Contrapunctus

"It's time to go home", says Mr. Bloom to nobody in particular as he sits in the Executive Lounge on the fortieth floor of the Santa Margherita Hilton and gazes out over the sprawling city. Several observations prompt his thinking. First, what was once a stack of neatly folded socks, underwear and shirts is now a pile of rumpled and smelly laundry. Second, today's attire: wheras on Monday Mr. Bloom wore a suit and tie, his couture has gradually evolved to open-collared shirt sans tie and slacks. Third, his manner: in his first few days, Mr. Bloom was almost obsequiously courteous to all he met; now, he just wants his coffee, black, and pronto. Did I say make that a double? You bet I said double, and let's make it double-fast, Pedro.

Negotiations with Mindy Megan Africa Clausewitz du Monde went swimmingly well, "swimmingly" being a particularly apt description of said bargaining as the transaction closed in the pool of Miss du Monde's villa, in which Miss du Monde paddled the backstroke langorously while wearing the bottom half of a Wicketts WTF bikini - one of the smaller ones -- and nothing else. Mr. Bloom, wearing boxer trunks in a tropical print (kindly supplied courtesy of Wicketts) tred water lazily a dozen feet away, and found himself wondering if she preferred her ladyparts bejazzled or unbejazzled.

Miss du Monde rolled and dove beneath the surface and disappeared for a few minutes, then suddenly surfaced a few feet away from Mr. Bloom. "Deal!" she said, wiping water from her eyes, and with that closed a handshake agreement to provide a year's worth of digital media placements for condoms.com and Wicketts. In Santa Margherita, handshake agreements rule, but it pays to pay off one or two senior officials in the Ministry of the Interior, who can manage your counterparty risk by breaking the legs of counterparties who renege on an agreement, or who otherwise displease you.

Mr. Bloom declined the opportunity to initiate sexual relations with Miss du Monde, out of a sense of loyalty to June and fear of the consequences, but mostly fear of the consequences.

Life in Santa Margherita has its pleasures, but Mr. Bloom yearns for home. He dials the number. Molly picks up. "Hello?"

"Hi Honey, it's your Dad". Mr. Bloom has learned that "Hi Honey, still a virgin?" doesn't cut it as a greeting for his eldest.

"Hi".

"How's the Busoni coming?"

Molly perks up. "Oh, it's going well. I've read through the Preludio and first three Fuga and was just starting the Intermezzo when the phone rang. I knew it was you".

Mr. Bloom is flattered. Ordinarily, Molly wouldn't answer the phone if Ferruccio Busoni himself called to tell her that the tempi are a little too quick and to cut the slophouse with the left hand in the Variazioni.

"Well, I can't wait to hear it when I get home". Actually, Mr. Bloom doesn't mean this. Personally, he thinks Busoni is something of a nutcase who wrote music best suited for other nutcases, and he would much rather listen to Die Kunst der Fuge than to some fey Socialist's riffs thereupon; but he is resigned to the reality that for the next month or so he will hear little but Busoni banged out on the Bosendorfer, little sections repeated endlessly as Molly searches for that elusive perfect performance. He sighs.

It turns out that Molly only answered because nobody else is home, the Blooms eschew answering machines, and Molly knows that Mr. Bloom will persist in letting it ring until she answers. June Bloom is out seeking to purchase Christmas presents; Margaret is in the library; Catherine and Mr. Fuzzums seek Miss Kitty (the annoying cat next door), who is up to no good; and Mary is on her knees before Misstress Rene earning her second semester Science grade. A few whacks on the fanny, she figures, and she is well on the road to earning another bumper sticker for her Dad -- the one that says "My Child is an Honor Student at Beauneville Latin".

Voom!

After breakfast Wednesday morning, Mr. Bloom ventures to meet with the publisher of Voom!, the hottest celebrity fashion website in Santa Margherita.

Traffic in Santa Margherita is notorious; between the booming population, collapsing infrastructure and random acts of violence perpetrated by drug kingpins, driving anywhere is an adventure. Today is no exception; the journey across town takes three hours. Mr. Bloom considered walking, but the heat and humidity are not for the faint-hearted; the car is air-conditioned, and the driver is a buxom blonde with an imperfect command of English, but Mr. Bloom doesn't mind since she's buxom and blonde.

