Ella Minnow Pea (9 page)

I no longer bake cookies.

In your last letter you wrote of how unhappy you are. My hours are spent in similar melancholy. I am speaking less. There have been two slip-ups. The next will surely result in my banishment. I cannot leave my Cooney, my Sabina, my Geryl, my Ursula, as well as the one whose birth name we may never again speak. (She has chosen “Bathsheba” as a substitute, but it will take some time for me to become wholly comfortable with it.)

My sweet Mittie, it is strange, so terribly strange how taxing it has become for me to speak, to write without these four illegal letters, but especially without the fourth. I cannot see how, given the loss of one letter more, I will be able to remain among those I love, for surely will I misstep. So I have chosen to stop talking, to stop writing altogether.

Perhaps we will see each other soon. That is, if you are still here. Many, as you well know, are leaving us. Perhaps I may come to your house for a visit. (Cooney loves it there near the water. He says there is no better fishing on the isle than from the village pier near your home.) We will not speak, we two, but I eagerly expect to pore with you in warm silence over our musty high school annuals, as
well as those fox-worn nature scrapbooks we spent several beautiful summers lovingly compiling.

Pray for me, sweet Mittie. Banishment for me would mean my very extermination!

Love
,

Your Agnes

NOLLOPTON

Thurby, September 28

To Agnes Prather,

We write to inform you that in your letter to one Mittie Purcy on September 27, you chose to use in the line beginning: “Banishment for me …” a letter-combination containing one of the four graphemes presently unavailable for your use per Council Statute 28-42.

Please make note that this, for you, constitutes offense number three. It will be necessary for you to report to Barkation Pier Number Seven at 9:30 a.m. on Satto-gatto, September 30 for permanent expulsion. You may bring two suitcases. We will permit, also, one hatbox.

Sincerely
,

Hamilton Ferguson

Chief Secretary High Isle Council

NOLLOPTON

Thurby, September 28

Sister Mittie,

I have news. We may continue to use the letter “O” until such time as its brothers choose to fall. (Notice that I prefer not to attribute the recurrent plunges to the Almighty Nollop!) However, the High Council asks that we cut usage of the letter by twenty-five percent. I am curious to know how they plan to police this.

Tassie is here! She arrives as I write these very lines. I have not seen my favorite niece—can you believe it?—in almost six months. Nate accompanies her. He is everything that has been written about him. Polite. Very nice looking. I will wish him luck in his meeting with Mr. Lyttle tomorrow.

A little not-so-positive news: Amos has been caught in offense number two. In last night’s poker game. It was such a foolish mistake. It might have gone without report except that Morton who owes him money chose to employ outright extortion against poor, hapless Amos. Amos’s preference was for not playing along. Imagine the effrontery: Morton attempting to ignore the offense in exchange for clearance of a rather large financial obligation. Amos thought, of course, that Morton was bluffing. Unfortunately, in this particular game, it turns out, Morton was not.

I say foolish, because any competent contemporary poker player knows that this game is rife with lexical pitfalls. Best to play in wary silence. Yet Amos wasn’t silent. In fact, Amos, thanks to chugging back four bottles of stout lager, was anything
but
silent. May I repeat an important part of this last statement? Four. Bottles. Yes, Amos has fallen totally off the wagon. Moreover, the wagon has all but run over him.

The wages for the topple were high: by concentrating a little too
much on refraining from use of the fourth letter, he was to employ by careless miscalculation the tantamountifically perilous tenth letter of the alphabet. Thank Screnity the suit in his possession was hearts or he might be on a boat Satto-gatto morning. (King, Consort, Knave. Knave! I thought all poker players were in agreement on these new royal appellations!)

Love
,

Gwenette

NOLLOPTON

Thurby, September 28

Mother,

We are here. It was a pleasant trip.

Nate is preparing to meet with Mr. Lyttle. Aunt Gwenette is herself preparing for her big meeting tomorrow night. She will invite Nate to speak to the group. Uncle Amos agrees that this is a wise move. Nate has several things of importance to tell the members of this refreshingly subversive sub-terra group. It is all very exciting. I think we are on the brink—things possibly beginning to turn in our favor. In spite of the loss of the new tile. You will hear soon. Not to worry. It is one we can easily spare: “K.” My preference: the loss of another “O,” but we can certainly live with this.

I love you, Mother. (Please Heavenly Nollop, spare “V” till the last, so that I may continue to profess my affection for my precious mamah!)

Tassie

PS. The statutes come with greater alacrity. The latest official elision takes place at
12
:
00
on the Satto-Sunshine cusp!

PPS. I am falling in love with Nate. There was a kiss—a passionate kiss—on the trip to town.

It took me completely by surprise. Kkkkkiss me again, Nate, while I may still speak of it!

NOLLOPVILLE

Fribs, September 29

My loving Tassie,

I must tell you of something nice that has taken place. I was sent an invitation by Mr. Rory Cummels who you will remember is the owner of the market in our village. To come to his house for coffee—for a pleasant neighborly chat. Rory hasn’t the trouble most here in Nollopville have in carrying on conversation without the usual stuttering stoppages that seem to penetrate every verbal exchange I engage in in these trying times. It seems a gift, his knowing instantly which letter combinations to use to bypass the verboten ones.

