Beatrice Marlowe is a middle-aged, gentle lady who lives alone in a small, gray house built by her grandfather, or possibly even by his grandfather, across the road from the school. Actually, to be precise, she does not exactly live alone, for Beatrice shares her cramped quarters with two geese, an exotic floppy-eared rabbit, a duck, four parrots, three cats, two very small dogs and one very big dog, and, from time to time, one or more wayward, lost, or discarded children from this or some other nearby town.
Every living thing in Cranberry County refers to Beatrice Marlowe as “the schoolteacher,” just as the two downy woodpeckers had done, and in fact in conversations about her the title almost always immediately accompanies her name as if it were a part of it, thusly, “Beatrice Marlowe the schoolteacher,” even though, as far as anyone hereabouts knows she has never actually taught school anywhere. Beatrice Marlowe may have earned “the schoolteacher” label from the fact that she seems to know something about virtually everything, and what she does not know, she can uncover from among the myriad stacks of books and magazines, new and old, on very nearly any subject, that are scattered about every room of the house, all or any of which she is happy to share with whoever shows the least interest, but for her part she seems to collect simply for their own sake. “Dance music for the cerebral neurons,” she was once overheard to describe the abundant knowledge contained within the walls of her domain.
Peter and Anna visit Beatrice often. They enjoy being with her, and she seems to like their company. And she makes the best hermit cookies (sweet and crunchy wheat bars filled with nuts and raisins) in Cranberry County, possibly the world.
Besides all of that, Beatrice Marlowe the schoolteacher is a master of penmanship.
“The birds are right,” Tancredi said, agreeing with Cantachiaro and Billy and Billie. “Beatrice Marlowe the schoolteacher is the one to help us. Her handwriting is neat, controlled, and imaginative, both in ordinary writing and for decorative or elaborate calligraphy. She can design the form for us, and write in Anna’s name.”
“The question is,” Selene wondered aloud, “will she?”
“Yes,” Tancredi replied, with confidence, “she will.”
“What makes you so sure?” Pilikia asked.
“She likes me,” the dog replied.
Tancredi explained how, one day during the first winter after he came to the Wensleydales, he wandered over to Beatrice Marlowe’s place, and there met Layla, Beatrice’s very big dog, playing in the snow in the front yard. “Layla and I hit it off right away,” he said, “and, as they will sometimes, one thing led to another, until, before we knew it, we had run off.”
“I’ll say,” Pilikia replied. “Anna was so worried she didn’t stop crying for two days.”
“Peter wrote a eulogy,” Selene added. “Of course, the rest of us knew you were off chasing deer, and that you’d both be brought back in warden’s chains.”
“Well, we weren’t chasing deer,” Tancredi said, a little defensively. “Just because some dogs do doesn’t mean all dogs do.”
“What were you doing, anyway?” Pilikia asked.
“Dog stuff,” Tancredi answered, cryptically. “You wouldn’t understand. Anyway, when Layla and I got back to her place a few days later, it happened to be about four in the morning, and Beatrice Marlowe the schoolteacher was standing at the door in her bathrobe, as if she had been expecting us at that very moment. First, she confirmed that we were both okay, and then she said, ‘If you ever do that again, I’ll cut off your feet.’”
“OUCH!” Cantachiaro yelped.
“Do you think she meant it?” Pilikia asked.
“No, I don’t,” Tancredi replied, “and neither does Layla, although neither of us would want to test it. Anyway, Beatrice Marlowe the schoolteacher has never mentioned the incident again, except that ever since she has referred to me as her dog-in-law, and she treats me as if I were one of her very own. That’s why I think I can convince her to help us.”
And Tancredi was right, he was able to convince Beatrice Marlowe the schoolteacher to help them, but not before she considered the matter herself in her own way.
“Not so fast, Tancredi,” she lectured the dog, as he presented her with the plot. “The action you and the others propose taking in this conspiracy may, however minimally, alter the course of history, and one should proceed along that path with only the greatest humility of intention and the highest respect for propriety.”
