Chapter 134: Since I Fell For You
Piggy and Thoreau and Howard went about their showy and celebratory night on the town as well-prepared as a seasoned army ready for battle. The bar filled to capacity and beyond just so patrons could watch her drink champagne and toss her hair. If they were lucky, she might even take the dance floor with one of her companions. The house was so pack the servers were having trouble moving freely when Piggy looked up in a coquettish manner and asked the gentleman who had taken their order if the piano-player took requests. His answering smile was broad, and he brushed aside Thoreau’s generous tip peeking slyly out from under the tray.
“I’m sure he’d be delighted,” he said suavely, but in reality he was cheering inside. Although he had served their table, he was, in fact, the owner of the establishment, and the thought of Miss Piggy gracing his stage and microphone was the kind of luck that most restauranteurs dream of. He had already tabulated how her unexpected visit was likely to impact his bottom line for the next five months, and he would have hired an orchestra to accompany her if she only asked him to. Piggy fluttered her eyelashes and swept to the stage.
Beneath the table, Ed’s grip on Autumn’s hand was only matched in intensity by her grip on his.
“She’s going to sing!” Ed murmured, and heard Autumn bob her head quickly in agreement. If she had trusted herself to speak, she would have. She had certainly found herself in dramatic situations before, but it was hard to match the sheer magnitude of drama that Miss Piggy seemed to wear like a fine French cologne.
Piggy bent and lifted the hem of her close-fitting dress as she mounted the steps, revealing a nice flash of well-toned calf muscles. The percussionist in the back fumbled his drumsticks and one of them clang-banged on the cymbal as it fell, although he did manage to catch it before he hit the ground. Normally, his bandmates would have ribbed him about his flub, but there was not one fellow musician who had so much as raised an eyebrow at the hapless drummer—their eyebrows were otherwise engaged.
Miss Piggy brushed the hair back from her face and wet her lips. She took the mic in one hand, then put it back into its stand so she could shuck the baby-blue fur jacket, managing to give the crowd and the musicians a good look at how well the gown she wore fit her bountiful curves. Thoreau had made this one for a private party, and she hadn’t been photographed in it nearly enough to suit either of them. She might have hung the jacket on the back of a chair, or handed it back to Howard or Thoreau, but eight gloved hands had reached to assist her, each musician hoping to be the one she allowed to hold her coat while she sang.
“Vous are too kind,” Piggy demurred, favoring a tall, strapping trombone player with the honor. The drummer and the bass player gave him indignant looks and silently vowed to cut him out of the weekly poker game, but it was unlikely that he’d have cared if he’d known. She took the mic again and stepped into the spotlight.
“Amazing how she always hits the spotlight dead-on the first time,” Thoreau murmured. The light would have dazzled most performers, but she took it in stride, as well as the flash of several phone cameras. His voice was dry. “Do you think it’s natural or an acquired talent?”
“She may have practiced,” Howard whispered back, “but I’ll bet you the bill it’s 99% natural. It’s like she’s got some sort of homing device for center stage….”
Piggy waited patiently while the audience members with phones took pictures, but when it became obvious that most of the crowd was waiting not-so-patiently for her to sing so they could record it on their phones, she leaned over and whispered something into the conductor’s ear, her soft snout and lips brushing against his well-groomed beard. He nodded enthusiastically, adding something that made Piggy giggle. The conductor joined the trombone player on the “not-invited-to-poker-night” list, but remained deliriously oblivious. He gave the band a couple of quick hand signals and a murmured comment, then raised his baton. Piggy smiled, but her long lashes swept over her eyes and she did not look at the audience. The band played a low, trembling chord.
“When you just give love.
And never get love.
You’d better let love depart….
I know that’s so.
And yet I know.
I can’t get you out of my heart….”
Piggy’s lashes swept up to reveal tragic blue eyes, and the audience members either gasped or stopped breathing all together. The band had the advantage, however, of not being able to see her face, so they were able to continue playing as though nothing earthshaking was going on.
“Youooooo…,” she wailed, her voice swelling as she sustained the note, “…made me leave my happy home.
I miss you now that I am gone.
Since Moi fell for you.”
Thoreau and Howard looked at each other, and Thoreau bit his lower lip. “Ooh, she’s still a teeny bit mad at him, I think,” he whispered.
“She always did have a talent for putting her heart out there on her sleeve,” Howard murmured. “If he were here, I’ll bet he’d wish he weren’t here, if you know what I mean.”
“I do know—but I don’t agree. I think he’d be happy to be here under any circumstances.”
“True, that.” Although everyone else in the roomed seemed tensed with burgeoning excitement, Piggy's old friends relaxed. Things were well in hand, and they did not need to keep such a close watch when everyone else in the room was doing it for them. Although they had not had a chance to talk about it, both of them had noticed her unusual behavior backstage, wondering what had spooked her earlier. They were more than happy to have two of Piggy’s fans—now friends—along, after Piggy had explained their casino heroics, and the fashionable couple sat enraptured beside them, thrilled to be crowded around the same small table as their idol.
