Dear Pauline… Some men think “he don’t” is macho. Give up, my dear. The male animal is as stubborn as a mule - and we all know about mules, don’t we?
Fran interrupted. “Who’s writing this column?”
“Only Junior Goodwinter knows, and he’s not telling,” said Hixie.
“Well, I think it’s a man.”
“I do, too,” said Qwilleran. “I also think it’s not very good.”
“Read some more,” Hixie urged.
Dear Ms. Gramma … When I was in school, we had a campaign against the word “ain’t.” If anyone used it, the whole class yelled “oink oink.” It worked! - Isabelle, in Trawnto.
Dear Isabelle… Ms. Gramma hereby gives permission to her readers to yell “oink oink” whenever they hear “ain’t” in a public place. Thanks for the idea, honey. Ms. Gramma is not responsible, however, for physical assault or verbal obscenities resulting from the oinking.
Dear Ms. Gramma … Some people who are fussy about their speech say “between you and I” instead of “between you and me.” Why? - Linda in Mooseville.
Dear Linda… For the same reason they crook their pinky when drinking tea. They think it’s correct, but it ain’t… Oops! Sorry! … Ms. Gramma could write a volume about pronouns following prepositions, honey, but it would be boring, so let’s do it the easy way. All together now… Between you and me!
When Qwilleran had concluded the reading, he asked, “Do you think it was written by a staffer or a freelancer? Or a committee?”
“I won’t rest until I find out,” Hixie said.
“Don’t waste your time on Ms. Gramma,” Qwilleran told her. “Apply your brain to the Mark Twain celebration.”
Satisfied with the events of the lunch hour and looking forward to a return to Pickax, Qwilleran planned his exodus while driving back to Mooseville. There was no need to close the cabin completely. With Polly back in town they would be spending weekends at the beach, entertaining other couples with cocktails on the porch and dinner at Owen’s Place. The Siamese would stay in their luxurious bam with a cat-sitter.
Near Top o’ the Dunes he bought a frozen dinner at a roadside convenience store and started watching for the old stone chimney. He hoped it would never succumb to the bulldozers of a Roadside Improvement Coalition; he had developed an affection for the grotesque monolith. When he spotted the historic landmark in the distance, he also saw a vehicle turning into the K driveway. It was yellow! It was a school bus!
Qwilleran was indignant. He resented trespassers, and he was not fond of schoolchildren en masse. Individually, he found them amusing - the McBee boy and Celia Robinson’s grandson, for example. But what were they doing on his property without permission? School had let out in mid-June, but school buses were used for all kinds of summer enrichment activities.
Arriving at his driveway, he pursued the bus, noting a flash of yellow as it lumbered over the dunes and between the trees. His van bounced recklessly in its wake. Even so, the bus was already in the clearing when Qwilleran drove up and parked directly behind it; there would be no escape without due explanation! He jumped from the driver’s seat, expecting to see a yardful of noisy kids racing around and alarming the cats. The only sign of life was a tall, broad-shouldered figure at the top of the sandladder, gazing at the lake. Qwilleran noted a farmer’s straw hat, jeans, field boots, and some kind of inscription on the back of the T-shirt.
“Hello, there!” he shouted with a note of annoyance.
The uninvited guest turned, revealing a life-size crow on the T-shirt. “You must be Qwill,” she said in a clear authoritative voice. “I’m Tess, Joe Bunker’s cousin.”
“Oh! … If I’d known you were coming, I’d have been here to welcome you,” he said, tactfully mixing rebuke with apology. “Joe said you’d phone me from Horseradish when you arrived.”
“I changed my itinerary. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” he said crisply. He disliked being taken by surprise. “Go on the porch and make yourself comfortable while I unlock the cabin and put my purchases in the freezer.”
Only then did he realize that the yellow vehicle, a mini-bus, was boldly labeled REPUBLIC OF CROWMANIA. SO was the back of her T-shirt.
Indoors he briefed the Siamese. “We have company. She’s out on the porch. She’s a corvidologist, but harmless. Don’t sniff her boots; it’s considered impolite.”
When he opened the door to the lake porch, they hung back warily. Tess was sitting with her legs crossed and her hat off, her dark hair sleeked back into a bun. Her features were clean-cut, with thin lips and high cheekbones. “You have a lot of crows on the beach,” she said. “I’m glad I brought a supply of dried corn.”
“How far have you traveled today?” he asked.
“Not far. Just from my aunt’s house in
Bixby. I tried calling you from there, and when there was no answer, I decided to take a chance and come anyway.”
“Would you explain your bus?”
“I’d love to! It’s used for field trips with students and for dissemination of information at all other times - propaganda, if you will. As Joe may have told you, I believe crows are the next big craze, following pigs, frogs, owls, monkeys, whales, and dinosaurs. The crow is a noble bird - intelligent, rather handsome, well organized, cooperative, and very focused. A flock knows where it’s going and flies directly there. ‘Straight as the crow flies’ is no accidental cliché. As for the crow’s voice, it’s authoritative, with an extensive vocabulary far beyond the common ‘caw.’ What’s your reaction to crows, Qwill?”
“They all look alike.”
“On the contrary, they have different personalities, physiques, and body language, as you’ll see when you read the literature I’ve brought you. Why don’t we bring in my luggage, and I’ll unpack, and then we’ll talk some more.”
Luggage? Wetherby had said nothing about her corning as a houseguest!
“Joe tells me you don’t cook. I’d be glad to prepare meals while I’m here.”
Meals? How long does she think she’s staying? Qwilleran asked himself.
“Just tell me what you like to eat,” she said. “I make a fantastic macaroni-and-cheese with horseradish, if you like that sort of thing.”
“First, let’s bring your luggage in,” he said. There were two enormous duffel bags and a briefcase in the bus. Together they carried them through the woods to the guest house.
“It’s small, but it has indoor plumbing,” he said. “We call it the Snuggery.”
“It’s cute!” she said. “I love it!”
Qwilleran rushed back to the cabin to make his first mint julep and slapped his forehead in dismay. No mint! He had plenty of bourbon but no fresh mint. The Rikers grew it in their backyard, and Mildred had said he could help himself at any time. He grabbed his car keys and drove to Top o’ the Dunes, left the motor running, and grabbed a handful of what he presumed was mint. It smelled like mint. Then he drove recklessly back to the cabin and arrived just as Tess was coming through the woods in a fresh denim shirt.
“How would you like a mint julep?” he asked.
“Oh, I love mint juleps!” she exclaimed. “But the doctor won’t let me have anything stronger than wine. What are you drinking?”
“Ginger ale.”
“Then I’ll have the same. This is a charming cabin. How old is it?” She wandered about, admiring the stone fireplace, the copper sailboat, the Mark Twain collection. She commented on the row of postcards. “There are two on the floor!”
“They probably have fang marks in the corners,” Qwilleran said. “Just put them on the coffee table. I’ll replace them.”