice was grim.
Scooter looked back down the hallway toward the closed door and his face softened. “No,” he said quietly. “She’s not mad anymore. I…I sort of had to prove I was still alive and breathing and in good working order….”
He heard Kermit relax and—finally—chuckle. “Okay,” he said. “I understand. So I take it you’re back on…speaking terms?”
“You could say that,“ Scooter admitted, and could not help but grin before sobering a little. “Look, she knows I work with monsters. It’s got to have crossed her mind.”
“Maybe,” said Kermit. He had sometimes been surprised to find that many people assumed that all monsters were like Elmo, or Cookie Monster or Grover—good-natured and friendly. “Is she mad at me? Scooter, I am really sorry about--”
“I’m fine, Boss. Really. I’m fine and Sara’s fine.” He hesitated. “How about you? Did you tell Miss Piggy, yet?“
“She’s still doing the show,” Kermit said evasively, but he hadn’t outright shut the conversation down. Emboldened, Scooter tried again.
“Look, Boss, I’m not trying to be a pain—“
“You’re not a pain.”
“And I’m not trying to tell you what to do.”
Kermit said nothing in response, and Scooter could practically feel him digging the heels of his little flippered feet into the carpet.
“But I’m just saying—again--that you should tell her.”
“I’m glad that you’re okay,” the amphibian interrupted. “I won’t keep you.”
“Tell her!” Scooter urged, but Kermit had already hung up. He sighed and gritted his teeth, then shook his head sadly. Kermit might be easy-going most of the time, but his stubbornness was well-documented among those who loved him best. “This is not going to end well,” he muttered, then shrugged. Kermit was a grown frog and he would do what he would do. There was nothing for it unless he decided to rat Kermit out to Piggy, and he didn’t think that was called for—yet. He sighed, put it firmly out of mind and went back down the hall to join his sleeping wife.
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Christmas Music
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Sam and Friends Book
The banter between Darcy and Harrison is wonderful; I don't think I've ever seen anyone make a proper pun using "berth" before! Kudos!
. Always amazed at how much emotion and plot twists you effortlessly create with each new chapter.
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