Chapter 148: It’s Not What It Seams
Clifford heard the buzzer and groped for it on his nightstand, but his questing hand encountered no bedside table. That penetrated where the noise had not and Clifford grew still, reassessing. He did not seem to be in his own bed, and for a moment, he panicked. No! No no no! This was not how he had meant things to—wait…. His mind traced back fuzzily until—ah! Oh! Mabel’s couch. He sat up and rubbed his face with both hands, then stretched his arms over his head until his joints complained. What time had he gone to bed…?
Late-thirty, he thought darkly. They’d all stayed up too late, mesmerized by the news. In the end, it had been information overload, and he’d wondered what on earth was happening with no word from Scooter (no surprise) there, and only cryptic texts from Rowlf.
DKN-U?
Don’t know nothing either. I’ll LYK.
No word from Scooter. W8ting 4 Gonzo.
It was Mabel who’d finally suggested Muppet Central, and Clifford couldn’t decide whether to kiss her or ask her to boot him in the rear for not thinking of it himself. He wasted no time actually doing either so he could get on and see what the fans had made of it.
Lots, he’d concluded, and some of it obviously polarized along the supposed frog/pig divide, but beneath all the repetition and muffining about the movie and the role-playing threads there was a pretty solid layer of information. Clifford had grinned. The fans were nothing if not opinionated, but they were also usually well-informed, or at least willing to be. Looking over his shoulder—well, leaning against it—Tricia had been a tad overwhelmed.
“Wow,” she said. “I mean, I know about groupies but this is a little, um…wow.”
Clifford clicked open another thread under the Fans section called “On the Web” and scanned the entries, finally clicking one. They read in silence, her cheek pressed against his shoulder blade. He liked the feel of it, the warmth of her against his back, and once when he turned his head she’d grinned at him and smooched him on the corner of his mouth.
“This one looks pretty interesting,” Tricia said, reading over his shoulder. “I—oh, wait—I think there’s another article or something. Everyone’s talking about it.” They clicked the link and waited, staring when the video began to play. The video was obviously fan-made, and hurriedly, and the camera (probably a phone) bobbed around. Clifford felt a little motion sick by the time it settled on the scene.
“My mom hollered at me that they just ran a teaser about what happened with Kermit at the Oscars,” said a muffled voice, “so I ran in here to see if they knew what had happened during the interview. You know, he looked all stiff and he sounded strained or something--“
“They don’t miss much,” said Tricia, sotto voce, and Clifford grunted.
“Trust me,” he said. “You do not want to do a show if your throat is scratchy or you have a cold—the fans talk about it for days. One time—“
“Shhh,” Tricia hushed him, and they quieted as the dog food commercial went away and the screen filled with a television screen for what was obviously a local—not a national—news program.
“And we’re back, and—just like we promised before the break—we’re going to try to get to the bottom of what happened to Kermit the Frog and a famous miss at the Academy Awards.” The attractive newscaster smirked at the camera.
Clifford and Tricia exchanged looks.
“I don’t like the way she’s smiling,” said Tricia, chewing a thumbnail.
Clifford, usually the coolest cat in the room, shook his head worriedly. “I don’t like the way she said "bottom",” he said, but quieted again when the scene on the screen changed.
“All the stars were out tonight at the Academy Awards, and I do mean all,” the newswoman said. “Even Miss Piggy, who we all know has been taking a star turn on Broadway, made an appearance via camera to talk about the awards with her husband, Kermit the Frog. Fans of the power couple have been chomping at the bit—some of them literally—for a chance to see both of the The Frogs on the same screen. Since the new movie doesn’t come out until Summer, everyone expected to see a little frog-pig love when they talked with Meredith Vieira.” The news shot cut to commercial, but the voice of the videographer continued. “It’s probably just another snarky article about the, um, you know, scene at the Academy Awards, where Kermit was hugging that…um, her, but the local news station owner is a real Muppet geek—I’ve seen him at a couple of meetings—so maybe he knows something that the rest of us—oh! They’re back!”
