Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Went Up The Creek

It was Wendy, carrying a white bakery box. “Come in,” Qwilleran called to her. “What are you carrying so carefully? Koko thought it was a bomb.”

She said, “Doyle went to the art center, and Hannah and I drove to Fishport for some of those sweet rolls you like. You can keep them in the freezer—just a little thank-you for making things happen.” Her eyes were shining, and she bubbled with enthusiasm. “You know, Qwill, I’ve been so worried about Doyle that I haven’t been able to work on my family history, but suddenly I feel inspired again.”

“You never told me what inspired you in the first place. You said it was a dramatic incident.” Qwilleran sensed fodder for the ever-hungry space on page two. “I’d like to tape it.”

The tape recorder was set up on the snack table, and the following interview was later transcribed:

What prompted you to write a romantic family history instead of a genealogical chart?

I couldn’t see myself trekking to county courthouses around the country and searching for births and deaths and marriages. But I loved the stories my great-aunt told about our family, going back to about 1800. When she died, she left a trunkful of old personal correspondence that none of the cousins wanted, so my mother took it and stashed it away in the attic.

Then one day my husband and I were driving through the Ohio countryside, and we came to an intersection where a farm was being cleared for a strip mall. The sign said there would be a full-service gas station, two fast food places, a laundromat and a video store. The outbuildings were already knocked down, and they were working on the farmhouse itself—a large, plain two-story colonial. The front door had been removed, and the sash had disappeared from the windows. It had a ghostly look. But something caused me to shout “Stop! Stop!” I wasn’t yelling at the wreckers; I was telling my husband to stop the car.

We parked on the shoulder, and I saw a heartrending sight. A dump truck was backed up to the end of the building, and another was standing by. They had put a chute in an upstairs window and were throwing personal belongings into the dump truck: clothing, hats, shoes, underwear, stockings, cosmetics, hair brushes, framed photos, books, towels, bedding, lamps, a small radio, and then . . . a cardboard hatbox! Its cover fell off, and hundreds of letters flew out. The breeze scattered them all over the muddy lot.

I’d been controlling my horror and tears, but I broke down when I saw those letters in the mud. Doyle thought I was crazy. I didn’t know who had lived there, worn those clothes, read those books, saved those letters, but I cried my eyes out!

That’s when I took over my great-aunt’s trunkful of correspondence. I’m reading and cataloguing every one: date, names and addresses of senders and recipients, and type of content.

Organizing all this material into a cohesive history sounds like a huge undertaking.

It’s a challenge. First I’m absorbing all the events and emotions. Then I’ll decide whether to make it the story of a real family . . . or fictionalize it.

But first . . . I’m overwhelmed with the joys and sorrows, successes and failures, pioneer struggles to make a life, and crushing disasters. Those people even found humor in everyday life: an uncle being chased by a bull; a cousin marooned in a tree all night; an aunt ruining the stew when the preacher was coming to dinner.

Do you find the handwriting legible?

More so than my own! Penmanship was important in those days. They dipped a pen in ink and wrote slowly and carefully. Also, letters were formal and sometimes poetic.

When I get home, I’ll photocopy a couple of letters, Qwill, and send them to you.

After the tape recorder had been turned off, and Wendy had been complimented on a well-told tale, she said, “I phoned my mother in Cleveland last night while Doyle was at the art center. She knows about my compulsion to worry, and she approved your strategy to divert Doyle’s attention from forays into the woods. But when he returns from Chicago—then what? She suggested that we leave here this weekend and spend a few days at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island—a kind of second honeymoon, and a kind of second wedding present from her and Dad.”

“A splendid idea,” Qwilleran said, “although we’ll miss you both.”

alt="[image]"/>He took his Tuesday copy to the inn to be faxed before the noon deadline, and Lori gave him another picture postcard. It was another view of Sturbridge Village.

Dear Qwill—Love this place. Bought lots of things to ship home. Mona having reaction to allergy medication. If she flies home, I’ll turn in our rental car and travel with Walter.

Love from Polly

Interesting development, he thought. Not once had she said, “Wish you were here.”

“Everything okay?” Lori asked.

“Everything’s fine.”

“We’re losing the Underhills.”

“Too bad. Nice couple.”

“Why can’t we have more Underhills and fewer Truffles?”

In the foyer, a new exhibit was being set up in the display case. Susan Exbridge, the antiques dealer, was officiating. It was an assortment of wood carvings, bowls, metal sculptures of animals and what looked like instruments of torture. A sign in the case described it as THE NUTCRACKER INN’S COLLECTION OF NUTCRACKERS.

“Qwill darling!” Susan exclaimed in her histrionic manner. “How do you like it?”

“They must have had a lot of nuts in those days.”

“Nuts were a staple food of early American settlers,” she said.

“I thought they just bashed them between a rock and a hard place.”

“In the late eighteenth century the ritualistic ending to a meal was nuts, and artists and inventors vied to design clever nutcrackers . . . But I can’t talk now. Phone me at the shop, darling!”

She left, and Cathy Hooper stepped up. “Don’t forget the preview of the reenactment tonight, Mr. Qwilleran. Eight o’clock.”

“I’ve already reserved a booth, Cathy, but thanks for the reminder.”

Qwilleran had asked Riker, “Will you and your lovely wife be my guests at a preview of the Saturday Night Brawl?”

And Arch countered, “Will you and your voracious appetite be our guests beforehand?”

No one ever declined a dinner invitation from the food editor.

The Rikers spent summers in a little yellow beach house atop a sand dune overlooking the lake. It was only a thirty-minute commute to the office, but the psychological distance equaled the hundred miles of lake they viewed from their deck.

They were sitting there with apéritifs when Qwilleran arrived, asking, “What happened to the Dunfield house?”

The casual redwood next door had been replaced by a crisp cube of white stucco and plate glass.

Riker explained, “The widow couldn’t sell it or rent it, because of the rumor that it was haunted. So she tore it down and sold the land. Vacant lake frontage is worth more than the same property with an old house on it. What do you think of the new one? Looks like an ice cube. The dune dwellers haven’t decided whether it makes us look like a slum—or we make it look ridiculous.”

“Who lives there?” Qwilleran was sure he knew the answer.

Mildred said, “A woman from Down Below. I went over to welcome her to the neighborhood, but really to satisfy my curiosity, and she was as friendly as a cold fish. All she could do was complain—about the noise of the surf and the seagulls, about people walking on the beach and staring at her house and even taking snapshots of it, about dead fish washing up. Just to be devilish, I told her not to be alarmed by green lights flashing over the lake at night; they’re only UFOs.”

Qwilleran said, “She sounds like the charmer who was staying at the Nutcracker Inn. Keep Toulouse indoors. She hates cats.”