Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys]

  ***

  "This is the finest Reuben I've had in ages," Stinky managed to emit between mouthfuls of Mrs. Potsdam's toasty creation. Several strands of sauerkraut dangled from his chin, bearing solid witness to his testimony. "It's all there and more!"

  "I'm happy for your satisfaction." I could not help but smile at the sight of my old friend thoroughly enjoying his lunch whilst I but dabbled at mine. It was half after twelve and there was still no report of my package arriving. "Would you care for some of mine?"

  Stinky's head teetered up and down in agreeable fashion, much to the protests from Conestoga. "Stinky, you've had two already. Please be mindful! We're out in public."

  "Yes, dear." His response came amid a spray of bread crumbs, his stubby arm reaching across the white linen to help himself to my uneaten portion.

  "There you go," I said, pushing myself away from the table. "While everyone enjoys finishing this fine collation, I shall hasten the proceedings by addressing the gathered." As I made my way to the dais placed in the corner of the dining room, a knowing exchange of glances with Smudgely who stood rigid in the corner awaiting tea service, indicated the package was yet in transit.

  "Baron!" Gertie Idleweed, a founding member of our group, called out. "You must permit me the introduction as promised!"

  "Indeed, Gertie. The proceedings would be remiss otherwise."

  The blue-haired senior citizen, a nimble and brisk octogenarian of some years, sprinted from her seat in the middle of the room to the modest podium. "I've been working on this for weeks, don't you know," she said, pushing past me to tap the microphone head. "Agnes helped me polish it up at the fish supper last Saturday."

  "I'm sorry I missed that."

  "Here goes," Gertie continued, oblivious to my apology. "My fellow VIOLENCE associates. I would like to extend our collective gratitude to our host, Baron von dek Horn and his staff, for their hospitality in once more opening Tumultuous Manor to our group. Where would we be without him?"

  I humbly and silently acknowledged the whistling and tweeting which filled the room.

  "And now, a poem. A poem about us and the challenges we face. Nearsighted and farsighted, our sight is but blighted. The birds chirp from far, the birds chirp from near. We cannot see them, but we know what we hear. A man opens his home, puts his hand to his ear, he opens his mouth and says, 'Hey, I care!' Baron von dek Horn, chairman of Visually Impaired Ornithologists Lacking Economically Needed Corrective Eyewear."

  Despite the horribly measured meter and anarchic structure, Gertie's heartfelt words drew another round of assorted birdcalls from the numerous attendees.

  "Please, please, my good friends, one and all," I waved with one hand as Gertie pulled me to the stand. "Thank you, Gertie. I am glad to hear so many familiar birdsongs with us today. It is nice to be home where, at my insistence, brevity reigns. I think it's safe to say VIOLENCE has touched us all, having a major impact on the quality of our lives. The pleasure of bringing VIOLENCE upon the less fortunate is a worthy activity, requiring every ounce of our collective effort. Why, our current 'Binos for One, Binos for Many' campaign has created a staggering response, one unprecedented in the history of bird watching. While you walk the grounds of Tumultuous Manor today, seeking out the ubiquitous eastern wood pewee or perhaps cooing to a rare blue gray gnatcatcher, please take a moment to remember the joy you share with those possessing inferior ocular attributes. Again, as I look at the faces seated around these tables, there are so many of you to thank for our success. Agnes, the Goofy Whites, Stinky and Conestoga, Froggy, Gertie, Dr. Hahmennum, Reverend Parsseau, Dawn the Fed Ex girl --"

  My choking was involuntary and, as with my earlier remarks to Mia in the upstairs study, a distinct moment of personal humiliation. I gagged several times while circling on the riser, futilely tugging at my ascot.

  "By gore, he's imitating a Rumpless Araucana about to lay an egg!"

  "Come now, that would be a New Hampshire Red all the way. Baron wouldn't fool around with his indigenous chicken dancing."

  I was struggling for words when the firm hand of Smudgely landed upon me, guiding me along the perimeter of the room to the sanctity of Mrs. Potsdam's scullery. "That was sheer brilliance, sir."

  "Neeyug".

  "Far be it from me to correct our invited guests, sir," Smudgely said, handing me a frosted glass of spring water fresh from the tap, "but I recognized your performance to be that of a Belgian D'Anver. Jolly well executed too, if I may say so. Only a smattering of feathers required to make it authentic."

  "Thank you, Smudgely." I slurped another shot of fluid to dull my exasperation before launching my main line of inquiry. "Now please tell, how is it Dawn the Fed Ex girl is in attendance at our luncheon without my knowledge?"

  "I conveyed that to you before lunch with my look, sir. And again when you rose to make your remarks."

  "Look? You appeared calm and collected. In fact, simply your stoic self. Look?"

  "Yes, sir. I was indicating to you Dawn the Fed Ex girl had arrived on premises."

  "She was here, sir," Mrs. Potsdam added, entering from the kitchen proper carrying an enormous ladle in each hand which, in conjunction with her ample midsection, suggested she was rehearsing to parade as a bass drum player in a marching band. "She arrived at eleven sharp. We shared a good visit here in the kitchen. I just baked some fresh scones, cinnamon flavor this time, and the little sweetheart was wild about them!"

