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Chapter 115: Guys and Dolls
“So what do you think?” Clifford asked. He and Tricia grinned as they waited for Mabel’s response.
“I think I’m glad I didn’t buy that new punch bowl,” said Mabel. “This one here will do just fine, I’m thinking.”
They had set the embarrassingly large trophy on the kitchen table, waiting for Mabel to join them before they unwrapped the cellophane to see what was inside.
There were chocolates, red-hots, a horrifying pair of matching pajamas, a CD of “Songs for Lovebirds” and a couple of items that were put hastily out of sight—but not discarded.
“Well, the punchbowl is all yours, Mabel. I don’t think they’d let me on the plane with that thing.” He turned and looked at Tricia. “Unless you want it? You could take it on the road with you when you tour….”
“Are you joking? There’s barely room for us in the van. I don’t think there’d be room for this monstrosity,” she snorted.
“You could put it on the roof and maybe pick up cable on the way,” Clifford deadpanned, and she laughed and smacked his arm.
“No thanks,” she said, shaking her head. She turned back to her Mom. “So how were Sammy D. and Ol’ Blue Eyes last night? You have a quiet evening?”
“They were great,” said Mabel, but my evening wasn’t that quiet. Forty-two of your siblings called, texted or emailed, so I spent a little time updating my Facebook page, catching up with the gossip on Muppet Central.” She looked at Clifford. “You hear what happened?”
Clifford nodded. “Yeah. Rizzo texted me and told me that Kerm wasn’t able to go. He was a little scanty on details, but I got the impression there was some sort of post-editing problem.”
“Apparently,” said Mabel. Because of nervousness about rumors, no one had been forthcoming with specifics, but experience as a parent had taught Mabel to read between the lines. “I think I’m gonna have to send Miss Piggy another care package.”
Clifford sniffed. “I’ll bet she’s drowning in chocolates by now. The fans will have caught up to her, and she’s probably inundated with all sorts of goodies.”
“Probably,” Mabel admitted. “But the only goodie she’s interested in couldn’t come see her, so maybe I’ll do something anyway. How ‘bout you? You want to come raid the kitchen? I haven’t rustled up any grub for you in about 24 hours, and I was under the impression that you came here for the food,” she said saucily.
“I did not come for the food,” Clifford said with great dignity. “I came for the company.” He turned and looked at Tricia. “I’m staying for the company.”
Mabel saw her unflappable daughter blush, and tried hard not to smile. “Well, come along then, both of you. Let’s go see what Mother Hubbard has in the cupboard.”
“Piggy, I swear—I am going to kill you for leaving those things in here,” Kristen moaned.
“I’m not,” said Stacey, helping herself to another triple caramel crème. “I’m pretty sure that these things are illegal on all seven continents, but I’m not complaining.” Piggy’s late-Valentine and early-fanboy fanmail had caught up with her, and they had been inundated with chocolates and scanty undies. The chocolates were on the make-up table, and the undies were making a colorful pile on one of the chairs.
“Well, if Mr. Lowry sees them in here, he’s going to tip off wardrobe and they are going to start giving us the evil eye,” Darcy moaned. “I can barely fit into my prom dress as it is!”
Piggy was nonplussed, and had another caramel crème as she gave Darcy a saucy look. “Sweetie,” she said. “It’s not the caramel crèmes that are making it hard to fit into your dress.”
Darcy rolled her eyes at Piggy, then looked down to where her t-shirt strained valiantly to hold its shape against the considerable tide of her charms. “Could be,” she admitted. “But there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Why would you want to do anything about it?” Cordell demanded. The presence of forbidden fruit—or chocolate, to be literal—had attracted the guys to the girls’ dressing room and they hovered about and got in the way, trying out their pick-up lines and vying for their share of the goodies.
“I’d like to do something about it,” Harrison said, reaching for a chocolate and managing to upset the box. Darcy giggled. It took four dancers and six hands to keep the ladies’ dressing room floor from being littered with chocolate and creamy caramel paste.
“Good grief—clumsy much? I don’t even know how you stay upright,” Kristen scolded Harrison, slamming the lid down on the box and hauling him out of reach by his shirtfront.
Harrison put an arm around her waist and pulled her into a dip. “I’m much better horizontal,” he smirked. Kristen humored him for an instant, but when he swung her back up to her feet she flipped his nose and then grabbed hold of his ear to haul him toward the door.
“Out!” she said. “Get out of the girls’ dressing room!”
‘Ow, ow, ow!” wailed Harrison. “ You’re tearing my ear off.”