“This is what viewers saw the other evening after the awards, which seemed to explain Mr. The Frog’s strange behavior.” On the screen flashed the picture—the picture that had been downloaded about a gazillion times worldwide—of Kermit looking up at a sexily-clad Kardashian, his arm settled around what was considered by some to be her best asset. The videographer groaned, disappointed, and Clifford and Tricia both grunted in frustration. “But viewers are only now seeing this picture, taken by one reporter Scoop Bradley, which gives a totally different view of things.” On the screen, there flashed a scene that looked like the back view of the picture they had just scene.
“Oh, great,” Clifford snapped. “That helped!” Tricia both shushed him and comforted him by patting his knee.
“Wait a minute folks—there’s a close-up,” said the amused voice of the newscaster.
“Oh for goodness sake!” cried the videographer, indignant. “Why are they—“
The close-up coalesced on the screen. Clifford, Tricia and their heretofore unseen videographer all took a sharp intake of breath, and there was a moment of pure silence where no one so much as breathed.
“Here,” the newswoman’s voice said, as a little orange circle appeared on the screen to highlight what she was saying, “you can clearly see that Mr. The Frog’s cufflink—which I understand his wife Miss Piggy had custom-made for him—is caught on one of the beaded strings of Miss Kardashian’s dress. Reports say that Miss Kardashian offered to allow the dress to be compromised so Kermit could be free to finish his interview unencumbered. Mr. The Frog graciously agreed to replace the torn dress with a new designer dress for the starlet, who is a paparazzi favorite, although Miss Kardashian was reported to have been quite popular later that evening with a little less beading on her dress.”
The fan making the video let out a muffled shout and struggled to keep the camera steady. The scene on the television pulled back to show the newscaster and her co-anchor smiling smugly at the camera.
“So—another mystery solved!” said the handsome anchor. “What a generous lady!” He was practically drooling on the news desk.
The newscaster’s voice was dry. “And what a gentleman Kermit the Frog showed himself to be.” She smiled at the camera. “There you have it folks—what really happened at the Academy Awards!” She turned to her co-anchor. “So, John—how do the odds look for the home team this week—“
The video shifted from showing the television screen to showing the excited face of the Muppet Central member.
“Wow!” he said. “Oh—wow! I gotta get this up on MC!” The video ended abruptly.
Tricia and Clifford let out whoops of laughter and surprise, and Mabel, who had gone to start her evening toilette, poked her head out of the door and squinted at them.
“What? What happened? Did Scooter call?”
Joyfully, they explained, then carried the phone over and showed her the video.
“Well,” she said, satisfied and relieved. “I knew it couldn’t be what it seemed.”
Although Mabel went on to bed, Clifford and Tricia stayed up another three hours, poring through the comments and sending messages and tweets to anyone they could think of in hopes of getting the news out. And the news had not been confined to that one local station. This reporter—Scoop Something-or-Other—had had his picture picked up by AP, then pretty much everyone else. Rowlf had been overjoyed, and more than a little relieved. He’d sent information to Gonzo, who had texted back that they’d heard already, and that Kermit had followed up with an interview with several reporters backstage, but that the stories hadn’t all made it onto the web or into print yet. Clifford heard in a roundabout way that the word was reaching everyone in stages and decided that he no longer needed to be the town crier.
“I think it’s time to shut down the ol’ technology,” Clifford said, but when Tricia didn’t answer, he turned to find that she had curled up, catlike, on one end of the long couch and fallen asleep. Her hair was short in back, but her bangs were longer, falling over her porcelain skin and one eye. Her dark eyeliner was smudged, making her look a little like a child who has played with Mommy’s makeup. Clifford felt a powerful surge of protectiveness and…something else. He wanted to stretch out behind her on this couch, wrap his arms around her and feel her, soft and yielding, snuggled into his arms. There was a place on her pale throat that just begged to be kissed…whoa. Whoa.