"You like-a ze Santa Margherita, ja?" she asks, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

"Why, yes", says Mr. Bloom. "It's lovely". He can see from the taxi license that her name is Sofia Marie-Therese Alvarez von Zickboom, that she is twenty one years old, and that complaints about her driving should be directed to the Ministry of the Interior, Secretariat of Hackney Inspections, where they will be filed and forgotten.

"You stay long-a time, non?" she inquires.

"Well, um, yes, I mean no, just five days". Mr. Bloom wonders if she wants to supplement her income.

"You worka for ze Amerikaner beezness, ja?"

"Yes, I'm in advertising. I represent condoms.com and Wicketts Bazaar".

Sofia blushes red as a cherry. "Ohhh, zee condoms, zey are illeegal, we like-a zeebeaucoup!", she says, secretively. "And zee Weeketts, zey sell ze bikini, eez ferry zeeenful, I like-a", she says, gesturing and posturing her ample cleavage. Mr. Bloom agrees with Sofia that condoms are useful and bikinis are nice, and he definitely thinks that if she wants to supplement her income she could do so, amply.

At this moment, they arrive at the Voom! building. Mr. Bloom pays the fare in local currency -- forty-seven billion zblini -- and steps out of the car. "Ciao!", purrs Sofia, lingeringly, as if she can't bear to part. Mr. Bloom waves, as he gingerly strolls through the plaza, taking care not to step on homeless people, Occupy Santa Margherita protestors or the many piles of dog poop that litter the sidewalk.

The offices of Voom! are exactly what you would expect of the leading fashion and celebrity website in a country obsessed with fashion and celebrity. Staid and magisterial, the Voom! building served originally as the Bank of Santa Margherita before the Revolution of 1926, after which the National Republo-Democratic People's Party of National Unity (PNRDZNPU, known locally as "PinRidZinPoo") occupied the place and used it as headquarters. For sixty years, Santa Margherita was largely a one-party state -- I say "largely" because while other parties were technically legal, adherents thereto tended to disappear.

Happily, those days are long gone -- voters threw out PinRidZinPoo in the elections of 1986 in a great victory for capitalism, beaches and loose morals, and what's good for capitalism is good for Voom! Starting out as a glossy weekly mag, Voom! beat the other celebrity and fashion rags to the digital media party, so now Voom! owns the clicks and eyeballs of Santa Margheritans,and they are sticky eyeballs to boot -- or so says Mindy Megan Africa Clausewitz du Monde, publisher of Voom!, who now stands statuesquely in the center of Voom!'s reception area in a skin-tight Juan Carlos Obando original, her hand extended to Mr. Bloom.

Mr. Bloom decides to drop the pretense of knowing how to say anything in Santa Margheritesque. "Hi", he says, eyeballing Miss du Monde's lovely curvy figure, which is amply revealed by her sleeveless dress.

"Pleasure to meet you", murmurs Miss du Monde. "I'm sure we will do wonderful business together".

Mr. Bloom is impressed by how nice Miss du Monde is, and all of the people in Santa Margherita, all of whom seem to want to supplement their income.

Tuesday in Santa Margherita

Tuesday morning in Santa Margherita: Mr. Bloom approaches the hotel receptionist, a stunning buxom blonde in a pert uniform, complete with exposed cleavage.

"Um...mi pardonnez por excusa...onde está la stanza di Frühstückraum?". Mr. Bloom is quite proud of his mastery of a phrase in Santa Margheritesque.

The receptionist stares at him blankly, then smiles. "Good morning, Mr. Bloom", she says, gesturing. "How are you this morning? Breakfast is served right over there", she points, a lacquered fingernail directing Mr. Bloom thataway. She says this with a lilting, "come-hither" manner that makes Mr. Bloom wonder if she wants to supplement her income.

"Merci obrigado gesundheit" murmurs Mr. Bloom as he slithers away. The receptionist stares uncomprehendingly.