Cordell beat a hasty retreat, following Harrison out the door and shutting it behind him, but not before Harrison could holler back in, “So, Darcy—it’s a date, right?”
Darcy giggled, but shook her head. “Even I know better than to go out with Harrison,” she said.
“Yeah, well, he’s about the only loser around here you haven’t dated,” Trudy said. She had been writing a letter on some of her stage stationary, and the other girls looked at her curiously.
“Who ya writing?” Kristen asked. “I didn’t think your boyfriend could read.”
“Oh, dry up,” said Trudy. “I’m writing my Ma.”
“Your Ma doesn’t text?” said Stacey. “My Mom learned to text.”
“Yeah? Well, your Mom is probably a lot more hip than my mom,” said Trudy. “My mom is real old-fashioned. Besides, she can’t text me. She still has a rotary telephone.”
Listening to the banter, some good-natured, other not-so, Piggy felt like she was finally becoming one of the girls. She shook herself a little, reminding herself not to be a lurker in the conversation.
“So Harrison isn’t date material?” Piggy asked, leaning against the wall. “He seems to think he is.”
“That’s sort of the problem,” Darcy admitted. “He’s so in love with himself, it’s always three’s a crowd.”
Piggy had a sudden insight into why Harrison had been so cautious about warming up to her—he was protecting his own place in the spotlight, afraid Piggy might outshine him. Evidently, he had made his peace with her presence on the show, deciding that it was in his own best interests to be welcoming. Understanding him more, Piggy liked him better instead of worse. Actors were capricious and needy and insecure—at least some of the time—and she was glad to know his show of dislike at the start hadn’t really been personal.
“Oh—I see now. But he’s literate, right? Eats with utensils? And he can act?”
“I won’t vouch for the utensils, but yeah, he’s literate, all right,” said Trudy. “He can come on to you in three different languages.” She smiled to show there were no real teeth in her complaint. “And he can act. Not a bad singer, either.”
“Rory’s better,” said Kristen flatly. “If he didn’t look so much like a rube he’d have been cast as Danny instead.”
And I’d be stuck with Harrison, thought Piggy. She silently blessed whichever parent had graced Rory with his gray eyes and reddish-blond hair. Although she thought Rory could play Danny just as well as Harrison, Piggy admitted privately that his open-faced-kid-acting-tough look was perfect for Kenickie. Still, she thought that Rory would have made a stellar Danny playing opposite Kristen’s cool good looks—but then, again—she’d be stuck with Harrison. Sometimes you just ended up on the right side of things.
“Give me a sheet of that paper,” Piggy said thoughtfully. “Kermit’s literate. I think I’ll write him a love letter.”
This was said more in jest than in earnest, but Piggy was going to write him a note. Email and text were both nice, but Kermit was old-fashioned, and he would love getting something in her own hand in the real mail. They had both been known to save letters. She sat down at her dressing table and wrote a couple of quick lines, nothing more than sweet nothings, but, having written them, she wanted to write more. She did, letting her swirly, feminine hand-writing fill the page. There was nothing of substance in the letter, and it wasn’t truly naughty, but it was full of the little ushy-gushy thoughts that she so associated with her calm and steady frog. She told him how she missed him, and that the sky here was not as blue without him with here. (True, that—the smog here was atrocious!) She told him that she longed for his strong arms around her and that she was hoping to see him soon—and soon, please, sweetie. Piggy would have sworn she had only written a moment or two, but when she looked up, the other girls smirked at her knowingly.
“Earth to Piggy,” they teased. “What were you writing, anyway? An addendum to the Kama—“
“A love letter,” Piggy insisted. “Not a trashy note.”
“Speaking of trashy notes, where the heck did that note come from last night?”
Piggy had surprised everyone by ending “There are Worse Things I Could Do” on a heroically sustained note. She shrugged. “I can go a long time without taking a breath,” she said nonchalantly.
“Is that from practicing?” Trudy asked, earnest now. Her own voice was sweet but did not have the staying power of some of the other girls.
“No,” Piggy said slowly, licking the envelope. “That’s from being married to a frog. They are terrific kissers.”
The giggles followed her out the door.
“So, this is the new schedule?” Kermit asked. It looked better than last weeks’ schedule, but then—anything looked better than last week’s schedule, and anything would be better than last weekend’s schedule.
“Unless you see anything we should change. I know it looks intense but I want to bank as much time as we can,” Scooter said, half-apologetically. He did not explain why; he did not have to.