Having said that, Beatrice Marlowe the schoolteacher settled herself squarely down upon a small, round pillow, mauve in color, set in the middle of a rug in the middle of her living room floor. In a moment, there issued from her a command, loudly and forcefully. “Silence in the house!” it demanded. Instantly, all of the barking, chirping, chattering, meowing, whistling, and whining inhabitants of the place obeyed. Then, without further remark or gesture, she dropped into absolute silence herself, in which state she remained for some long time.
“Then what happened?” Pilikia asked, in fascination, after Tancredi returned home to report on his success.
“Well, she just sat there, for I don’t know how long, until all of a sudden, she laughed,” Tancredi replied.
“She laughed?” repeated Selene, who very rarely laughed. “Out loud?”
“Yes,” Tancredi said. “Then, she opened her eyes, and said she would do what I had asked. And she did.”
Happily, the animals’ confidence in Beatrice Marlowe the schoolteacher was well placed. The document she produced by her own hand looked as if it had been run off a printer’s press, and her written insertion of Anna’s name was just right, neat but not too neat.
“It’s perfect,” Selene observed, speaking for all of them.
The day of the Harper sidewalk art show dawned hot, unusually hot, particularly for Maine, and it didn’t change one bit from that moment until sunset except to get hotter, lots hotter. Ordinarily, a hot day in Maine differs from a cold day only in that, if you have to go out during one of the former, you may not need to wear a coat of any kind, but still you would be well advised to carry one along, as insurance, unless you expect to be out after sunset, in which case you would definitely want to have a coat or a parka ready at hand.
But this day was different. This was a day in which any clothing, even the thought of clothing, was too much. It was the kind of hot, muggy day the Wensleydales associate with the middle of August in Washington, DC or New York City. The atmosphere hazy, oppressive, heavy, and humid, the air ugly and nearly unbreathable.
“Do you want to cancel?” Anna asked Peter, at seven in the morning, as they got set to pack her paintings into the Volvo sedan, and found themselves already perspiring.
“How bad can it get, Anna?” Peter replied.
“When it comes to Maine and the weather,” she countered, quite rightly, “anything’s possible.”
Nonetheless, they chose to carry on as planned, although they decided they would not take any of the animals.
“Not take any of us!” exclaimed Tancredi, in dismay, when he learned of the intention to leave him behind. “But I’ve got to be there. I mean, I want to be there.”
“You promised,” Pilikia whined, standing beside the dog in forcing the issue, for she knew that the success of the plot depended upon their being in Harper.
Peter and Anna were surprised by this enthusiasm for the trip, particularly when Selene joined in the chorus. Ordinarily, she could not have cared less about it, one way or another, but this time she was perhaps the most vocal in insisting that the other two be allowed to make the trip. Finally, worn out by the animals’ cajolery, Peter and Anna reconsidered, but only after Tancredi and Pilikia assured them that they would bear the heat without complaint, however gruesome it might get.
“You can count on us,” the dog and the cat promised, as one voice.
Harper, Maine, is the administrative seat of Cranberry County. It is a clean, comfortable, friendly, and relatively prosperous city of about twenty thousand human inhabitants, and, curiously, almost as many churches. “They must have been up to no good in these parts back in the old days,” Peter and Anna opined, the first time they observed the numerous steeples on the city’s skyline, “and subject to terrible pangs of conscience.”
The art show, held every August, and attended by several hundred artists from all over New England, takes place along the sidewalks of the principal streets of the downtown area, which surrounds a small park dominated by a concrete, working fountain. Each artist is provided with ten feet of sidewalk space on which to set up racks or stands for the display of his or her paintings. That year, Anna’s assigned space was directly opposite the park, with its green lawn and, in the fountain, wet water.
“Both of those should help offset the heat,” Anna observed, as she and Peter unloaded their car, and put together her display.