In turn, I gain an easiness, a level of public comfort I haven’t felt for some time. He is cheerful, but not without his own tales of sorrow. His family has left him. It is now official. He cannot follow, as he is in possession not only of a fairly profitable business (With the closing of McNulty’s Greengrocer, you’re probably aware, his will be the last grocerateria in the Village!) but other real property as well. To simply walk away from such an investment—this can only be financially catastrophic! There is also, relating to his wife, the matter of alienation of affection; his marriage is in its last hobbling months.

I believe that Rory likes me, Tassie. He seems to truly appreciate my company. I want to see more of him. I believe he seeks the same of me.

Finally! A bright ray in all the murk. I am not feeling even an ounce of concern over the loss of “K.” “K” may go. The two of us will learn to accept its loss.

You are probably at this point, examining this letter with utter stupefaction. Has your gloomy mother taken leave of all her senses?

No. I’m only allowing myself a little happiness while I am still able.

You know, as I, that time is running out.

Love
,

Mother

NOLLOPTON

Fribs, September 29

Mother,

I am very happy for you. Meeting Mr. Cummels is a positive thing; I am sure of it. I worry that there is no one looking out for you now that I am here in town. I’ll worry less knowing that the two of you may become close.

Nate has met with Council Member Lyttle. There is much to relate.

Nate began the meeting with a formal presentation. Lyttle gave it his close attention. In the presentation Nate built his (in my opinion, extremely substantial) case for the reason we, along with a number of prominent American chemists, believe the tiles to be falling. When it was over, Lyttle sat back in his chair, let his eyes close in momentary rumination, then gave his response: “It may be true. It may all very well be true.”

Then, silence. A long silence which I knew from Nate’s expression left him slightly uneasy.

Eventually, Lyttle spoke again: “I may be alone within the Council in leaving open the possibility that this theory—this careful interpretation of events as you present it to me—may very well ring true. Nevertheless, young man, it is still important for me to see more compelling proof”—Nate was obviously upset by this response, but kept his temper: “But you have the lab reports, sir. They’re right in front of you. What more is necessary?”

“You’ve given me the scientific reason for why the tiles are falling, Mr. Warren. But might not Nollop be working
through
the science? Have you ever thought of this? The science, in point of fact, actually serving his specific purposes. Therefore, that of which I must have positive proof—the single fact that I must know for certain is that the Great Nollop isn’t working
at all!
”

“But
what
proof? I can’t raise the man from the grave to ask him point blank!”

“Still—”

Nate thought. Lyttle thought. Then a smile from my Nate. I knew. I knew from the look on his face what was to come next.

“You venerate Nollop for one reason, Mr. Lyttle. One reason only.”

A tip of the noggin from Lyttle. “The sentence. That awe-striking sentence which graces our national cenotaph.”

Nate went on: “But what if it turns out that Nollop wasn’t the only man capable of cobbling such a sentence?”

“But he was.”

“But what if there have been others?”

“There have been no others, Mr. Warren. We are fairly certain of this.”

“Fairly, but not absolutely. Please, Mr. Lyttle, hear me out. What if it were possible for someone other than Nollop to come up with such a sentence, in say—hmmm, what might be an appropriate—”

Lyttle wasn’t one to let others finish
their
sentences: “If I were to give you until the last setting sun, Mr. Warren, it cannot—simply
will
not happen. Why, it’s pure, utter futility!”

“But—”

“Your point isn’t a complex one, Mr. Warren. What you are saying is that if there exists such a person with such a gift, why, we might have to place that special person right up there with Nollop. On the very same plane. Is that not the thrust of your argument?”

“If he or she is successful, well, naturally we—”

“Is this a challenge, Mr. Warren?”

“Might you welcome such a challenge, Mr. Lyttle?”

“I may not welcome it. I might, however, in proper fairness, entertain it.”

“Then I’ll make it official. It’s a challenge. Will you take it to the Council?”

“A sentence of thirty-five letters or less.” Then a crinkle—no, an elaborate furrow to Lyttle’s hoary brow. He was thinking. Intense, all-important, history-making thoughts. “No. It must be conclusive. Thirty-five letters isn’t conclusive. I suggest thirty-three, no—thirty-
two
letters.”

“Thirty-two letters?”

“That’s correct.”

“But that leaves a mere six for replication. Six!”

“That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

“How long will you give us, Mr. Lyttle? Remembering, of course, that Nollop spent all of his youth creating
his
sentence.”

“Well, I certainly won’t allow more than a few weeks. Especially with all the help you will be receiving. You’ll have until November 16—Nollop’s birth anniversary. Remember, as well, that this offer must still win approval by the Council.”

Nate thought this fair. The two men shook on it.

At the subterra meeting tonight the challenge will be put to all present. We hope to relay it throughout the nation. (Please cast it about the Village on our behalf.)

We will cross our fingers that the Council approves. We’ll know nothing until after the council session tomorrow morning.

With this most encouraging news I’ll close, but not without saying farewell to my favorite breakfast cereal. (You will, of course, remember to throw out the Special K, yes, Mother?)

I love you.

Tassie