Clifford stood up, suddenly, and walked into the kitchen. The powerful tide of emotion swept after him, engulfing him, and he went and opened the freezer, letting the cold air bathe his hot face. He closed the freezer, started for the living room again, then stopped, swore, and went to the kitchen sink to splash cold water over his face. This time, when he stood in front of the open freezer, it seemed to cool him down. In his mind, there was a claxon going off, “Red Alert! This is not a drill! Battlestations! Danger, Will Robinson!” He thought of an intricate bass counter-melody he’d been trying to master, trying to master himself. It took a while, but—eventually—the flames died down, the fire in his limbs cooled and he walked over to the couch.
She weighed nothing at all. He carried her down the hallway, through the dark, open doorway of her room and laid her gently on the bed. He turned, looking for the soft fleecy blanket he’d seen her swaddled in when reading, and when he turned to place it over her, he found her wide-eyed, looking up at him with…oh…so much in those green, green eyes.
He started to drape the blanket over her, but handed it to her in a soft, loosely-wadded ball instead. Tricia took it, still gazing at him. “You fell asleep,” he said, and his voice came out husky and low. Tricia nodded, her lips parted slightly.
“I’m not asleep now,” she whispered, and they stared at each other.
Clifford bent down and kissed her, scooped her lithe body half-up off the bed and held her lips fast against his. Tricia’s hands tangled in his dreads and she kissed with absolute ferocity, her mouth savage against his. Stunned, Clifford dropped to his knees beside her bed and held her, held her and kissed her until she realized, she recognized that he was holding her, but holding back.
She ended the kiss and stared at him. “Yes,” she whispered, her breath sweet against his face.
“No,” Clifford said gently. Her eyes widened with shock and pain, and he saw it, saw that he had wounded her with his refusal, but before she could cry out, could pull away, he had swept her up against him again, his mouth demanding over hers. He held her until the pain leaked away, kissing her with a gentleness that he did not know he possessed, willing her to know him, to understand.
The kiss ended, as all kisses must. Tricia’s head was swimming, and she looked at him, not sure what to think or do or….
“Yes,” Clifford said at last, his expression intent. “That is—h*** yes, but…no. Not…this is not the time or place.” He inclined his head slightly down the hall, to the closed door behind which Mabel slept. “And we’re both so tired we don’t know what we’re doing.”
He was very afraid that she might turn, hurt and miserable, away from him. Instead, her mouth curved into a wry smile and one hand rose to touch his face.
“You seemed to have a pretty good idea of what you were doing just now,” she teased.
Clifford grinned, his heart singing, and he turned his lips into her palm.
“Back atcha,” he said softly, then stood and walked back down the hall.
He was up and making breakfast by the time the women joined him, exclaiming over the fist-sized biscuits that had come steaming and golden-brown out of the oven. Tricia’s appetite was what it always was, but her table conversation was quieter. More than once, Clifford caught Mabel looking at Tricia, at him, aware of some change between them, and he bore up under the scrutiny without flinching. While he knew that he did not have to prove himself to Mabel, he had proven himself honorable to himself last night. Tricia mattered to him. This was not like any of the others.
He put another biscuit on Mabel’s plate and sat down next to her, one arm across the back of Tricia’s chair.
“The Indie Vittles have got a full day, I hear,” said Clifford. Tricia nodded, her mouth full of honey and biscuit.
“We do,” said Tricia, spraying crumbs. She giggled, and Clifford handed her a napkin.
“So…I was thinking I might go and hang out with you today at the casino. What say, best girl of mine?”
Mabel grinned at him. “You’re on. Plenty to do at the Palace.” She gave her daughter a fond look. “Mind if I steal your boyfriend for the day?”
“Please!” Tricia said, and the cheeky smile she gave Clifford told him that she had accepted both his claims and his intentions last night and was satisfied with the outcome. Something inside Clifford that had been tensed, wound, crumpled up into a hard knot gradually relaxed.
“As you wish,” he said to Tricia. “First dibs on the shower.”
Scooter took a deep breath, bracing himself to face a morose and work-weary frog, but when the air-conditioned air rushed out to meet him, so did the sound of voices. Scooter’s heart gave an involuntary start, but the voices were friendly, not ominous, and when he finally poked his fiery red head around the corner he found Kermit and Fozzie and Gonzo and Rizzo all sitting around a box of donuts. There was a jug of Starbucks coffee sitting on the counter.