“And help to attract the public to your stuff,” Peter concurred. “On a hot day, folks are naturally drawn to a park, especially if there’s running water. All we’ve got to do is snare them as they walk by.”
“And,” Tancredi whispered to Pilikia, as the two of them prepared for their own conspiratorial day in the city, “it puts you and me right where we want to be. You see that tent?” he said, pointing across the street to a large, blue canvas canopy set up in the grassy area directly across from Anna’s location. “That’s where they conduct the competition. Each of the participating artists selects a favorite painting, and takes it there. Then, the side flaps are lowered so outsiders can’t see what’s going on inside, and the judging takes place.”
“If they dropped the flaps last year,” Pilikia asked, “how come you know in such detail what went on in there?”
Tancredi looked at her with an expression of surprise. “You think those silly flaps could keep me out,” he said, showing some pride at his resourcefulness. “Fact is, my interest wasn’t aroused until they dropped the flaps. It was then I wanted to know what they were trying to hide!”
“A good thing, too, as it happens,” Pilikia concluded.
Once Peter and Anna had her display in place, Peter moved the car to the artists parking area, and then, when he returned, he offered to take Anna’s entry over to the competition tent.
“That is,” he said, “unless you’d rather.”
“No way,” Anna replied, as she settled into one of the folding chairs she and Peter bring along with them to these kinds of shows. “I’ll stay here, and mind the store.”
And it was not long before the first customers happened along -- a young, professional looking couple, probably in their early thirties, like the Wensleydales, with sweat showing through their shirts and on their faces, like everyone else in Harper that day.
“Hot enough for you?” the man asked Anna, as he and his companion admired her work.
This is a question, varying only to accommodate the prevailing weather conditions, and then only slightly –so that, for example, in winter it might be “Cold enough for you?” or in spring “Wet enough for you?” -– that Maine state law requires be asked by every Maine resident of every other Maine resident at least four times a year (once each season), although bonus points can be earned for every additional so-called free query, if overheard by a witness. There is no proper answer to the question, primarily, of course, because the question itself does not really mean anything, so, as the pertinent state law does not address the issue of responses, most people reply simply with a grunt.
“Ungh,” Anna grunted.
“You can say that again,” the woman agreed.
“Are you the artist?” the man asked. Anna nodded. He added, “You do beautiful work.” And it was apparent he meant it.
“Particularly this one,” his companion observed, indicating a large cloudscape that looked like it might have been inspired at thirty thousand feet. “I’d love to have this over the couch in our living room.”
“Well, it’s for sale,” Anna offered, a little lamely, wishing Peter would get back, and take over, for this is the part she hates.
“I’m glad to hear that,” the woman said, good-naturedly. “Is this what you’re charging?” she asked, indicating a small price tag affixed to one corner of the frame.
Of course it’s what I’m charging, Anna murmured to herself silently, what would you expect to find on a price tag, the article’s atomic weight? Then, she said, politely, “Yes, it is.” And now, Anna thought, we’re about to embark on the how-much-will-you-take-for-it routine, as if doctors, or lawyers, or shoe salesmen, or gas station attendants, or very nearly anyone else would put up with that question in their own business, but they all expect artists to do so as a matter of course.
“I think we should take it,” the woman said to her friend. “What do you think, dear?”
“I agree,” the man said, “and the price seems right to me.”
Anna was flabbergasted. And embarrassed. In fact, she felt like a jerk. She was about to apologize to this nice couple for her rudeness when she remembered, with relief, that she had put none of it into spoken words. I will never judge another customer again, she promised herself, knowing full well she almost certainly would.
“Anna Wensleydale, is it?” the woman asked, reading the name off the painting as she prepared to write a check in payment.
“Yes,” Anna said, “that’s right.”
“Wensleydale,” the man repeated. “That’s a British name?”
“Actually, no,” Anna replied. “Believe it or not, it’s Italian.”