“Love…brings such misery and pain,” Piggy sang.
Her eyes were closed, but her face was upturned to the spotlight as though looking for warmth or blessing.
“I guess I’ll never be the same.
Since Moi fell for you-oooo,” she murmured, and smiled a secret little smile as she opened her baby blues.
The look of drowsy contentment on her lovely face, the teasing hint of tender exasperation spoke more for Piggy's feelings for Kermit than a thousand tabloid photographs. Anyone looking at her could see that she was—unequivocally—smitten, smitten and beholden to the one she was singing about. It was brilliant, it was artistry, pure and simple—and it had the added advantage of being absolutely true.
“He’d wish he were here,” Thoreau murmured. “No doubt about it.”
Howard’s hand found his as they watched Piggy work. She certainly knew how to bring a torch song home.
The Indie Vittles were bringing it home. They’d gotten off to a fitful start, but once they’d managed to work out the kinks, the music flowed fast and smooth and mellow. Tricia felt it wash over her like a wave—like a tonic. It had always been a safe place to retreat to—to the hot pulse of rhythm and music streaming out of you like steam. All jokes aside, it had been their time together on the road that had really cemented their sound, and while it had sharpened their playing, it had worn smooth their differences until they barely had to talk between songs to communicate. Susie reacted to the slightest sign from any of them and drove them forward with the beat as one familiar song flowed into the next. At last, they were satisfied—satisfied and exhausted—when they shut everything down for the evening and went their separate ways.
Tricia opened her mother’s kitchen door and walked in, and her face split into a huge grin. Clifford stood before the stove wearing one of Mable’s aprons. It was comically short but it did protect him some from the little bubbles of tomato sauce that kept threatening to erupt from the pan and spatter his T-shirt and the loud Hawaiian shirt he wore over it.
“Where did you get that shirt,” Tricia demanded, laughing out loud.
“I’ll have you know I got this shirt at a jumble sale in a very ritzy part of town,” Clifford objected.
Tricia swung her purse down on the countertop. “And what town would that be—Podunk?”
“Hey!” Clifford cried, but he was grinning broadly. He put his hands on his hips and made a disapproving face. “Here I am—cooking dinner—and you come home and make fun of my fashion sense.”
“If I apologize, can I have some of that pasta?” Tricia asked. The scent of Italian herbs filled the kitchen and her mouth, dry from singing, was watering at the scent.
“Please wash your hands, have a seat and wait to be served,” Clifford said, and Tricia just laughed and started to slide into the kitchen booth, but Clifford gave her a look and she stopped.
“What?” she asked, checking her hands. The look he was giving her made her think he might make her wash them, and she got up sheepishly and washed them at the kitchen sink. When they were washed and dried, she plopped down onto the worn bench seat again, but Clifford caught her elbow gently and lifted her back up.
“Go have a seat,” he said, waving toward the living room, “and wait to be served.”
“Oh good grief,” Tricia griped. “It’s not like we’re getting all…fancy.” She pushed through the door and stopped in her tracks, seeing the little table set with a checked cloth and a green glass vase on it with flowers from the garden. She recovered her composure almost immediately. “What?” she cracked. “No candl—“
Clifford pushed past her, deftly holding a tray with two bowls of pasta and a small candleholder which gleamed and threw shadows from the flowers.
“Your wish…” he singsonged, but Tricia had grown quiet.
“What is this, Clifford?” Tricia asked, feeling her stomach coil with tension.
“This is dinner,” he said.
“But---but you got all, um, formal and everything….”
For a minute, their eyes met, hers worried and his worried, too.
“Not formal,” he said solemnly. “And not fancy either. Practical.”
Tricia raise her eyebrows at him. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “I don’t want you to see me get food on my nice shirt.”
Tricia bit her lip, trying hard not to smile, but in the end she grinned so hard it made her cheeks sore. "Want a sweetie," she thought. "Half formal and half silly.
And all trouble."
Despite almost overwhelming temptation, Ed and Autumn took their leave just before Piggy left the stage. She had submitted to an encore, but she had been firm about a second. All eyes were forward as they wended their way through the other patrons and made for the door. Reluctantly, Ed preceded her outside and allowed Mr. Finkel to usher him into the warmth of the cab while Autumn went to the Ladies Room.
Hastily, Autumn tied a silk scarf over her burnished head and slipped on a pair of fashionable tortoiseshell glasses. She stopped just inside the door to turn her felted wool jacket inside out, transforming it into a stunning faux-sable coat. Ed couldn’t know it, but her claret dress was now silver. Her shoes now had rhinestone bows on the backs of the high heels. Since Manhattan has its fair share of shapely, stylish women, there was almost nothing that would have identified her as the same woman that accompanied Miss Piggy into the bar and that was good. That was very good indeed.
Ed waited with every show of patience for Autumn’s arrival—and none of its substance—and finally breathed a sigh of very genuine relief when she scooted in beside him. His arm went automatically around her waist, glad to know she was back where she belonged.
