Yes, Llona sighed to herself, when it came to public relations, or advertising, both branches of The Art of Manipulation, the cardinal rule was that the first one to be manipulated must be oneself! It all passed through her mind very quickly and didn’t interfere with her picking up on E. Z.’s unctuous efforts to smooth over the situation. His tone said he knew damn well she’d burned a hole in the rug, but he was much too much of a gentleman to call attention to it.
“Are you comfortable, my dear?” he inquired.
“Very. Thank you.”
“Can I get you a drink or anything?”
A little foot powder for my mouth, Llona thought to herself. “Nothing, thanks. I’m fine,” she said aloud.
“Neva!” he called. “We’re all in here. What are you doing?”
“Just making Hubert his muffle,” Mrs. Holdkumb called back. “It’s ready now. But where’s Hubert?”
“She’s as fond of that pup as if he were our very own child,” E. Z. explained to Archer and Llona. “You see, we’ve never been blessed with children.” He sighed, and to Llona it definitely seemed a sigh of relief. “Of course, I’m terribly fond of Hubert myself. It may seem foolish in a grown man, but there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for that little pup.”
“I can understand that,” Archer scored the point hastily. “People can get very attached to pets. When I was a boy I had this hamster and-—”
“Hubert!” Mrs. Holdkumb called. “Here, Hubert! Here, Baby! Your dindin’s ready. Come and get it while it’s hot. Here, Hubie!”
“I had this hamster and I kept it in a cage and-—”
“A hamster isn’t anything like a dog!” E. Z.’s verdict was final.
“Here, Hubie!’ Here, Hubie! Oh, dear, where is he?”
“Oh, of course not,” Archer agreed quickly. “I only meant—”
“Is Hubert in there?” Mrs. Holdkumb called from the kitchen.
“I don’t see him anywhere,” E. Z. replied.
“Well, he isn’t in here,” Mrs. Holdkumb informed them.
“I’d watch him running on this treadmill with his little pink eyes sparkling and—”
“I’ll look in the bedroom,” E. Z. called to Mrs. Holdkumb. “Here, Hubert. Here, Hubie baby . . .” Snapping his fingers, he vanished toward the back of the apartment.
“. . . his little paws moving so fast and the fur on his neck bristling . . .”
“forget it, Archer,” Llona told him. “Nobody’s listening.”
“I was only trying to ingratiate myself with them,” he hissed at her. “After that booboo you pulled--”
“Well, you’re not going to do it by talking about your hamster. You equate that rat with their Chihuahua, and they’ll end up taking it as an insult.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Archer subsided as Mrs. Holdkumb entered the room.
“Here, Hubert-Hubert-Hubert. Where are you, you naughty dog? Here, Hubie. Your dindin is ready. Here, Hubert. A nice dogfood soufflé, just the way you like it. Here, Hubie.”
“Here, Hubert.” E. Z. was back in the living room now, peermg under the furniture in search of the Chihuahua. “Here, Hubert. Come on, boy. He’s hiding from us,” he decided. “He’s so cute sometimes. He likes to play games with us. Here, Hubie.”
“Here, Hubert. Here, Hubert.” Archer was down on his hands and knees now, helping in the search. “Here, Hubert.” He looked accusingly at Llona, who hadn’t budged from the armchair.
“I’d help you look,” she alibied, “but I’m afraid I’d frighten him. I’m not very good with dogs,” she confessed.
Mr. and Mrs. Holdkumb mutually glared at her.
“Oh, it’s not that I don’t like dogs,” Llona explained hurriedly. “It’s just that sometimes they don’t respond to me the way—” Seeing that she was being ignored, she let her voice trail off.
“Hubert-Hubert-Hubert,” Mrs. Holdkumb singsonged.
“Here, Hubie. Here, Hubie. Ready-or-not-here-I-come!” E. Z. Holdkumb brayed cajolingly.
“Come on, pooch! Come on, poo—-” Archer caught a raised eyebrow from Neva Holdkumb and immediately altered his chant. “Here, doggie.” He whistled. “Here, doggie.”
Llona watched the three of them scrambling about on the rug, groping beneath the furniture, feeling around in the corners. All the activity made her restless. She started to rise from the overstuffed armchair, automatically reaching beneath her to smooth her skirt as she got up. Abruptly, she sat back down again, her face a study of horrified confusion. It was The Moment of Truth!
It was the Moment of Truth and both ears and the tail belonged to Hubert! Or, rather, to what was left of Hubert. For the first time, Llona realized the ghastly truth of what had happened to the missing Chihuahua. She had sat on him! Gingerly, she reached underneath her and felt for the tiny dog, hoping to find signs of life. There were none. The body was still warm, but it was definitely dead. It was almost indistinguishable from the other lumps caused by the stuffing of the armchair. If Llona hadn’t felt the dog’s hair, she never would have realized that he was under her.
What now? Llona watched appalled as the Holdkumbs and her husband continued crawling and scampering about in search of the Chihuahua. “Here, Hubert! Here; doggie! Come on, Hubie! Here, Hubert!” Their voices were a chorus of hope and only Llona knew that hope was dead. What now?
Like a movie projector, Llona’s mind played out the possible scenes that could take place.
LIGHTS! CAMERA! ACTION! — TAKE ONE:
LLONA: I’ve found him.
MRS. HOLDKUMB: Have you? Wonderful!
ARCHER: That’s my girl!
E. Z. HOLDKUMB: Where is he?
LLONA: Eh . . . I’m sitting on him.
MRS. HOLDKUMB: On Hubert? (Voice rising) You’re sitting on Hubert?
ARCHER: Llona, Chihuahuas are very delicate animals. You really have to be very care—-
E. Z. (interrupting): Well, don’t just sit there for God‘s sake! Stand up and--
MRS. HOLDKUMB: You could squash him!
LLONA: I have.
MRS. HOLDKUMB: I beg your pardon?
LLONA: I have squashed him.
MRS. HOLDKUMB (mounting horror in her voice): You mean—?
LLONA: I’m afraid so.
E. Z. (anguished): He’s dead! Hubert is dead!
MRS. HOLDKUMB: Squashed! And I just had that chair reupholstered!
LLONA: What are you complaining about. This is a new dress, and now it’s ruined.
ARCHER: Don’t talk like that, Llona. Can’t you see that Mr. and Mrs. Holdkumb are in mourning? You could have a little more sensitivity.
LLONA: I didn’t do it on purpose, Archer. How was I to know the damn pipsqueak of a dog was there?
ARCHER: You might have looked.
E. Z. (numb1y): Funeral arrangements. I’ll have to call and start making funeral arrangements.
MRS. HOLDKUMB: We have a plot, you know. Three graves. One for me, one for E. Z., and one for poor Hubert. (She dissolves in tears.)
E. Z. (comforting her): There, there. There, there.
MRS. HOLDKUMB: I don’t know how l’ll ever go through it.
E. Z.: Just so you don’t try to throw yourself in the grave with him.