Chapter 16: Toast

While the Gibraltar Triumph still warms the cockleshells of the heart, a certain Birdie Brewster doesn’t rest his laurels when it comes to work. My personal Motto is Buckle Down, Cockleshells Be Damned.

And, quite frankly, I was relieved to re-straddle the career grinding wheel again. At home, dinner table voiciferations were revolving around wedding matters far too much for one’s comfort, chatter-wise.

While I’ve been waiting for the Ms. Sloane Miracle, my mother, my auntie, Wandy, Trish, Megan ... they have a sort of done-deal tone as they speak of gift registration, church calendars, photographers, and the like.

Last night, I placed my fish fork carefully down on the plate and said, rather forceful in fact, “For the record, I am not engaged to be married. Period. End of sentence.”

My mother turned to Megan, “I’m hearing good things about Rossetti Florists.”

What I should do, and do it rather firmly and rather soonly, is put my foot down re: The McGovern. But when she gives me that look, or that wink, or that whisper ... well, there I go, following her downstairs to our Lair. To our bed, to our couch, sometimes to our floor.

No one has ever effected me quite like Trish. I suspect she took advantage of her early maturational nature, which, combined with my innocencial nature, set the table for some sort of Mao Mao spell of some sort.

She can get me there the fastest, keep me there the longest, bring me back the quickest, like no one I’ve ever known.

Of course, these days, she shares with Ms. Sloane — without the slightest uncertitude — the most personal details of our personal trysts. And, I suspect, but don’t know for sure, with my sainted mother, Auntie Pru, Wandy, her own mother, and the Kansas City Royals.

I made a subtle, but bang-on complaint to Ms. Sloane.

“Don’t whinge, Birdie. Trish and I are pals. You’re an open book. No secrets.”

“But ... but ... but...”

The McGovern is one of those girls — you know the type — always going on about self improvement. Studying, exercise, yoga, like that. And that’s how she got Froggy and me into walking — five miles, minimum, every day.

Actually, once I got used to it, taking Hank’s Mare all over the map, I got to kind of enjoying it. Of course, knowing there would be Trish Pleasures waiting at the end of the journey probably contributed to the faster pace. Froggy and I have been known to break into a brisk trot when in sight of our Lair.

At work, Ms. Sloane is always talking about establishing a narrative. “Birdy, don’t just blurt out, ‘Here’s the new logo for Harvey Mattresses.’ Sketch in some background, explain the research, the thought process.”

I nodded, “Narrative.”

At home, to head off those wedding chimes, I sat my sainted mother down to explain the facts of life in terms she could understand. I made a circle with both hands — right and left — “Imagine my life is a full dinner plate.”

“All right.”

“Family — you and Auntie Pru and Wandy ... that’s the ribeye steak.”

“Hmm.”

“And friends — The McGovern and Froggy — they’re ... um ... hash browns! Nice and crispy and salty...”

“Birdie...”

I held up a palm; don’t interrupt the narrative. “But that wedding — that’s Brussel sprouts. If you know what I mean and I think you do.”

“Clean your plate, Birdie.”

One change — so subtle that a less seasoned observer might have missed it — was that the Three Mouseketeers were now the Two Mouseketeers. Trish having banned Froggy from the premises, “Just until after the wedding, darling boy.”

That sort of shuffled things around, numerical-wise.

It may be true what someone said about something or other. “You never know what you’re missing until you’re missing it.” Or words to that affect.

In essence, Megan McGovern had replaced Froggy. Not, of course, in our basement Lair. But at the dinner table. Ms. Sloane was also now a frequent repaster at the Brewster Groaning Board.

In fact, Auntie Pru made a formal announcement at work, “When Ms. Sloane completes her senior year, she’ll be coming back to BB as a junior partner.”

Privately Auntie Pru told me, “You’ll be assisting Ms. Sloane, Birdie. She especially asked for you.”

Pride — no, it’s modesty that prevents me from commenting any further on my own desirability, corporation-wise. I’ll just leave it that a certain junior Partner asked for me, especially.

The Ms. Sloane partnership news was well received by the employees of said enterprise; Ms. Sloane had a charm about her, a way of helping out without being impervious about it. One example being the minor assist she provided for my famed Gibraltar Presentation.

(Not that I really needed the falicitational. After all, I had won the Top Speller Prize while flying solo.)