“Fuel up,” Kermit said. “We’ve got to get started.”
Hope buoyed up in Scooter like wind in a sail. “Sure thing, Boss,” he said, helping himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the kitchen trashcan was stuffed with newspapers, but none of them were overly crumpled or shredded, so Scooter felt safe assuming that Kermit had made at least an uneasy peace with whatever had been written. From what he and Sara had found online, word of Kermit’s wardrobe malfunction was gaining ground on tales of his supposed marital indiscretion. There was nothing for it but to ride it out, and weather the storm of obnoxious publicity.
Something caught Scooter’s ear and he swallowed hastily and tuned in to the conversation.
“—keep the news full of publicity about what we’re doing here at Muppet Studio’s,” Gonzo said. “If we kept the news full of good things, they wouldn’t have so much time to focus on, um, other things….” He trailed off, not wanting to call attention to the previous evening’s public relations disaster, nor the one before that, nor the one before that.
“Well, I’m obviously not going to argue about keeping attention off me and Piggy for a little bit.” Kermit looked at Scooter. “You have any thoughts?”
Scooter shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt. Might help. I got a text from Clifford saying that Muppet Central was helping a lot with damage control.”
“Good,” said Kermit, standing up and grabbing his mug. “Then I’m going to leave it to those of you who know what you’re doing. Scooter—you’re with me. Nothing is more important than getting this film to bed.”
Scooter grinned. You can’t keep a good frog down. “Coming, Chief,” he said, and followed Kermit down the hall.
“—why I’ve always said undergarments were over-rated,” Janice finished, talking through the 20-minute lull in the conversation. Several heads turn in their direction, some longingly. They were seated in one of the ship’s many lounges, sipping fuzzy navels and enjoying a leisurely brunch. That morning, they’d played show tunes for an amateur film critic panel. After lunch, they were going to play swing music for a last-minute dance lesson in the lounge. Several more-than-interested cruise ship patrons were clustered at tables near the band, including her usual group of college-age fanboys. They were keeping more of a distance now, since Floyd and Animal had had a little chat with them, but if Janice chose to model her swimwear (or any of her other summer clothes) anywhere on board, they were sure to be nearby.
Also nearby were Dr. Teeth’s new fan club members. Today, he was playing bridge. Floyd watched him for a while, then shook his head, his bushy red sideburns bright against his freckled skin.
“Man, I didn’t know Teeth could play Bridge.”
“You play in a band with a guy for half your life, and you think you know ‘im…,” mourned Zoot.
“You didn’t know he could dance like that, either,” said Janice, smiling indulgently. “I told you he did a mean cha-cha.” She was glad to see their bandmate enjoying his popularity. Doing the cruise was sort of like the anti-tour. On tour, you went from place to place to place playing the same songs over and over. On this cruise, they had played anything and everything that they could think of—and then taken requests from the audience. There had not been one show that had not been packed, and afterward, well, you didn’t have to load up the tour bus and hit the road for the next stop. You could relax and unwind and get to know some of the fans. Dr. Teeth seemed to be getting to know some of his fans quite well.
“Well, he’s sure showing some new talent,” said Floyd wonderingly. “I don’t think he’s hardly sleeping.”
“He can sleep when we get home,” Janice teased. “Let him enjoy himself.”
“I don’t think I could stop him if I wanted,” Floyd said, watching as Teeth passed around the bridge mix. From the way the women reacted, you’d have thought he was handing out baubles from Cartier or Tiffany’s.
“Oh, Dr. Teeth,” one gushed. “You have such lovely manners.”
“Well, you are such lovely ladies, it was easy to be inspired,” said the Doctor in his mellow voice. There was a collective sigh of adoration and Floyd sighed.
“Never gonna get him off the ship,” he grumbled, and sipped his drink.
“I’m in love with her,” Clifford said just as Mabel pulled into the employee parking lot at the Palace. “Just thought you ought to know.”
Mabel let out a whoosh of breath and sat still for a moment. Immediately, the little car became overly warm, and Mabel started the car back up and let the AC run. “Wow—you don’t beat around the bush,” said Mabel, but she smiled, and Clifford took the first real breath he’d had since they’d left the house. “Seems pretty mutual.”