“You’re the boss of me,” Kermit said, and in spite of how tired they both were, it made them smile.
“Good,” said Scooter. “Then I’m giving us both a raise.”
Kermit snorted. “I said you were the boss of me. Unfortunately, the budget is the boss of everything right now.”
“You know,” said Scooter grumpily. “In our movies we’re always broke, and it’s sort of charming.”
“Um hum,” Kermit acknowledged. “Because we did, you know, struggle in the beginning. I think that whole…feel of doing it for the love of the thing is what made that sentiment work.”
“Yeah…I can see that,” said Scooter. “But in real life,” he said sourly, “money troubles stink.”
“Worse than Lew Zealand’s act in July,” said Kermit, and Scooter grunted. That was saying something.
“But it’s always a little lean just before we release a movie,” Scooter said. “We had to pay for everything but we have gotten any of the spoils of wars yet.”
Kermit gave him a look. “Spoils of war, huh?”
“Um, Sarah and I watched the history channel last night,” Scooter mumbled. “Something about ancient Rome.”
“Did you learn anything?” Kermit asked. “Other than what the spoils of war are?”
“I learned I need to go to the gym more,” Scooter said ruefully.
“Don’t we all,” Kermit agreed.
Piggy dropped her letter into the mailbox on the corner and turned, but some sixth sense had alerted her before she did, so this time, at least, she didn’t startle.
“Fleet,” she said, eye’s narrowed, nostrils flaring.
He was standing on the sidewalk between her and the theater, hands on his hips, his trench coat flared behind him. He looked leaner than she remembered, and his hair was shorter and less unkempt that it had been the last time she’d seem him. “D’you read my review?” he demanded.
Piggy had been ready to launch into a diatribe, but his aggressiveness caught her off guard.
“Your-your review?” she stammered, her bottled-up angry thoughts deserting her in her moment of need. “What…about your review?”
“Did you read it?” Fleet insisted, but he knew the answer already. Her cheeks were flushed and she would not quite meet his eyes.
“So what if I did?” she quavered, wishing her voice didn’t sound so uncertain. Though her voice sounded unsteady, her eyes were steely and full of fire.
“I just wanted you to know that…that I meant it. I meant all of it. I remember what you always used to say, about belonging here. I think you belong here, Missy.” The last was said so low that Piggy almost couldn’t hear it, but he knew she had because one velvety ear twitched forward and the blush deepened.
“Saying that doesn’t make up for what you’ve done!” Piggy hissed. “It’s too late to try to be nice and say the things you think I want to hear.” Drat him, he had always been good at that, at burrowing into her defenses and soothing her tattered ego.
“You do want to hear them.” Fleet said smugly. “Somebody ought to say them, because I know you want to hear them.”
Piggy balled her hands into fists. “Not from you.”
That made him flinch, but it also made him grin. “Yeah?” he said. “Well—he’s not here, is he?”
Angry tears sprang into Piggy’s eyes. How dare he! How dare he mock her loneliness because Kermit’s stupid ol’ job was more important than coming to see her on Broadway! Shocked by her own reaction, Piggy took a swift intake of breath. “He’ll be here,” she said, her voice low and vibrating with emotion. “You wait and see.”
“I’m good at waiting,” Fleet said flatly. “Lots of practice. And I meant it, Missy—I meant those things I said, those things I wrote. Every one of them. You are wonderful, marvelous, talented—too talented to be—“
“Go! Please…just go, Fleet. There’s nothing here for you.”
“You’re here,” he countered. “That was enough for me before.”
He had scored. He could feel it, could see it in her tragic blue eyes, but he was not asbestos himself, and he had no desire to see if she would erupt in anger or pain. Best to be far away, and leave her with what he had said.
“Get away from me,” Piggy said, her voice shaking with anger. “Go far away and let me be.”
“I’ll go,” he said, “but I won’t go far. And you know you can count on me. My word is good.”
Piggy stared after him as he turned and walked toward the corner, then disappeared down the alley. Heart thumping, hands shaking, Piggy fought her way back to calm and tried to think. What did he mean, his word was good? What was he implying—that Kermit’s wasn’t? That she had somehow betrayed his trust? After a moment, the chill air made itself felt, and Piggy pushed her decorously- but insubstantially-gloved hands deep into her coat pockets. He brain was tired and she was weary of these stupid mind games she couldn’t seem to get away from. She did not see a slight figure emerge from a taxi at the end of the street, did not see him approaching her swiftly from the rear, hopeful of overtaking her. But the wind was chill and Piggy was cold. She hurried forward and gained the lobby before anything else could happen.