The loose morals of Santa Margherita citizens make them a perfect target market for the new Wickets WTF? campaign, which promotes thongs and other garments whose price is indirectly related to the quantity of fabric contained therein. Santa Margheritans are known everywhere for their fashion awareness, and willing to spend well beyond their means for highly au courant togs to shed at a moments notice. (This makes Santa Margherita an ideal market for fashion merchandisers, but less attractive for banks offering credit cards).

For similar reasons, Santa Margherita is an ideal market for condoms.com. Business prospects for condoms.com in Santa Margherita are enhanced by the local ban on retail sale of birth control devices of any kind. This law is based on Santa Margherita's strong commitment to family values, under which promiscuity is perfectly acceptable as long as it is sinful.

Attractive prospects for business in Santa Margherita are even more compelling for Beauneville businesses due to the trade subsidies written into the American Motherhood and Apple Pie Act (an act authorizing Federal defense spending for 1954) by Congressman Elmore Bigelow Butts and not since repealed.

Over breakfast -- which he ordered by pointing to items on the menu -- Mr. Bloom ponders how best to position Wicketts in the local market. A literal translation of WTF in Santa Margheritesque -- ?ce qué baisser cogida fucky-fuck? -- lacks a certain ring. Mr. Bloom continues to ponder this as he contemplates the waitress' buttocks and wonders if she has a nice personality.

Santa Margherita

In his hotel room at the Hilton Santa Margherita, Henry Bloom browses his travel guide:

The people of Santa Margherita speak a polyglot mixture of French, English, Spanish, Portuguese and German mixed with Creole which is virtually incomprehensible to outsiders.

Hmmm. Henry pondered that. This trip could be challenging.

He read on:

The spoken language is so complex that even native speakers find it incomprehensible. Fortunately, the natives gesture a lot and are quite good at reading body language.

Henry sipped his beer. That sounds better. If you want something in a restaurant, just point.

Official records are recorded in Latin.

Henry smacked his forehead. Damn, he thought. I've always wondered why we should learn Latin.

Santa Margherita natives are known for their loose morals and promiscuity...

Wow, thought Henry -- great country.

...but that friendly woman in the hotel will expect payment for services.

Of course, Henry would never consider cheating on June

Meanwhile, in Beauneville, Roderick reviews the list of gifts he's giving this year:

Mr. Smith: book on investing
Mrs. Smith: cookbook
Molly: complete Beethoven piano sonatas recorded by William Kempff
Mary: not sure
Natasha: not sure -- maybe something by Felix Mendelssohn
Bibi: not sure
Megan: easy -- gift certificate for "Bejazzle Your Vijayjay" at Lady Gaia's Beauneville Salon

Roderick figures Molly thinks very highly of her vijayjay -- she's constantly offering it to him, an offer he has not yet accepted as he and Molly have sworn to be each others' "first", though Molly doesn't seem to be in any hurry. Roderick isn't either, but the situation with Megan is getting slightly awkward. Hopefully, the matter will resolve itself next year, when he and Molly will attend Old Ivy. Megan strikes Roderick as more of a Lake City type of student, or even Enormous State University.

Sunday Before Christmas

Sunday, two weeks before Christmas. The Reverend Mr. Smiley, Bishop of Smiley sits at his desk in the Rectory, an oddly-shaped and brightly-colored home attached to the Great Cathedral of the Holy Santa, a vast oddly-shaped and brightly-colored house of worship. The Cathedral stands by the Duck Pond (which is populated by happy and well-informed ducks) near the Rose Garden -- fertilized daily with the cremains of recently departed Smileys.

Smileyville Rose Garden is well known to devotees of the Rosaceae family for the abundance of its blooms. Smileyville Duck Pond is well known to waterfowl everywhere, since Smileys are noted for their kindness to animals. A migrating mallard can rest assured that a stopover at Smileyville Duck Pond will not end on the business end of a barbecue spit, and may be good for a fine meal, for the resident ducks secretly practice the culinary arts at a high level.