Clifford smiled, but it was just a hint of his usual broad grin. “May be,” he said.
“But that’s not all you wanted to tell me.”
“No.” Clifford had not had much experience with being mothered, and he marveled at Mabel’s ability to read him so clearly. “We—I…I didn’t plan this.”
“Sometime we can’t,” said Mabel. “Sometimes the way we feel surprises us.” She waited, letting him grope along.
“Right now, I…this is…there is so much going on in my head right now that I don’t know where to start.”
“Start anywhere,” Mabel said gently. “We’ll sort it out.” She reached over and patted Clifford’s arm, her little palm soft against his skin.
“This record deal is a big thing,” said Clifford. “And the tour. The tour is another thing.”
Mabel was surprised. She had expected him to lead with what he felt, but then, people often surprised you, didn’t they?
“It is.”
“And it’s a big deal for all of them, not just Tricia. I mean, this has been the goal, right? To make it on tour, get an album out?”
“The girls have worked very hard,” said Mabel.
“So, so—I’m happy. I’m so happy I could be twins,” said Clifford, “so why do I feel like a louse for complicating things when she seriously needs her head in the game?”
Whew! Clifford might pretend to be the most laid-back, go-with-the-flow guy in the universe, but he was a deep thinker for sure. Mabel was silent, thinking. She did not want to dismiss his concerns—she shared them—but she wanted to be sure that her answer was not clouded overmuch by practicality or sentiment.
“First of all, don’t make the mistake of thinking that you are responsible for Tricia’s decisions,” she said carefully. “She is going to think and act the way she plans, or at least the way she wants. So if she’s falling in love with you—“
Here, Clifford looked so anxious that she squeezed his hand gently.
“—and I think she is, then she is doing it by choice, and not because you’re so irresistible she can’t help herself.”
“Ouch. Thanks—I think,” muttered Clifford, but he smiled faintly.
“So it’s up to Tricia to keep her own head in her own game, don’t you think? I raised all my children to be independent—“
“I know. And you know her better than I do!” Clifford cried. “I want what’s best for her. Will she make decisions that are best for her?”
Mabel was quiet a long moment. “Did she talk to you about…?"
“Some,” Clifford admitted. “Not much. But I get the impression that she is capable of some seriously self-destructive stuff. Or was.”
Mabel was quiet again, and spoke with deliberation. “I would say was. She’s got someplace to call home now and the band’s been good for her. She’s beginning to trust other people, beginning to trust herself.”
“She trusts me,” Clifford said, but he didn’t sound happy about it.
“I trust you,” said Mabel, and Clifford looked up in surprise. “That feeling you have, where you want what’s best for her and not just what will make you happy…not everybody gets to that place.”
“First time here,” said Clifford, then flashed his brilliant smile. “I like it.”
Mabel laughed out loud. “Okay, enough serious talk. You put your intentions out and I didn’t chase you with a broom.”
“Yet,” said Clifford.
“Okay,” Mabel agreed. “I didn’t chase you with a broom—yet. I never imagined when I asked you to come down and see me that this was gonna happen. The Vittles were still doing what I like to call their county-fair-and-truck-stop tour, but…well. I’m leaving it to you kids to work out what works out—that’s between you two.” She patted his arm again. “But I appreciate you telling me. I knew you were a good guy.”
For the first time, Clifford didn’t argue with her.
Rory regarded Piggy over the back of the chair he was straddling, watching her as she put up her hair in front of the mirror. “Aw, c’mon—it was my day off, too. You could’ve at least asked me. I’m fashionable,” he complained for about the billionth time, but if he had hoped to garner sympathy, he was sadly mistaken.
Kristen came over and put her arms around his neck, hugging him in an exaggerated way. “Get real, Rory,” she said kindly. “You couldn’t fit one bicep into anything at the show, much less two.” She reached out and squeezed one arm muscle admiringly. “Not that we’re complaining.”
“Yeah, well…,” he sulked, but it was half-hearted. “But you could have asked me, anyway.”