“Italian?” the man repeated, clearly confused. “Wensleydale sure doesn’t sound Italian.”
“It’s kind of a long story,” Anna said, hoping not to have to retell it.
“If you don’t mind,” the woman asked, “we’d like to hear it, especially now that we’ll be having a Wensleydale hanging in our home.”
“Very well,” Anna agreed. “I’ll tell you the short version. Many years ago, an American immigration officer gave the name to my husband’s father when he arrived in this country as a young boy from his native Italy. The official spoke no Italian, and was unable to pronounce, much less spell, the boy’s real name, so he changed it.”
“To Wensleydale,” the man said. Anna nodded.
“Why Wensleydale?” the woman asked.
“It seems the man had just finished his lunch,” Anna explained, “which consisted of a cheese sandwich. Apparently, it was Wensleydale cheese. So, the youngster who departed Umbria as Cristoforo Santaclaracesco entered the United States as Christopher Wensleydale.”
“Only in America,” the man observed. “Lucky for you, I suppose, that the fellow’s lunch wasn’t corned beef on rye.”
“Or a bowl of jambalaya!” his companion added.
“I know,” Anna concurred, in good humor. “Believe me, my husband and I have considered the possibilities.”
When Peter returned to their space, and Anna told him of the easy, quick sale, he was delighted.
“I knew it!” he insisted. “Trust me, this is going to be your day.”
And Anna was inclined to believe him. But as the hours went by, and the temperature got hotter, the crowds got thinner, until by midday there were very few people left on the streets except for a few particularly hardy, or hungry, artists, who were determined to tough it out, the art show officials who had no choice but to stay, and a handful of pedestrians who apparently did not know enough to get out from under the scorching sun.
“This show is over, Peter,” Anna finally decreed, as the temperature on the digital sign that displayed alternately as a clock and a thermometer above the front door of a bank down the street read 105F. “I say, we go home.”
Peter looked at his watch. “It’s almost time for the judges to do their thing,” he said. “Let’s wait for that, and then we’ll go.”
No sooner had Peter spoken than the show’s officials dropped the flaps on the tent across the street.
“There, you see, Anna,” Peter said, “the competition’s about to get underway. Why don’t you bring the car around. We’ll pack it up, and by then, the judges will be done. Then, you can pick up your trophy, and we’ll be gone.”
“Just like that, pick up my trophy,” Anna repeated, without conviction.
“Just like that,” Peter assured her.
Anna made a face at him, and walked off to get the car, while Peter set about to dismantle their display.
Even as Peter noticed the tent flaps dropping, so did Tancredi. The dog had spent most of the morning stretched out on the sidewalk in the shifting shade produced by one of Anna’s stands. Still, he could barely breathe in the heat, much less move. But he knew that the time for action had come. Reluctantly, and with great difficulty, he got himself up onto his feet and legs.
Away from the shade, the pavement was hot, very hot, underfoot.
Well, the dog thought to himself, at least that will keep me in motion. Otherwise, I’d probably drop in my tracks from my own weight.
Painfully, Tancredi walked over to Pilikia, who was lying under Anna’s chair, with her head in a bowl of water. She looked to be just a centimeter or so this side of death. The human expression ‘like something the cat dragged in’ came to the dog’s mind, and he would have laughed had it not been such an effort in the relentless heat.
“Pilikia,” Tancredi said, shaking her. The cat opened one eye, just a little. “Let’s go,” the dog announced, “it’s time.”
Selene’s plan had been that Tancredi and Pilikia would enter the tent together, the cat hidden beneath the dog, among his legs.
“Like in our game ‘Ulysses,’ you mean,” Pilikia had said to Selene when she suggested the tactic.
“Ulysses? You mean to say that ridiculous walking around on top of each other that you two do actually has a name?” Selene asked.