Mr. Smiley scans his sermon for the day -- the part of the service Smileys refer to as "nice words":

Christmas is almost here. (Pause. Look up from paper. Eye contact. Smile. Wait for Smileys to smile back and wave). Some say that Christmas is not all about Santa. (Pause. Look up from paper. Frown. Wait for uncomfortable reaction from Smileys. Frown some more). We like Santa. (Pause. Wait for applause.) Because He brings us presents. (Grin. Wait for ovation. Segue to rhythmic clapping).

He frowns, and wonders if his sermon is too long, but decides the message is important, and the congregation can tolerate a little extra length this time of year, especially if he reminds them of the extra snacks.

Meanwhile, in Beauneville, Mr. Bloom packs his suitcase. He's off to Santa Margherita to support the international rollout of the "Wicketts WTF?" campaign. (It turns out that "WTF" does not translate well). Second daughter Mary Bloom watches him pack, and wishes for the day when she, too can travel -- perhaps as an international call girl. The thought makes her shiver.

Molly, the eldest daughter, who at the moment is engaged with Busoni on the Bosendorfer, is indifferent to Mr. Bloom's departure. Their relationship is a little strained lately: you know how it is with older teens who decline to accept their parents' values. Mr. Bloom, for his part, thinks Molly is a little slow. Oh, sure, she gets perfect grades in school, is a second-degree black belt in karate and a pianist of considerable accomplishment. And yes, she shows great promise in nude modeling; but exactly when does she plan to lose her virginity? Mr. Bloom has stopped asking.

Mary, on the other hand, is the apple of his eye, an expression not widely used in Beauneville due to the pervasiveness of Malus Domestica in the life of the town.

Mr. Vanderbilt, CEO and sole proprietor of Beauneville Taxi, arrives out front in his shiny Checker Marathon. With a cheery wave, Mr. Bloom is off for Santa Margherita, land of endless sun and loose morals.

Roderick and Molly

Roderick Smith is a fine young man who lives with his Mom and Dad in a Queen Anne style Victorian home -- with turrets! -- on Elm Street, near the corner of Fourteenth, in Beauneville. Born seventeen years ago this coming first of July, Roderick is friendly and courteous to all, dresses neatly, does his schoolwork promptly, likes to read Thucydides in the original and wants to be a historian or a hedge-fund manager when he grows up.

You ask: a hedge-fund manager? Roderick's father who, like his grandfather, is also named Roderick, is an investment advisor who manages money for the local widows and orphans. Mr. Smith's library has many books about investing, which Roderick began to read when just a wee lad. Thus, while other young men his age dream of launching rockets, building a social-media networking tool or getting into Molly Bloom's pants, Roderick dreams of Black-Scholes pricing models, Modern Portfolio Theory and Monte Carlo Analysis.

Roderick also thinks often of Molly Bloom, although unlike the other young men in town he doesn't have to imagine her sans clothing. Actually, this is not true, strictly speaking; Molly has a propensity to lose her clothing at a moment's notice -- enrollment in Mr. Botticelli's art class tripled last year when she signed up for live modeling. Molly relationship with clothing is tenuous at best, which is a blessing for all, since she is simply gorgeous -- svelte, small-breasted, and completely blonde, if you know what I mean.

Roderick and Molly are inseparable, and have been so ever since Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Bloom met at Mrs. Witherspoon's "Nursing Your Baby" seminar at the Beaune Estate. As babies, they nursed together; as toddlers, they toddled together; as children, they played together. As each approaches seventeen, they hardly think about spending time together; they are attracted like magnets.

To understand Molly you must watch her long fingers as she sits with Roderick before school. She seems to be listening, but her fingers silently manipulate an imaginary keyboard through the thirty-second of Beethoven's Diabelli variations -- the one with the fugue -- as the piano is her one true passion. There is a huge Bosendorfer in the Bloom's parlor, the kind with the extra keys at the low end, and here Molly spends countless hours working on scales, arpeggios, etudes, technical exercises and the works of Beethoven (recently supplemented by works of Schubert).

Molly's propensity to roll out of bed in the morning and head straight for the piano, together with her lack of engagement with personal hygiene, means that she often carries a distinct aroma. Though squeaky-clean himself, Roderick is not bothered by this. He also knows that she is disinclined to shave, but the hair on her legs is so fine and blonde that it is unnoticeable except on close inspection.