“Any trouble?” she asked, smoothing Ed’s hair back from his temple. He would need a trim soon, and there were a couple of little curls that she couldn’t help wanting to smooth.
“None,” Ed said evenly. “You?”
“None. But I think we made our getaway just in time.” Autumn smiled. “It’s beginning to resemble Time’s Square out here.”
The news that Miss Piggy and her celebrated designer, Thoreau, were out and about on the town was big news. Other than the night of her Broadway debut, when she had arrived unexpectedly at The Grill in the company of her castmates, there had been little chance of capturing the luminous face or luscious figure of Mrs. The Frog, but Piggy knew how to court attention when she wished.
The sidewalk outside the bar was now crammed with paparazzi and entertainment network hopefuls. Every reporter who had not managed to cadge an assignment to cover the Academy Awards felt adrenaline surge into their veins, and they had come in hopes of seeing a little news made! Fashion writers who had hoped to score pics of the porcine diva getting all chummy with Thoreau, who was in New York to pitch his never-anticipated, unprecedented everyday fashion line rubbed shoulders irritably with entertainment columnists who hoped to find something scandalous and wicked going on when Mrs. The Frog stepped out without Mr. The Frog. As an added perk, Howard Tubman, who had choreographed several notable Muppet productions, was apparently joining the glamorous duo. Dance! Magazine was purportedly drooling on their pointed shoes for a picture they could use.
Autumn and Ed had already gotten one wonderful photograph with Piggy backstage, but that was all the photography Autumn felt could be tolerated. Piggy would have said that there was no such thing as too much publicity, but Autumn knew otherwise. Before the photographic hounds were unleashed, fading into the night was advisable—especially since she wasn’t fading on her lonesome.
“What?” said Ed, hearing her smile and reaching self-consciously to touch the curls that she had smoothed.
“Nothing,” said Autumn. “I was just thinking what a wonderful night this was—the show, Miss Piggy and her lovely friends…the company.”
Ed smiled and his arm tightened around her waist.
“The fact that the evening isn’t over yet?” he murmured.
“Oh, Ed, Darling!” Autumn cried happily. “That’s exactly what I was thinking!”
Scribbler woke himself snoring, startled and then shot upright. He’d been having a nightmare—something to do with seagulls wearing size 22 wingtips…. He looked around his dingy apartment and was glad—glad—for its familiar dumpiness. He stood up, stretched and heard several vertebrae pop and shuffled off to bed. Although he debated it, he decided to change out of his day clothes and found the sheets pleasantly cool and soft when he slipped between them. He fluffed his pillow, pushing the bad dream away.
He would not think about anything bad. He would only think positive things, happy things. He would think of Piggy, dragging him by the arm through the park to take her picture before a picturesque tree, a lovely pond, a statue. Oh, how he had loved those afternoons with her! He smiled, beginning to drift.
She had loved them, too. In fact, it had been her who set their schedule most of the time, and after a while Scribbler had given up any right to plan his own social calendar in favor of being cheerfully bossed by the most entrancing pig on the planet. Those had been good times—good times indeed. He felt a twinge of annoyance, thinking of the way his employer had manhandled him and wondering if there was something about him that just screamed ”pushover". He’d certainly been a pushover for her.
Scribbler smiled, drifting into dreamland. If Missy wanted to boss him around again, he wasn’t going to protest.
“You’re moping,” Chad accused, but there was more compassion than chide in it. Rory startled and looked up to find his partner looking at him with a look that was hard to fathom. Rory looked up from the book he’d been staring at and held out his hand. Chad took it and climbed in to sit down next to him on the comforter. “Want to talk about it?”
Rory shook his head and smiled, trying to look normal, trying to sound normal. Between the company at home and the funny doings backstage, the whole day had been, well, weird. At least the show had gone well, and Chad’s mother had absolutely adored seeing the show again with Piggy playing opposite her almost-son-in-law. The introductions after had been a huge hit, too, and they were all happily anticipating brunch and gossip in the AM.
“Not really,” Rory said, and smiled when Chad nudged him with his shoulder.
“You pick such strange times to be strong and silent,” Chad said disapprovingly. “Most times I can’t shut you up, but—oh!”
There was a moment or two of silence—a happy, busy silence—then Rory sighed. He’d been thinking about Piggy, thinking about the show, thinking about the man who had tried to kidnap her and about her friend who might not actually be her friend. And he was thinking that he wished he wasn’t the only one who knew what he knew. He had promised to keep Piggy’s confidences, but now he wished he had someone to keep his.
“It’s nothing…,” he began, and made the mistake of looking up. He found Chad’s chocolate-brown eyes fastened on his, waiting patiently for whatever he would say. He tried once more to brush it off, to keep the party line (or the Piggy line, as the case might be), but it was impossible. He sighed again and told Chad everything.
“But what can I dooooo?
I’m still in love with you!
I guess I’ll never see the light.
I get the blues most every night.
Since I fell for you….”
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at the new chapter of KG. This made me happy, something to read on a rainy day now that the rain's stopped. Not to mention it's a bit hectic with family stuff going on today.
Angry Piggy is Angry!!