“Certainly, it does,” Tancredi had replied. “Pilikia and I took the name from Homer’s account of how Ulysses and his human friends escaped the Cyclops by hiding beneath the giant’s sheep.”
To which Selene had responded, in unbelief, “You two have read Homer? No, don’t tell me –in the original Greek, I suppose!”
Anyway, the plan was that, once the dog and cat were inside the tent, Tancredi was to create a distraction –something he was very good at, and frankly was looking forward to –while Pilikia switched the sheets of paper.
To assure that they could gain access into the tent, the animals had crafted a cardboard badge with the word ‘STAFF’ written on it in red crayon, which the dog was to wear on his collar. Unfortunately, Pilikia had used for reference material one of Anna’s medical books, and so they had spelled the word ’staph’ instead of ‘staff,’ but otherwise they had done a remarkably good job, and it looked very official. (For those readers lucky enough never to have encountered staff spelled staph, it is the nickname of a common, but especially nasty bacteria whose full name is staphylococcus.)
“You sure that will work?” Pilikia had asked Selene, whose idea the badge had been.
“If human beings believe you are a member of the staff, any staff,” Selene assured her, “they’ll let you go anywhere.”
As Tancredi continued in his efforts to shake Pilikia into action, the cat for her part responded by trying to raise her head from the bowl of water, but she could not find the strength to do it. She moved her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Even the one partly opened eye eventually closed of its own accord.
I guess I’ve died, Pilikia said to herself. A dead cat’s no good to Tancredi, she thought, so why should I bother even to listen. With that, she ceased paying any further attention to the dog’s entreaties.
Finally, Tancredi gave up on her, realizing he would have to carry out the mission alone. His feet burning from the pavement below, he crossed the street, and walked into the park. It was all he could do to keep himself from collapsing, never mind moving forward. His lower jaw hung open, his tongue very nearly dragged along the ground. His huge lungs pumped like bellows trying to cool his parched body.
There’s no way I’m going to be able to go through with this, he thought.
As Tancredi neared the tent entrance, a young man leaning against a maple tree shouted out to him. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”
The dog looked over. The fellow was wearing a uniform, and was clearly an official of some kind, perhaps even a police officer.
I’m in trouble now, Tancredi thought to himself.
He was about to turn tail, but then, from somewhere inside of him, he heard Selene’s voice reminding him of his badge. Tancredi looked the man squarely in the face, gestured to the cardboard device attached to his collar, and, with all the authority he could muster, growled, “Staph.”
“Oh,” the young man said, quickly straightening himself up from his slouched position against the tree, “sorry, sir.”
Tancredi crawled under one of the flaps, and into the tent. As he stood up, he nearly passed out. If it was hot outside on the street, it was like an inferno inside the canvas. Fighting to keep his eyes open and his mind functioning, he looked about the tent. Off to one side, the entries were stacked together, leaning against the canvas. The judges were all either sitting in chairs scattered about or lying on the ground. At a table, there sat a woman with a half dozen or so bits of paper in one hand and in the other a pen with which she was writing on a sheet of paper. Clearly, the balloting and tallying had been completed, and the judgment was being recorded. Tancredi maneuvered himself close to the woman, watching patiently for her to set the pen down.
There, she’s done, he thought to himself as he saw her release the writing instrument.
Now, with the document from Beatrice Marlowe the schoolteacher in his mouth, Tancredi walked stealthily toward the woman, alert for an opportunity to make the switch. Suddenly, the woman noticed him.
“Oh, say,” she said, reaching in Tancredi’s direction, “what’s the nice doggy got in his mouth?”
Instinctively, the hair on Tancredi’s back stood up, and his lips curled, revealing long, sharp fangs.
“Oh, I see,” she said, answering her own question, her voice quavering with fear, “teeth!”
With that, the woman rose from her seat, and turned her attention aside for just a moment as she moved away from the table. That was all the time Tancredi needed. In an instant, he had exchanged the sheets of paper. When the woman looked back, the dog was gone.
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