Rowlf felt someone behind him, but before he could turn, Jolalene had slipped past him and inserted herself into the four inches of space between Rowlf and the sliding bus door.
“Hi Rowlf,” she purred, her voice low and inviting. “I see you’re done practicing that new number.”
“Oh, um, yeah. Trying a little something different on the bridge,” he said.
“Want to try a little something different on the bus?” Jolalene said archly. “I was just going to slip on something more comfortable and settle in with a nice big chew toy. Want to join me?”
Rowlf had seen this one coming down the tracks toward him, but he hadn’t yet figured how to get out of the way.
“Gosh, Jolalene,” Rowlf said slowly. He looked up at here—she had about four inches on him when they were both standing upright—and gave a lopsided grin. “I sure do appreciate the invite, but I don’t think I’m quite ready to settle in for the evening,” he said politely. “Maybe I could take a rain check?” Jolalene was not fooled by this show of good breeding.
“So what’s the deal, sausage boy?” she demanded. “You swapping chew toys with somebody back home already?”
Rowlf took a deep breath. “No,” he said finally. “Not exactly. It’s just…gosh, Jo, you sure are something else, and I might just be crazy for taking a pass on this evening, but the truth of it is that I think you’re a little too much for me.”
Rowlf had expected her to snap—maybe even bite—but he was surprised at her astonished expression. She crossed her arms across her chest and her wide mouth curved into a smile. “Tell me more,” she purred.
Rowlf let out the breath he’d been holding. “You are one heckuva singer, and you are one heckuva lady, but I would be lying if I even said I thought I could keep up.” Rowlf scratched self-consciously behind one ear. “I got a buddy, and he got it bad for a girl like you from the get-go. It ended kind of badly for him.”
“So what happened?” Jolalene said, amused.
“Oh…well, they got married.”
“Married?!” She looked faintly horrified.
“Yep. Once he met her, that was it for him.” He grinned up at Jolalene cheekily. “I couldn’t chance that now, could I? Falling for you so hard it hurt?”
“Well no,” said Jolalene, playing along. “And I sure don’t want things to end badly between us.”
“Glad you see my point,” said Rowlf. “Now, if we were just a couple of guys from the band, sharing a chew toy or two…well, that’d be different, if you see what I’m getting at.”
“I do, rather,” said Jolalene. She slipped a finger under his collar and tugged him after her. “I guess I could just be one of the guys tonight,” she admitted. “Let’s go find a movie to rent.”
“With car chases?” Rowlf asked. “I love car chases.”
Jolalene just looked at him. “What else?”
“Yes—it is perfect, but she can’t wear it—not this year, anyway,” said Thoreau. Howard put the sketch back down on the light board regretfully.
“What a shame,” he murmured. “That shade of blue….”
“Yes. I know. Perfect with her eyes. But she’ll be stuck in whatever they have her wearing on stage.”
“The reviews were good—everybody liked her wardrobe.”
Thoreau snorted. “Yeah. It was her wardrobe they liked.”
“I see your point.”
“Well, you know, she dresses more like a nun when she’s on stage with that frog,” Thoreau said.
“She wasn’t dressed like a nun for the movie,” Howard pointed out, more to hear what Thoreau might say on the topic than to be argumentative.
“Have mercy—that’s true, but I thought he was going to have a fit until they added more beads.”
“I didn’t know you designed those outfits!” Howard said, giving his friend a surprised look, but Thoreau threw his expressive hands up in the air.
“Not guilty,” he said hastily. “Although I got chapter and verse about it from Piggy while they were filming.” He sighed, his expression thoughtful. “It must be difficult, being entranced with someone so amazing, someone so adored and in the public eye.” He turned to find Howard looking at him with amusement and felt his cheeks flush scarlet.
Howard’s voice was dry. “I’ll keep you posted.”
The audience tonight seemed inclined to like everything they did, and everything they did caused the audience to want more. The show was running on an excess of exuberance, and Piggy was privately concerned that they might peak well before the second half got started.
She had wrestled her composure back into place and was almost fully engaged in diva mode, but one small part of her brain still wrestled with what Fleet had said.
What did he mean, about being as good as his word? After she and Kermit had gotten married all of her suitors had been forgotten in the rush of new happiness. Fleet had not had anything good to say about her marriage. In fact, he had not said—or written—anything about the wedding, about the way Kermit had whisked her away to Paris for a quick honeymoon, about how they had settled in to domestic bliss. The reporter who had once had everything to say about Miss Piggy said nothing—nothing at all—about the new Mrs. the Frog.