Piggy snorted. “In the first place, you’d have been bored. In the second place, you’d have been bored. In the third place—“
“What am I, three? It’s not like I need a keeper.” He glowered at her. “Not like some lady pigs I know….”
Piggy turned and regarded him seriously. “What other lady pigs do you know?” she asked.
Rory opened his mouth for a smart retort but Darcy came by and dragged him out of his chair and—hopefully—out of his funk. “C’mon. Chad wants your help in the kitchen,” she said. “I can’t boil water.”
“It’s about the only thing in this kitchen,” Chad complained loudly from the vicinity of the stove. He poked his head around the corner and glared at Piggy. “Why is there no food in this apartment?”
“There are two kinds of dinners,” Piggy quipped. “Those you eat in restaurants and those you eat at other people’s houses.”
“Well, good thing I brought what I did,” he snapped. “But I didn’t expect you to not have, oh, I don’t know—butter, salt, sugar—“
“Oh, Moi has sugar,” Piggy said airily. “It’s in little paper packages in a paper bag in the fridge.”
Chad gnashed his teeth, but Rory just grinned at him, leaning in the door.
“The only thing that surprises me is that you’re surprised,” he said. “What were you expecting—Julia Child?”
“Well, I wasn’t expecting Old Mother Hubbard!”
“Moi can hear you!” Piggy growled from the living room.
“If it’s a bother, we’ll just order out—Piggy’s treat, right Piggy?” Rory said, making sure Piggy heard him.
Piggy snorted and Rory laughed.
“I’m glad you find this so very amusing,” Chad snipped. He pointed at the head of lettuce on the countertop. “Could you make a salad, at least?”
Chastened, Rory went over and unwrapped the cellophane from around the greenery. “There are spinach leaves still in the grocery bag.” This, grudgingly, from where Chad was chopping celery and onions on a countertop he had scoured to within an inch of its finish. Rory worked willingly, listening to bits and snatches of conversation from the living room. He tore the lettuce into bite-sized bits, looked in the bag and found the spinach, and dug in the bottom of the bag for a vegetable peeler and the bag of carrots he expected to find. The grape tomatoes were already out on the counter and when he was done with everything else, he sliced handfuls of them in half and mixed them in. Behind him, Chad was adding tomato paste, diced tomatoes and spices to the stockpot on the stove. Behind that, a larger stockpot steamed with hot water that—despite Darcy’s avowed lack of skill—was indeed boiling.
“Want me to make croutons?” Rory asked. He always used more butter and garlic than he should—which usually meant he made croutons more often than Chad.
“If you like.”
Rory stopped where he was and turned, then put his hands on his hips. “Spit it out,” he said, but his voice was gentle. “I’m apparently too big a lunkhead to know what I’ve done wrong, so you’re going to have to tell me.”
Chad started to say something, then stopped, and Rory walked over and leaned on the counter where he could see Chad’s face. “Tell me. I’ll fix it.”
“You…you were disappointed about not being asked to model.”
Rory shrugged. “I—not really. Mostly I was just yanking Piggy’s chain because…oh. Oh. Chad—look, did you want—“
“I mean, I know I’m not in the show with all of you but I thought—I had thought that…we were friends.” He did not look at Rory.
“Chad—of course you’re friends with Piggy. She didn’t mean, I mean…it was all sort of last minute. Piggy said Janice was originally going to come—but she’s on a cruise, and then all of the models from Ford's were all sort of the same silhouette, so she called Kristen and Darcy and….” He spread his hands helplessly. “I don’t think she thought twice about the men who were modeling.”
“Apparently,” Chad sniffed, but Rory grinned. This was not well-received. “Don’t you dare—“ Chad began, but Rory cut him off by reaching out taking his hand—the one not holding the knife.
“Look, I thought you knew how she gets. Piggy doesn’t really care tuppence for all the men on the planet—”
“So not true,” said Chad.
“I wasn’t finished. For all the men on the planet except her frog—and her friends. She didn’t ask me to model—or Harrison, or any of the others—because her friend Thoreau didn’t need any other men to model. In the moment, that’s all she cared about—what he needed.”
