Roderick, sitting next to Megan in the third pew on the right, recognizes one of the altos. She occupies the room next to his in South Quad. "Do you know her?" he inquires of Megan.
"It's Melanie Fishbreath. She's PTBL."
"PTBL?"
"Presumed To Be Lesbian." At Old Ivy, altos are PTBL and tenors are PTBG.
Services over, Roderick, Molly and Megan adjourn to the Old Ivy Inn for brunch. Roderick invites Melanie to join them. They sit at a smallish table to the right of the fireplace. Roderick orders scrapple, applesauce and toast; Molly orders scrambled eggs and bacon; Megan orders fried eggs and scrapple; Melanie orders granola.
"I'm really not a lesbian, you know," says Melanie, pouring milk on her granola. As if anyone asked. "I just like to sing Alto."
Roderick, Molly and Megan exchange knowing looks.
"Personally," says Roderick, reaching for the butter, "I consider toast to be simply a platform for butter."
Dorabella has a new book for reading hour. As the children of Beauneville gather in a circle on the floor, Dorabella squeezes her ample bottom into the Reading Chair, and holds the book aloft for all to see. "The Blue Trolley," she announces.
"Ooooooooooh," say the gathered children of Beauneville.
Dorabella begins to read:
Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Fred, who lived in a little Cape Cod house on Duck Pond Road with his Mommy, his Daddy, his pet dog Spot, his pet cat Mr. Wuffles, his pet goldfish named Not A Bunny and his pet tarantula named Zeppelin.She holds up the book so everyone can see the picture of Fred, Mommy, Daddy, Spot, Mr. Wuffles, Not A Bunny and Zeppelin in front of a little Cape Cod house.
She continues:
One day, Fred was gathering squashberries with Johnny, another little boy who lived across the street. As Fred reached for a squashberry lodged in the Arctostaphylos Uva-Ursi -- which Fred's Dad refers to as 'that green plant out front that spreads everywhere' -- he saw a caterpillar crawling amongst the leaves.Dorabella holds up the book to show a picture of Mr. Pflinger's car before the accident.
"Look!" he said, pointing. "A caterpillar!"
"I'm going to stomp on him!" said Johnnny, lifting his leg.
At that moment, Johnny's mother called from across the street. "Johnny Winklemeyer, you come home right now and eat your lunch!"
Johnny paused, his foot in mid-air, then spun and ran across the street where he was struck and killed by a passing BMW Isetta 300 driven by Mr. Hugo Pflinger, local collector of Isettas. Mr. Pflinger was rather miffed, as he had just waxed and detailed the car and due to damage to the front end was stuck waiting inside until the Fire Department arrived.
"Ooooooooooh," say the gathered children of Beauneville.
Dorabella continues:
While Fred pondered the concept of karma, his Dad beckoned to him. "Come, Fred," said Dad. "We're going for a ride on the Blue Trolley."Dorabella pauses again to hold up a picture of the trolley.
Fred clambered aboard his father's 1957 Packard Clipper, the post-merger model that was really a Studebaker President with Packard badging. "Vroom, vroom," said the Packard, as they accelerated down Duck Pond Road.
Shortly, they arrived at the trolley station. "Look!" said Dad, pointing. "The Blue Trolley is waiting for us." Sure enough, a trolley stood patiently at the station and, appropriately enough, the trolley was blue.
"Good morning, Mr. Blue Trolley," said Fred.Dorabella puts the book down. "To be continued!" she says.
"Clang, clang!" said the Blue Trolley.
Fred and his Dad clambered aboard and took their seats.
"Clang, clang!" said the Blue Trolley again, as they began to move.
"Where are we going, Mr. Blue Trolley?" asked Fred.
"Clang, clang! Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clickety-clack!" replied the Blue Trolley.
"Not a very good conversationalist, is he?" whispered Fred to his Dad.
Soon, they arrived at another station and debarked to the platform. Fred's Dad pointed across the street. "Look, an ice cream store! Let's go get some ice cream."
Fred thought this was a pretty good idea. As they crossed the street, he held onto his Dad's finger, tightly. All the more so having observed the encounter between little Johnny and the business end of a BMW Isetta 300, if a BMW Isetta 300 can be said to have a business end.
"Awwwwwww," say the gathered children of Beauneville.
Meanwhile, in Smileyville, Mr. Smiley has just received a package, which he opens with relish. It's a model Isetta, complete with bubble camper. Proudly, he removes it from the packaging and places it on the dining room table.
Mr. Smiley ponders the car and camper and dreams of driving down the highway, Clotilde by his side, little Alexander in the back seat, an ample quantity of pickles and cheese in the camper. The idea makes him smile.
