“No, the Ogilvies have a professional group picture taken every year for their family history. For the usual shot of the eldest and the youngest, I posed a hundred-year-old woman and a two-day-old lamb. Cute. What? They thought it was brilliant.”
“You’ve got a new van, Bushy.”
“No, a new paint job. Dwight Somers recommended a less somber color and a livelier logo to enhance my image in a rural environment.”
“Business must be good if you can afford a PR man.”
“Not that good! I bartered photos for his services.”
“Well, come in and have a gin and tonic. I just happen to have the main ingredients.”
Bushy leaned on the bar while Qwilleran mixed his drink and opened a ginger ale for himself. “Where are the cats?” he asked.
“Asleep somewhere.”
“Then I can speak freely. Those guys are finally licked. I’ve sent for the trick lens.”
For several years Bushy had been trying to take a photo that would win him a prize and land Koko and Yum Yum on the cover of a cat calendar. Having no desire to be cover cats, they had thwarted his repeated efforts with exasperating ingenuity, no matter how stealthy his strategy. Now he had tracked down a vintage lens for photographing reluctant subjects without their knowledge.
“Good!” Qwilleran said. “Those scoundrels have been calling the plays long enough!”
As they carried their drinks to the porch, Yum Yum uncurled from sleep on a chair seat, rising gracefully like a genie coming out of a bottle. Koko had been sleeping compactly in sixty-four- square inches of sunlight on top of his pedestal; he jumped down with a grunt.
The two men stretched out on lounge chairs and absorbed the view: blue sky, white clouds, blue lake with white sails skimming across the horizon.
“That’s the Grand Island Club’s annual wooden sloop regatta,” Bushy said. “Last year’s winner wanted me to sail with them this year and shoot, but I wouldn’t go out on one of those babies for any amount of money! I’ll stick to stink-boats… Did you know I’ve got a new one? Twenty-four-foot cuddy cruiser with depth-finder, VHF radio, stereo. Sleeps four. I’d like to take you for a cruise. I think you’d be impressed.”
“You’ll never get me out on a boat again, Bushy,” Qwilleran said with fervor. “After that trip to Three Tree Island, I had nightmares for a month, and Roger almost succumbed to pneumonia.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve learned a lot since then. I pay attention to the weather clues - the whistling overhead and the sudden change in the sky color. It wouldn’t happen again, and we’d pick a nice day.”
“We picked a nice day the last time.”
That ill-fated voyage had been a fool’s errand in the first place, Qwilleran reflected. A pilot flying over the island had seen what he thought were charred circles on the shore. He mentioned the phenomenon to Roger MacGillivray, who was a spaceship buff. Bushy, being another, wanted to cruise out to see them. Qwilleran went along for the ride. They never saw the circles, and it was a miracle that they ever saw the mainland again.
Qwilleran knew the young man was inordinately fond of his new craft. He said, “Okay, I’ll put my life on the line, but give me advance notice so I can take out some more insurance.”
Bushy said, “I was thinking about tomorrow. The weather’s going to be perfect, and 1 thought we could pick up some pasties at the Nasty Pasty and have lunch on board.”
Qwilleran was inordinately fond of pasties. “What time? Where?” he asked.
After Bushy had driven away, Qwilleran brushed the Siamese. They liked it, and he found it conducive to thinking. Yum Yum considered it an exciting game of fight-the-brush; Koko submitted with the dignity of a monarch being robed for a coronation. The porch was ideal for the ritual. Gentle breezes wafted the loose cat hair into comers where it could easily be scooped up. Whimsically he wondered if the balls of soft weightless fluff could be spun into yarn for Arch to knit into socks. What a Christmas gift that would make! Good for a laugh, at any rate.
One thought led to another, and he phoned Mitch Ogilvie, a goat farmer. “I hear you had a family reunion today Mitch.”
The farmer was in the cheesehouse, and his voice had the hollow ring of concrete walls and stainless-steel vats. “I was there long enough to get in the official photo, that’s all. Goats don’t give you any days off.”
“Would you happen to know the two Ogilvie women who do handspinning?”
“Sure, that would be Alice and her daughter. Her husband has the sheep ranch on Sandpit Road.”
“If I wrote a column on handspinning,” Qwilleran asked, “would she make a good interview? Is she an authority?”
“Definitely. We’re going to get some cashmere and angora goats just for her. She sells her yarn to weavers and knitters all over the country. Her daughter has started a unisex knitting club, Qwill. You ought to join.”
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “Arch Riker has joined, and when he finishes the toe of his first sock, I may consider it. Frankly, I think I’m perfectly safe.”
When Qwilleran phoned the sheep ranch, there was no answer; no doubt the family was still at the reunion, enjoying barbecued chicken, baked beans, and potato salad. He chose not to leave a message but applied himself to his theater review for Monday’s paper. He sprawled in a lounge chair on the porch, writing on a legal pad while the Siamese napped, the clouds scudded, and the regatta dotted the horizon with white sails.
Writing a review of a small-town play for a small-town theater was a special art. He asked himself, What is the purpose of the review? Not to show off the intellect and educated taste of the reviewer. Not to flatter the amateur actors into quitting their jobs and moving to New York. Not to give away the surprise of the plot and spoil it for next week’s audience. And not to convince readers that they were smart to stay home and watch television.
Instead, he told the stay-at-homes what it was like to attend an opening night: the crowd; the excitement; the transformed barn; the stage set; the audience reaction; the pomposity of the major general; the snobbery of the TV commentator; and the roar of laughter when the unexpected happened.
Every once in a while Qwilleran looked up from his pad, and his eyes fell on Koko, after which he went on writing with a fresh idea or neat turn of phrase. It was exactly what Christopher Smart had written about Jeoffrey: For he’s good to think on if a man would express himself neatly.
In one of these interludes, he saw Koko raise his head suddenly, crane his neck, and point his ears toward the lake, as if a crow had stamped its feet on the beach or a grasshopper had rustled the tall grasses. All was quiet, yet Qwilleran found himself touching his moustache in expectation. A few minutes later a figure rounded a curve in the shoreline and came into view: a young woman in black tights, a leopard shirt, black baseball cap, and jogging shoes. She was not the usual beachcomber in shorts, T-shirt, and sandals. She was not strolling and searching the beach for agates or walking briskly with pumping elbows. She trudged doggedly.
Qwilleran walked to the top of the sandladder, where he stood with hands in his pant pockets. When she came close enough, he called out, “Good afternoon! Beautiful day!”
Startled, she looked up, nodded, and labored on, a polished leather bag on a very long strap dangling from her shoulder. That was another item never seen on the beach.
In half an hour she was back, trudging without looking to right or left.
-8-
When Qwilleran went to the drugstore Sunday morning to pick up his New York Times, who should be doing the same thing but Arch Riker. “Had your breakfast?” Qwilleran asked him.