Having parked legally, I plucked at my moist shirt as I walked up the sidewalk to the porch where Mrs. Plaut, tiny, thin, ancient and determined, sat on the porch swing, a pencil in one hand, and a pad of lined paper in the other. That meant one of two things, neither of which boded well for me. She was either working on her family history, which was now several thousand pages long or she was doing a grocery list.
If it were the history, I would soon be getting a pile of neatly written pages to read and approve. Mrs. Plaut, more than a little hard of hearing and often in audio contact with a world the rest of us couldn’t hear, believed that I was two things, a book editor and an exterminator. She did not think the combination odd and had once told me that the long-gone Mr. Plaut had once been a prospector, stagecoach driver, and tree surgeon at the same time.
If she were working on her grocery list, it would mean a trip to the nearest Ralph’s, which I didn’t mind. What I minded was the mind-numbing explanation of the rationing system, which Mrs. Plaut had mastered and I was expected to remember.
“Mr. Peelers,” she said, looking up at me.
I had long ago decided not to correct her.
“It is I,” I said.
“I was going to give you this list this evening, but as luck would have it, here you are.”
“Here I am, as luck would have it,” I said. “I need a shower and a change of clothes.”
She looked at me and said,
“You need a shower and a change of clothes.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Shopping list,” she said, handing me the sheet she had been working on. I didn’t look at it.
“We’re having beef heart stew tonight, if you can do the shopping this afternoon.”
“I’ll do the shopping this afternoon,” I said.
She reached into the crocheted purse next to the wooden chair and came up with three one-dollar bills, which she handed to me along with the dreaded ration coupon book.
I looked at the list:
Beef hearts, two lbs.
40 cents
20 oz. loaf, bread
10 cents
Hot dogs, one lb.
19 cents
Ritz crackers, one lb.
19 cents
Armour’s Treet, 12-oz. can
27 cents
Super Suds, large
23 cents
Cuticura skin ointment
37 cents
Squibb Aspirin (200)
69 cents
Miracle Whip 16 oz.
19 cents
“The Cuticura is a necessity,” she said. “My hands.”
“I’m sure,” I agreed.
In truth, Mrs. Plaut did have delicate hands and long fingers.
“The ration calendar,” she said.
The dreaded ration calendar. There was no escape so I simply listened, mind growing numb.
“Processed food,” she said, without reference to notes. “Blue A8 through V8, book 4, is now valid at 10 points each for use with tokens. You understand?”
“Perfectly,” I said.
“W8, X8, Y8, Z8, and A5 became good July 2.”
“Got it,” I said. “Anything else?”
“Meats and fats,” she said. “Red A8 through W8, book 4, are now valid at 10 points each for use with tokens, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
“And you should know, Mr. Peelers, that A-10 coupons are now valid for gasoline. Rationing rules now require every car owner to write his license number and state on all gas coupons in his possession as soon as they are issued to him. And here.”
She handed me about thirty additional sheets of lined paper.
“A chapter about Wooley in England,” she said.
“Wooley?”
“My second eldest brother, now deceased,” she said, with a shake of her head to indicate that this was information I should have possessed. “I would appreciate your reading it this night.”
“May I take a shower and change now?” I asked.
“You won’t need any change,” she said. “The three dollars will be quite enough.”
I didn’t answer. I went inside and headed for the steps. On my left were Mrs. Plaut’s rooms. Inside, her caged bird was screeching. She changed the name of the bird with cycles of the planets, the changing of the tides, the fortunes of war, the sudden emergence of long-forgotten friends. The current name of the bird, she had informed us at dinner the night before, was Admiral Nelson. It was as certain to change by breakfast tomorrow, as it was that Dewey would get the Republican nomination for president.
On my left was the parlor, decorated in the latest furniture and fashion of the year right after the Civil War.
I went up the steps and to my room where I put Mrs. Plaut’s grocery list, coupons, and the chapter of her book on the small table near the window. Then I took off my shirt, selected another one that seemed to have no missing buttons and was reasonably clean, and headed for the bathroom down the hall. Stripped, door secured by the flimsy hook and little eye, I showered and sang A Little On The Lonely Side, at least the words I could remember.
When I finished, I headed back toward my room pausing at the door of Gunther Wherthman, my closest friend, who stood less than four feet tall and carried himself with a dignity that should have been the envy of every slouching congressman.
I knocked. Gunther called for me to come in. The door wasn’t locked. No doors at Mrs. Plaut’s were allowed to be locked. Privacy, she believed, nurtured the possibility of perversion.
Gunther’s room was the same size as mine, but that’s where the comparison ended. My room looked like a messy college freshman’s dorm closet. A worn sofa against one wall, a dresser near the door, a small table with two chairs. A box of a refrigerator the size of a peach crate, and a mattress against the wall. The mattress plopped down on the floor at night and so did I. My back is ever on the verge of rebellion and needs a firm thin mattress and the promise that I will never sleep on my stomach or side.
Gunther’s room had a neatly made-up single bed in the corner with a muted multicolored Indian blanket over it and matching pillows on top. There was a single soft brown leather armchair, a dark Persian throw rug on the floor, dark wooden bookshelves against the walls, and a desk near the window with neat piles of paper, magazines, reports, and books. In the swivel chair by the desk, Gunther sat wearing, as he always did, a three-piece suit and tie. Gunther worked in his room as a translator for industry and the government. He always dressed for work.
“You think Grieg’s music can cause someone to feel no pain?” I asked, standing in the open doorway.
“He was of a dour Norwegian bent,” Gunther said seriously, with his slight Swiss accent, “and it has been said that even his Peer Gynt Suite might incline those less than devoted to his work to escape the performance by a protective self trance.”
“Meaning?”
“When bored by Grieg, people have been known to fall asleep, sometimes with their eyes open,” he explained. “May I ask why you present this question?”
“Shelly,” I said.
Gunther shook his head. The dentist’s name was explanation enough.
“What do you know about magicians?” I asked.
“When I was with the circus,” Gunther said, tapping the tiny fingers of his right hand on his desk, “I encountered several. At one point I was even employed by Spengler Aroyo, Spengler the Magnificent. Magicians like to have little people in their acts. He billed me as Hugo the Dwarf. I objected. I am not a dwarf. I quit. Magicians are often dual of visage-open, gregarious in public, intense and brooding in private.”