  "She's been here for almost two hours?"

  "She had previously expressed her interest in VIOLENCE, sir, and graciously accepted the luncheon invitation this week past."

  "I'm cheered by that bit of news, Smudgely, certainly I am. But what of the package she was to deliver?"

  "That thing?" Mrs. Potsdam waved the ladles in the air as she would a pair of lit sparklers. "I made the sweet lass wash her hands thoroughly after handling that bit of filth."

  "The cardboard envelope, originating in Mexico, has been placed in the Cromwell, sir, as instructed."

  "Thankfully. I was a bit miffed when I spotted Dawn the Fed Ex girl. Overcome, actually, with surprise I hadn't been told she was here."

  "Sir, if I might. You were engrossed in conversation with Mr. Kornblatt concerning your Hodaka motorbike. I made the decision not to interrupt you, but instead to deal with the envelope as directed by both you and Mrs. Potsdam. In addition, I rang Mr. Goofy Eddy White and suggested he bring a utility trailer with him today so he could remove the Hodaka to his workshop. It will soon be in top running shape, sir."

  "Mrs. Potsdam. Smudgely. How could I ever function normally without you two?"

  "Oh, my," Mrs. Potsdam nervously giggled while brushing her face with the back of her hand, leaving a faint trail of flour on her rosy cheek.

  "Sir, it is my natural vocation to be always of assistance to you."

  "Let it be said you are rousing success. Now, Smudgely, please follow me to the Cromwell for an additional set of directives."

  I made every attempt to remain inconspicuous as we crept along the dining room wall, hoping the Reverend Parsseau's dissertation on the breeding habits of the American Woodcock might hold the attention of the audience. Unfortunately, any stealth I wished to retain evaporated upon my tripping over the brass hearth cricket -- a traditional symbol of good luck -- and sending the fireplace tools scattering across the stone tiles. The room, upon spying me, immediately burst into a cacophony of clucking as I lifted myself off the floor and hastened my escape to the upper confines of the Manor.

  "That was some bit of misfortune, sir."

  "Wasn't it?" The day was turning into one endless coldwater stream of discomfiture for me. "At least the Cromwell is cooperating." I tumbled the last number into the place and threw the stainless steel handle into the open position, pulling mightily on the six-inch thick door so it eased open on the single rod hinge. There -- amid collected treasures, heirlooms, keepsakes, ephemera, manuscripts, diaries, letters and photos -- lay the envelope I sealed
thousands of miles away the very day before. "Smudgely. Top left drawer of my desk. There is a small blue plastic device."

  "Dark blue, sir?"

  "Yes. A CerebStix, so that you know." I requested from Mia to buy up the lot at Shadrack's during her morning trip. Slitting open the envelope, I put the Bridgework CerebStix and the note taken from Angel's cabin in my pocket before accepting the Shadrack CerebStix from Smudgely. "Should there be a predicament where the demand is made upon us for a missing CerebStix flash drive, we will provide the requestors with this CerebStix. Understood?"

  "Sir. Would this be a red herring, sir?"

  "A lame duck Trojan horse of a red herring, yes."

  "Understood, sir."

  "Such a request may be made under dire circumstances."

  "Life is full of trying situations, sir. I'm certain we can successfully accommodate any ultimatums as presented."

  I sealed the Cromwell and dutifully covered its coal black door with the Etruscan tapestry depicting dancers in the Tomb of the Bacchants. "I'm going to visit the Hodaka in the garage, Smudgely, before it departs. Afterwards, I need to place a call to Mr. Sondheim from the study. Please attend to the guests and see I'm not interrupted."

  "Sir."

  The cool, dank air of the garage was a welcomed relief under the early afternoon sun. The mixture of musty smells -- aged pine wood, used engine oil, damp soil and concrete -- provided a soothing return to years gone by. Many boyhood days were spent here with my father and grandfather in the company of familiar figures: The Whippet, Duesy and Packard in their respective bays, lined up in front of the jumbled workbench running the entire length of the large outbuilding. I let slide the old wooden door behind me, half-expecting to see the ghosts of my ancestors appear in their work coveralls, ripsaws or pruning shears in hand, talking about which thicket of bushes or rows of trees were ripe for grooming. Beneath the workbench sat a collection of chainsaws and line trimmers, silently waiting for the moment they would be summoned forth to maintain the semblance of the grounds enjoyed by so many through the decades. I followed the beams of sunlight entering through the rows of windows, greenish-hued and cobwebbed, along the length of the back wall past the vehicles and bays of lawn tractors and trailers. In the very last port, next to a row of stepladders and half-folded drop cloths, sat the dust-covered Hodaka resting faithfully on its kickstand.

  Suppressing a wave of sentiment and the urge to give its motor a try for old time sake, I loosened the throttle grip exposing the open end of the metal handlebar. The Bridgework CerebStix slid perfectly into the cavity. Without tarrying a needless moment, I replace the rubber grip snuggly into its original position, clapped the grime from my hands and stood back for one last look. "See you soon, my metallic chum."