Qwilleran was stunned into silence but recovered to say, “I’m very happy for you, Polly!”
She said, “I only wish you were going with me.”
“So do I, dear.”
Polly said, “At least I won’t have to impose on neighbors and worry about Brutus and Catta. They can stay at Pet Plaza, and Judd Amhurst can manage the bookstore.”
She added, “A Lockmaster travel agent will handle airline tickets, hotel reservations, and sightseeing.”
Later that evening, and in the days that followed, Qwilleran speculated that they could have been traveling about the globe together. Why had they both allowed themselves to be trapped in the workaday world? Now there was no telling whom Polly would meet. There had been that professor in Canada, that antiques dealer in Williamsburg, those attorneys and architects at the K Fund in Chicago.
And now there were all those Frenchmen! She liked men, and they were attracted to her agreeable manner, resulting from a lifetime career in a public library. Her musical voice might be interpreted as being seductive. She had a beautiful complexion—the result, she said, of eating broccoli and bananas. She dressed attractively—with individual touches of her own design. Altogether, Polly seemed too young for the silver in her hair. And when she entered a room wearing a Duncan plaid over the shoulder, pinned with a silver cairngorm…she stopped conversation.
And now those two likable and attractive women were going to Paris!
NINE
The next day, a Tuesday, Qwilleran met his Qwill Pen deadline but felt an underlying disappointment, although he kept telling himself to snap out of it. Everywhere he went, the entire population of Pickax seemed to know that Polly was going to Paris without him.
One conference was with Lisa Compton, who wanted to update him on the proposed program at the Senior Health Club. When given a choice of venue, she gladly chose the barn.
“How’s your crotchety and lovable husband?” he asked. Lyle was superintendent of schools.
“Crotchety and lovable, in that order,” she said cheerfully.
They decided it was too good a day to sit anywhere but the gazebo.
He asked, “Is there anything the Qwill Pen can do for you?”
“That’s for you to decide, Qwill. I’ll tell you where we stand. The building itself is progressing incredibly fast. With all-volunteer labor. We’re selling memberships and collecting ideas for activities. I’ve never seen this town so excited. The wonderful thing is that they want to learn how to do things! Does the Qwill Pen have any suggestions?”
“As a matter of fact, yes! I’ve been thinking about it—and about the pleasure I get from writing a private journal. It’s not like a diary, where you record daily events—but a place for thoughts and ideas, no matter how personal or crazy. No matter how amateurish, it’s something to leave to future generations—something that will be appreciated. I’d be willing to introduce the idea, give a few tips—even read some of my own entries.”
“Qwill! This is more than I expected! You could introduce the idea now—in the community hall, and get them started. Is there anything I should be doing?”
“Just tell the stationer to lay in a good supply of ordinary school notebooks with lined pages.”
That night as Qwilleran sat down to write in his private journal, he had a flashback to his lean and hungry years as a young man in New York. He wrote:
My furnished room had an old windup Victrola and a single 78 record: Johnny Mercer singing “I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter.” I played it every night because I couldn’t afford to buy another one.
Now, three decades later, it runs through my mind every night when I sit down to write to myself in my journal.
Qwilleran’s phone rang frequently the following day.
“Is it true about Polly?”
“Why aren’t you going?”
“Why Paris?”
“Does she speak French?”
“Are you giving a big party?”
“How long will she be gone?”
Finally he remembered the advice of his childhood mentor: “When fed up, take the bull by the horns.”
He went downtown to Lanspeak’s Department Store and asked Carol about a going-away gift for Polly. “Not another scarf! And certainly not a bottle of French perfume!”
She said, “We have a wonderful travel coat—gabardine—with snap flaps on the patch pockets—with secret pockets in the lining—and a brimmed rain hat. Polly looked at it but thought the price a little steep.”
“I’ll take it!” he said. “In fact, I’ll take two. Is there a choice of colors?”
Now, it seemed to Qwilleran, would be a good time to work on his senior program for Lisa Compton. It would be easy. He could tell an anecdote or two about Cool Koko…then show a stack of the school notebooks he filled with journal entries. Never a day went by without filling a page.
On some days there were brief entries:
When Yum Yum, my female Siamese, has access to a long hallway with many doors to bedrooms, bathrooms, etc., her performance is a wonder to watch. The doors are open; the rooms are unoccupied much of the time.
With stiff legs and resolute steps, she proceeds to walk the length of the hall down the exact center, looking straight ahead. At each open door she stops in her tracks; her body remains motionless except for her head, which swivels to look in the room. Only her eyeballs move as she appraises the interior. Then, finding nothing of interest, she switches her head back to the main course and trudges on to the next open door.
I have never seen her find anything of interest, but she continues her silent inspections.
There are times when I would like to redesign this barn and put the front door in the front and the back door in the back. But what is the back? And what is the front?
I stable my bicycles in the elegant foyer—and greet guests at the kitchen door.
I guess this is what happens when you convert a drive-through apple barn into a residence. And it reminds me of the pioneers who founded Pickax. Did they have a mischievous sense of humor when they put North Street south of South Street…and when they put storefronts facing the alley and loading docks facing the street?
Pickax is the quintessential absurdist city!
That evening, Qwilleran phoned the Comptons and told Lisa he was ready to talk to the seniors about private journals. He had some free time. He would read a couple of his own entries. They could start their own journals without waiting for the Senior Health Club to be finished.
Lisa said they would announce the date at the community hall.
“There’ll be a crowd!” she said. “We’ll notify the Traffic Department.”
On Thursday, Qwilleran felt the need for lunch and camaraderie with Kip MacDiarmid. The editor in chief of theLockmaster Ledger was one of his best friends, and Kip’s wife, Moira, was the marmalade breeder who had presented the affable Dundee to the Pirate’s Chest. Their favorite restaurant was in the old Inglehart mansion.
Kip’s first words were, “Moira says you and Polly must come to dinner soon.”
“Polly’s leaving for Paris for two weeks,” Qwilleran said, “with Shirley Bestover.”
When told the particulars, Kip asked, “Who’s planning their trip?”
“It appears there’s a semiretired travel agent in Lockmaster, who will go along to see that they get the best of everything.”
“Him, I know him! He’s an old roué, but I suppose Polly and Shirley can handle him. You might tip them off.”