Are Roderick and Molly a couple? Everyone else in town thinks so, thanks to the reporting of Amanda Dennis, aspiring reporter and gossip extraordinaire. If you read Amanda's blog, Cries and Whispers, you are in the know about all sorts of real and imagined affairs of Beauneville youth. But though they have taken a solemn pledge to be one another's "first", Roderick and Molly have not yet consummated this pledge, and not for lack of opportunity, since they often sleep together. There is no reason for this restraint, except that they have not yet felt the necessary inspiration.

Soon, they figure. But not just yet.

Wisteria, and a Cupcake

Each year, Beauneville denizens celibrate the Wisteria Sinensis, a great flowering vine whose cascading pendulous racemes burst to bloom in late May. There is an open house at the Beaune estate, whose lawn arbors burst with color. The French doors of the Ballroom are open, and celebrants mingle on the lawn.

Concurrent with the Wisteria Festival, Beauneville celebrates the annual Concours du Cupcake, for which the patissieres and cupcake fashioners strive to outdo one another. In the Ballroom, there are long tables, where regiments of cupcakes stand at attention in neat ranks, waiting for inspection.

This year, Mr. Smiley is the Grand Marshal of the Concours; he strides purposefully past the cupcakes on display, taking great care to show neither approval nor disapproval of any proffered cupcake. Mr. Smiley read somewhere that an architect in Vienna committed suicide after the Emperor Franz Joseph commented that a building "seemed a bit low". Mr. Smiley wouldn't want that sort of thing on his conscience.

The waiting crowd parts as Emily Peacock arrives. Emily is the eldest daughter of the Mrs. Peacock who lives next door to Mary Bloom; she lives on the other side of town, on Larch Street. Mary is well known as a leading practitioner of the fine art of the cupcake; for five years running she has won the Gold Pastry Brush.

Emily carries a silver platter with a domed cover. She gently places the platter at her designated spot near the head of one of the tables and, with a flourish, removes the dome, revealing this year's cupcake creation: a tiny replica of Schloss Neuschwanstein with towers, ornamental turrets, gables and pinnacles sculpted in butter cream frosting.

Her assistant distributes an information sheet, which reads:

For the 2011 Concours du Cupcake, Miss Emily Peacock has created a unique work she calls Romantic Castle. Fashioned from a petit gateau du chocolat and handmade butter cream frosting (made with butter freshly prepared from milk provided by Miss Peacock's Guernsey cow), this creation is an exact scale replica of King Ludwig's romantic castle. To ensure an accurate reproduction, Miss Peacock has consulted with castle curators in Hohenschangau. She estimates her total effort on this project to be about one thousand hours.

The gathered crowd is rapt; a Gold Pastry Brush for Emily is assured.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, proceedings are brought to order. Mr. Smiley sits at the head table with Clothilde, while little Alexander sleeps nearby in his bubble-pram. Roderick and his parents sit with the Blooms and Natasha, who simultaneously nurses Felix and Fanny -- a task which requires delicate balancing of the little ones, but which is simplified by Natasha's overall lack of modesty.

With considerable pomp, Emily Peacock's winning cupcake is brought forth and placed before Mr. Smiley who, as Grand Marshal of the Concours, is invited to eat. The room is silent, and all are rapt as Mr. Smiley raises the winning cupcake to his lips, bites off a turret, and chews thoughtfully.

Clothilde leans toward Mr. Smiley and, whispering, inquires: "How is it?"

Mr. Smiley gazes into the distance and, continuing to chew, murmurs: "It's nice."

Felix and Fanny are Busy

On a wintry Thursday, Natasha lounges in a comfortable chair at home, hands clasped on her enormous belly. "Felix and Fanny are busy", she murmurs to Henry, and places his hand on her tummy.

"They certainly are", says Henry.

Meanwhile, at the Ericson home, Bibi relaxes in the hot tub, nude. Someone is watching her from the second floor window of a neighboring house.

Megan Cupcake struggles to read Catullus, and wonders who Lesbia is.