Piggy had assumed that after the first shock had worn off—she had been surprised herself—Fleet would come around again. She had expected him to be disappointed. She had not expected him to quit his job and practically disappear. Her marriage to Kermit had been a bigger blow to him than she had imagined—she had never—no, never—hidden her true feelings about Kermit from Fleet. She had, perhaps, fudged a bit on Kermit’s feelings for her, and Fleet must have known that, but perhaps he had counted on Kermit’s feelings being even less than they were. The first time they had seen each other after her wedding had been several years later, and the meeting had not gone well.
She had burst, triumphant, into a swirl of back-stage reporters, fresh from presenting an award with Kermit at the Academy Awards. She had looked up from arranging her feather boa to find Fleet staring at her with something like pain, and had not known what to say. But the reporters had been surrounding her, wanting a quote, wanting an interview, and by the time the fuss had died down, Fleet was nowhere to be seen. After that, they ran into each other sporadically, and each time Fleet seemed pained to see her. His writing began to reflect it, and where he had once been glowing about her potential, he began to be critical of her project choices, critical of her staying so firmly inside Kermit’s orbit.
As good as his word, Piggy mused. Well, she had certainly been as good as her word. She had told Fleet that one day—one day—she was going to marry that frog. And she had.
The show was over, the bows taken, the crowd finally dispersed enough for her to make a dash for her cab.
“How’d it go, Miss Piggy?” said Moishe Finkel. “You wow ‘em again, tonight?”
“Piece of cake,” said Piggy, daring the fates to defy her.
“Well, I’m not surprised,” he said loyally. “Nobody can say nothing bad about your acting!”
For just a moment, Piggy let the façade slip. “I wish they couldn’t say anything bad about my marriage,” she said quietly.
Finkel made sympathetic noises. “You just ignore those schmucks,” he said. “I told your agent he ought to shut those stupid tabloids up.”
Piggy leaned forward, speechless with surprise. “Marty’s here?” she said. “When did you see Marty?”
Finkel turned around and looked at her. “The other day. After you went to that car lot. He came looking for you, just making sure there weren’t any reporters following you that day.”
Piggy sat still, very still, her mind racing. All thoughts of Scribbler fled from her mind, and she clicked through question after question in her head, unable to get one out. Finally, her silence concerned him. When he pulled up at a red light, Finkel turned and looked at her.
“You okay, Miss Piggy? Don’t let that tabloid stuff bother you—who reads that stuff anyway.”
“Moishe,” Piggy said quietly, finding her voice at last. “My agent’s name is Marty and he’s in California. If you talked to someone who said he was Moi’s agent here in New York then he was lying.”
“I knew it,” Finkel said, slamming the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. This caused the driver in front of him to flash the “Welcome to New York” sign, but Finkel didn’t notice. “I knew he wasn’t on the up-and-up.”
“What did he…what did you…say to him?” Piggy asked. She did not want to accuse her friend, but she needed to know what had been said.
“I didn’t say nothing,” said Finkel. “I told him you and your actor friend were just checking out a car lot—no flirting, no nothing. Just an errand.”
Piggy was thoughtful. There had been no tabloid articles mentioning her afternoon excursion with Rory, but somebody at the theater had obviously tipped off Chad because he had known enough to ask about it. Still, there had been no printed gossip….
“Thank you, Moishe. That was very smart of you.” She paused, thinking. “What did he look like, this fellow?”
Here, Moishe’s description failed to move her. Although he had a good eye for detail, and remembered specific things about his coat and hat, her cabbie insisted that the man had been nondescript in every sense of the word.
“But you thought he was a reporter?”
“I thought he was, yeah,” said Finkel. “But I told him I wasn’t talking to no stinking reporter, and that’s when he told me he was your agent.” He looked at Piggy miserably. “I’m sorry, Miss Piggy. I should have told you sooner.”
Piggy smiled, making an effort to assuage his unhappiness. “Not to worry,” said Piggy. “Reporters I’m used to.” But who was this reporter? Not Fleet. The hair was wrong. Fleet had always stood out, with that mop of silver hair. Piggy had teased him about it many times. She did not know who the reporter might be, or what he might do with the information he had gotten, but Fleet would know. He would be aware of anyone that was aware of her. Piggy took a deep, slow breath. The next time she saw Fleet, she had a few questions to ask him.
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