“I know, I know. But I wanted to see the clothes. I’m sure they were divine.”
“No doubt, but they’ll be out soon and you can own one.”
“I know. I understand. But I barely even got to meet him,” Chad whined.
“So come meet him now,” Piggy said from the doorway. Chad looked up guiltily, mortified at being caught pouting by his hostess, then the meaning of what she said burst onto his consciousness and he gaped, flabbergasted. “He’s—he’s here? I thought they went back to L.A.!”
“Flight got bumped four hours so they opted to change to tomorrow morning,” Piggy said. “They wanted me to come there but I told them I was having a party, so….” She inclined her stylish up-do toward the living room. “They just got here.”
Chad looked from Piggy to Rory in consternation, then down to check what he’d worn. No worries there, but Piggy caught the look and rolled her eyes. Chad could probably wear a flour sack and look elegant, but he was particular about his dress, and scrambled to untie the apron he was wearing. Rory sighed, took the kitchen knife out of Chad’s hand and pulled him after him into the living room.
Piggy took a moment before she followed them out, hitting speed dial and waiting until the machine at home picked up.
“We’re not home. Leave a message.”
Piggy smiled. She had tried to get Kermit to leave a cute message, or a silly one, or something, but he had not been interested. Hearing his voice still made her smile, and she held the phone close to her lips.
“Hello, Kermie—it is Moi. I am sitting down to a little supper but I wanted to call and say that I miss you. Kissy, kissy!” She hung up the phone and smiled. She had left him a text, a voice mail on his phone, a voice mail at home and sent him an email which he probably wouldn’t think to check for a day or so, but he would get it—eventually—and when he did, he would know that she was thinking of him. If she could, she would have put up a protective hedge around her frog, buffering him from the harsh world outside. She knew he tried to do the same for her. Here, Piggy smiled. But she was tough. And Kermit was tough. The papers had been odious and horrible and they were all going to be trashcan liners tomorrow, but no matter what—no matter what—she wanted Kermit to know that she was always going to be his girl.
Fleet felt like he’d been squashed into a glove compartment for the last leg of the trip, and his teeth felt fuzzy from the peanuts and carbonated water, which had done nothing to settle his stomach. He knew there wasn’t any food in his apartment here, but he was too tired to stop anywhere. He wanted a shower and his sheets and to forget who he was and what he’d done, but he would settle for a shower and a blanket.
He didn’t see the landlady, but he felt someone watching him as he trudged wearily up the steps from the first floor. He was so tired he was too tired to stop and kvetch about the steps, so he just kept putting one foot in front of the other until he stood in front of his door. His key clicked in the lock and he pushed the door open and….
Fleet felt the sharp prick of tears in his eyes. Gladys and Harve were standing on the kitchen counter, waiting for him. Gladys looked tired, and Fleet noticed Harve’s protective, supportive arm around her waist. She looked better, much better than she had when he had left a million years ago for L.A.
“Hey there, Buddy,” said Harve. “Take a load off!”
“Look who’s back!” said Gladys. “Come and have some hot soup.”
Soup. Soup! The smell of it hit his nostrils and his mouth began to water.
“You guys…,” he said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, but his eyes were saying it all.
“Wash your hands,” said Gladys. “Manners always matter.” When he sat down and looked at the bowl of soup, humbled by this simple show of kindness, she motioned for him to lean forward. Thinking she wanted to say something to him, Fleet leaned, but Gladys merely kissed him on the forehead, holding on to a small fistful of hair.
“I guess it was bad,” said Gladys. “Harve said they weren’t nice to you. But you just sit down here and have some soup, and then it's shower and a bed for you, mister.”
Behind her, Harve was making droll faces, amused by his girl’s toughness.
“Yes ma’am,” Fleet murmured. “You’re the boss.”
“You bet I am,” said Gladys tartly. “Eat up, honey.”
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: She's the best.
She?
I reserve judgment.
Oh, till when?
So long as it's not me who has the erm, cow and its pies falling on me.
Huh, wha?
Nah, it's okay. The aliens haven't landed, go back to sleep.
What kind?
Yeah, what he said.