At the Blooms, Molly pounds away on the Bosendorfer, doing scales. Mary looks over the Science homework Roderick did for her, the History paper Roderick wrote for her, and the Math homework Margaret did for her. She sighs. It's hard to be a teen.

Margaret moves on to matrix Algebra.

Catherine is having a nice day, a fact she is more than happy to share with all who will listen. At this moment, she has an audience of one, a certain Mr. Fuzzums, who is in every respect a perfect gentleman even though he is a bear.

Roderick continues to read a book about single premium deferred annuities. He is disappointed to discover that since the book was published, the tax law changed and nobody buys them anymore. He resolves to read newer books, or stick to history.

College Day Is Coming

There is an announcement at Beauneville Latin this morning, during morning sign-in:

Juniors: College Day is coming. Prepare yourselves!

That last part is just a sample of the dry humor of Mr. Method, the guidance counselor who also serves as drama teacher. Mr. Method never misses an opportunity to add color to his announcements. For example, last week he posted the following:

O dark and dreadful day! SAT exams will be held on Saturday, February 26, at the E. Biglelow Butz Regional High School.

Mr. Method's announcement about College Day continues:

College Day is a misnomer; it would be best if we called it College Hour, as there will be but three colleges presenting: Old Ivy College, the University of Lake City and Enormous State University. Students who really want to learn about colleges would be best advised to check the internet, or mailboxes at home, as Beauneville Latin has little time or energy to devote to college fairs and the like.

Roderick pauses, and chuckles. That Mr. Method! He's such a comic!

Students seeking to learn more about college life should report to the Gymnasium between one and two p.m., and will be excused from class. Not that an excuse is required, since attendance is never taken.

Molly noodges Roderick. "Are you going?" she asks.

"Sure" he replies. Not that there is any doubt in his mind about where he will go to college. Of course, he will go to Old Ivy. And so will Molly. Roderick thinks about himself and Molly, in the Quadrangle, under the Kissing Tree. Then he thinks about Molly, nude. This requires little imagination on his part, as Molly, nude, is a regular part of Roderick's daily life.

Molly noodges him again. "What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"I was thinking about you, actually", he says. Roderick considers whether or not to mention the no clothes part, and decides against it. Not here at school. There is a time and a place for everything, and morning sign-in is definitely not the best time to discuss erotic thoughts.

Molly smiles. Of course, she is thinking about Beethoven, the Arioso from the A-flat Sonata Opus 110, but also listening to Roderick; Molly's mind is a fugue, with multiple subjects in counterpoint. She can't wait to get to Art class and lose her clothes.

Mary Bloom brushes against Roderick in an almost seductive way. "Thank you so much for helping me with my Science homework", she gushes, batting her big blue eyes.

"You're welcome", says Roderick. What a nice girl, he thinks. So polite and neatly dressed. It hardly matters to him that she barters sex for money and grades; in fact, he finds it intriguing, though not enough to break into his piggy bank.

Mounting the stairway, on the way to English class, Megan Cupcake "accidentally" bumps into Roderick. "Hi Roderick", she coos. "Want to come over after school to 'study Latin'?" She says the words 'study Latin" in such a manner as to make clear that she has something more in mind than Catullus.

"Sure", says Roderick. Roderick knows exactly what Megan has in mind, and is more than happy to oblige, especially so since Molly will be practicing for her big recital. No point in spending an afternoon alone.

Valentine's Day

It is the custom among the youth of Beauneville who attend Beauneville Latin to send notes and gifts on Valentine's Day to the object -- or objects -- of their affection. Said notes may be slipped under doors, placed in mailboxes or be delivered anonymously, but they always convey serious intent; thus, in Beauneville, one does not witness the scattershot sort of Valentine greetings one observes elsewhere. If you get a Valentine in Beauneville, it means that somebody wants you. But you may not always know who.

On Valentine's Day morning, Roderick found one instantly recognizable greeting in the mailbox. It read:

Let's cuddle. Love, Megan

Roderick did not receive a Valentine from Molly, nor did he give her one. They both agreed that no such communication was necessary.

Natasha waddled to the door and found a small gift-wrapped box. Opening it, she found a recording of songs of Fanny Mendelssohn, with a note from Henry. She was in rapture.

