“You’ll think of away,” she said cheerfully. “Just put your tongue in your cheek.”
After the appetizer came the tabbouleh, the only kind of salad that Qwilleran considered worth chewing. “You could learn to make tabbouleh,” Polly said encouragingly. “It’s no more difficult than feeding the cats.” He grunted in defense - why did everyone want him to learn to cook? He changed the subject. “Have I told you how much I’m enjoying Mark Twain A to Z?” She had given the book to him for his birthday.
“I knew you would, dear. I’ve always thought you were brothers under the moustache.”
“Be that as it may, I’ve instructed Eddington Smith to start searching for old copies of anything by Mark Twain. There are about eighty titles published in his lifetime or posthumously.”
“He had a soft spot for .cats,” she reminded him.
“I know that. He’s the one who said: If man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat.”
“Speaking of cats, Qwill, are Koko and Yum Yum enjoying the bird garden?”
“Why shouldn’t they? They don’t have
to do any of the work! I’m constantly filling the feeders and birdbaths. Those devils eat more than I do, and their bath-water disappears faster than I can drink a cup of coffee!”
“Oh, Qwill! How you exaggerate!”
“They give rowdy splash parties; I’ve seen them! And one greedy bird sits in a tree and whines ‘Feed me! Feed me!’ by the hour.”
“That’s a male phoebe, introducing himself. I should start a bird list for you. There must be at least two dozen species around the barn. Do you know you have a pileated woodpecker?”
“It doesn’t sound good. What is it?”
“A large bird with a red tuft on his head like the pileus in ancient times. That was a pointed cap, you know. His call is very distinctive and is often followed by rapid drumming on a tree trunk.”
“I’ve heard the noisy clown,” Qwilleran said. “His call sounds like an automatic weapon, and his drumming, as you call it, is like a jackhammer.”
“What lofty subject are you addressing in Tuesday’s column?” she asked.
“Pencils! I’ve just discovered a source for the fat yellow pencils with thick soft leads that were standard equipment on my first newspaper job. I’ve ordered a gross. More and more I draft my copy longhand while sitting with my feet up.”
“Don’t I remember old movies in which reporters loafed around the office with their hats on and their feet on the desk?”
“They weren’t loafing, Polly! They were thinking. Words and ideas flow more easily in that position. It has something to do with blood flow.”
His discourse was interrupted by the arrival of the entrées. He was having a lamb shank with baked chickpeas; she was having vegetarian stuffed grape leaves.
“Polly,” he said, “I’d like to ask you a great favor. It would mean a lot to me.”
“What is it?” she asked warily.
“Would you sit for your portrait? I’d like to have it painted by Paul Skumble of Lockmaster.”
“Oh, dear!” she said in dismay. “Wouldn’t you rather have a good studio photo by John Bushland - retouched?”
“No. Oil paint has a rich tonality that can’t be matched by any other medium. And since John Singer Sargent isn’t available, I’d like to commission Skumble.”
“Well, I hear he’s very good.” She was beginning to be more flattered than flustered. “Where would the portrait hang?”
“In my suite on the balcony, across from the foot of the bed, where I’d see it first thing every morning.”
“Well! We’ll have to think about that, won’t we?”
“You can meet Skumble at the open house tomorrow.
I think you’ll find him congenial.”
-4-
Before attending the grand opening of the Art Center, four friends met for Sunday brunch at Qwilleran’s barn. Qwilleran and Arch Riker had been fellow journalists Down Below. More than that, they had been classmates since kindergarten. When the Moose County Something was about to be launched, Riker moved north to realize his dream and become publisher and editor-in-chief of a small-town broadsheet. Besides reveling in his career change, he was enjoying marriage to a local woman of quite some status in the community.
Mildred Hanstable Riker had taught fine and domestic arts in Moose County schools for thirty years before becoming food writer for the Something. She was a warm-hearted humanitarian, a great cook, and a paragon of pleasing plumpness. Riker himself had a paunchy figure, and his ruddy face radiated mid-life contentment. Polly Duncan completed the foursome.
Brunch preliminaries were held in the gazebo, where the screened panels on all eight sides gave the impression of being pleasantly lost in the woods. The foursome pulled chairs into a semicircle overlooking the bird garden: the Siamese sat complacently at their feet, watching the crows, mourning doves, and blue jays.
Bloody Marys were served, with or without vodka, and Arch proposed a toast: “May the roof never fall in, and may
friends never fallout!” Then he asked Qwilleran in all seriousness, “When are you going to put in your lawn?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding! I don’t want to hear, or smell, any power mowers on my property! In that wide open space beyond the bird garden Kevin Doone is putting in a meadow of native grasses, wildflowers, and forbs. He’s made a study of natural landscaping.”
“What are forbs?”
“To tell the truth, I’m not sure. Some kind of plant. My dictionary is vague about forbs, but I trust Kevin.”
Mildred said, “He’s very good. He’s landscape consultant for Indian Village. Otherwise, the developers would have the whole complex looking like a golf course.”
Arch said, “For someone who grew up on the sidewalks of Chicago, Qwill, you’ve become a sudden lover of nature.”
“Only if I don’t have to water it, fertilize it, weed it, spray it, or prune it.”
There was a startling interruption as a crow chased a squirrel, the one flapping its wings threateningly and the other running for its life. Qwilleran explained the social situation: “Small birds throw seeds out of the feeder; large birds pick them up off the ground, but the squirrels try to muscle in. The politics and economics of a bird garden are more complicated than I care to contemplate. Let’s talk about something simple, like the newspaper business.”
“Okay,” Arch said. “You saw the announcement of the adult spelling bee to benefit the literacy program. We’re underwriting it, and I’m happy to say the business community is very supportive.”
“Whose idea was it?”
“Hixie suggested it, although it’s been done in cities Down Below - quite successfully, I understand.”
Qwilleran thought, Here we go again! Hixie Rice, the newspaper’s promotion director, had a long history of brilliant ideas that ended in disaster, through no fault of her own. Her most recent debacle had been the Moose County Ice Festival that melted into oblivion in February. Failure never daunted her; she bounced back with yet another worthwhile idea.
Arch said, “We lost our shirt on the Ice Festival, but an adult spelling bee should be foolproof. Business firms and other organizations pay a fee to enter a team and compete for atrophy, and the public pays an admission fee to applaud their favorite spellers. The audience has fun, and the sponsors get favorable publicity. I don’t see how anything can go wrong… You’re looking dubious, Qwill.”
“Not at all! I’m all in favor of promoting literacy. The more people who can read, the greater our circulation and the more ads we sell and the more fan