Molly Bloom, Megan Cupcake, Bibi Ericson and a host of other girls all found unsigned notes. They all instantly recognized Donny Clapper's unique grammar, style and approach to amour.

Dickie Wickett sent Katie Zeppelin an amorous email. She hearted him on Facebook.

Bibi Ericson is unfamiliar with Beauneville customs concerning Valentine's Day. At lunch, she approached Roderick.

"Vat eez ze Day of Falentine? Eet eez about ze sex, ya?"

Roderick nodded. "Possibly."

Mary Bloom received a number of queries about a possible Valentines Day date, all of which she declined. Marketing 101: customers value something more when it's hard to get.

Catherine Bloom wrote a note to Mr. Fuzzums:

Happy Valentine's Day. To my dearest, my one and only, my love.

In the darkness of Catherine's backpack, Mr. Fuzzums sought to woo Miss Kitty. Miss Kitty, however, in keeping with her character, was demure.

Losing Interest

On Sunday morning, Mary Bloom -- the "good" daughter -- rose early and made the family a nice hot breakfast of pancakes, eggs, sausage and bacon. After filling the plates, she ran back upstairs to dress in her white "virgin" dress and braided pretty blue cornflowers into her long golden hair. Where she found the cornflowers in the dead of winter is a mystery. Suffice to say that girls like Mary Bloom have an infinite supply of cornflowers.

Holding her long white dress up over her boots to keep it out of puddles, Mary sploshed her way through the slush to the neighboring house, where she made a nice hot breakfast for Mrs. Peacock and served it in the parlor. As Mrs. Peacock tucked in to her plate of eggs and toast, Mary sat in the opposite chair and toyed nervously with her cornflowered braids.

"What's on your mind, dear?" asked Mrs. Peacock. Mrs. Peacock understands that when Mary toys with her braids she has something on her mind.

"I think....Miss Agassiz is losing interest in me" stammered Mary, holding back tears.

"Miss Agassiz? What makes you think that, dear?"

"Last week I turned in my homework with mistakes, and instead of having me stay after school for 'correction', she just handed it back with a bad grade. I'm so worried..." Mary burst into tears.

Mrs. Peacock hugged Mary. "There, there, my child", she cooed. "This sort of thing happens in love. But if you want my advice, I think the problem is that you are too easy."

"Too easy?"

"Yes. People like 'Mistress Renee' like resistance. If you give in too easily, they get bored and want to move on. If you want my advice, find someone to help you with your homework for awhile, so you can show Miss Agassiz you don't need her 'special help'. She'll be at your doorstep in no time."

"Oh, Mrs. Peacock, you're so wonderful!" cried Mary, hugging her effusively. Mary ran home just in time to meet her family on the front porch as they set off for services at the Church of Nothing.

Later that morning, Roderick met Megan Cupcake at the doorstep of Mr. Smiley's new cottage. Roderick needed to check the house as he does every Sunday, and Megan wanted to see the place. She followed him to the basement as he checked the furnace, and again as he prowled each room of the house.

In the master bedroom of Mr. Smiley's cottage, there is a large four-poster bed, of Victorian design. Roderick checked the windows. As he turned to leave the room, Megan blocked his egress playfully. "We could play 'house' here, you know..." she murmured suggestively.

While they did not, in fact, play "house" that afternoon, Roderick found the idea to be most interesting.

Around four in the afternoon, Roderick sat in the living room of the Smith house -- Megan had some errands to do, so they split up after lunch. Roderick sat in one of the nice comfortable chairs and read a book about single premium deferred annuities. He borrowed the book from his Dad, and it was a real page-turner.

The doorbell rang; Roderick answered it. Mary Bloom stood on the porch in her long winter coat. Roderick invited her in, and took her coat. Mary had exchanged her white "virgin" dress for her standard "schoolgirl" outfit -- white blouse, plaid kilt, knee socks and penny loafers, which were slightly soggy due to the many slush puddles. "What a nice girl", thought Roderick. "And so nicely dressed..." although her attire did seem a bit odd for a Sunday afternoon.

"Um, Roderick....I was wondering of you could help me with my Science homework...?"