Swine Not? (16 page)
An Unexpected Order
RUMPY
F
ROM THE MOMENT
the Butcher arrived, I had anticipated the worst. I had just been waiting for the right time to make my move, whatever that turned out to be. I wasn’t expecting the chicken-fingers trap, and it almost worked — but I wasn’t ready to be turned into bacon yet.
The moment called for a little sacrifice on my part if I were to rescue Maple, so I pretended to be under the lure of the chicken-finger spell. I dropped to my knees while the Butcher prepared the injection.
“Now to clear a path to my storage cellar for the soon-to-be carcass,” the Butcher told Maple. “Lots of company for you in the cellar, piggy-piggy.”
He walked to the front door and opened it. “This is your route to your new life — I mean death!” he sneered and then turned back and grabbed the box of chicken fingers. He held them out with one hand while he clutched the giant syringe with the other. “Come to papa,” he hissed.
I looked up at Maple, and I could see she had her hand on the cell phone, but she was afraid to pick it up. I squealed at the top of my lungs, and it provided just the distraction she needed. I watched her touch the speed dial, and then I went back to my acting.
“You can’t do this!” Maple shouted.
I pretended to be under the Butcher’s spell and sniffed the air with my snout. I waddled out from Maple’s room and slowly staggered toward Boucher, acting as if I had guzzled two quarts of beer. I didn’t care if he found his mark with the needle — I would charge him at the last minute and knock him all the way to Jupiter.
A split second before I was going to charge — wham! — I smelled him. Even through the chicken fingers, scent-mails were coming through the open front door. I knew it was Lukie, and he was close.
Suddenly the Pigilantes were on the sill, pecking at the window. The Butcher looked up to see what was making the racket, and that’s when I saw the room-service table come barreling through the front door.
I didn’t have to imagine what was propelling my old escape vehicle, for the scent of my long-lost brother was getting stronger. The creaking of the wobbling wheels made the Butcher turn, but it was too late. The table rammed into his legs and sent him flying — along with the chicken fingers and the giant syringe. The room-service table veered right and crashed into the sofa. When it turned over, out popped the beloved face I hadn’t seen in years. It was Lukie. He had found me.
My immediate thought was to cover him with kisses, but the danger of the moment wouldn’t allow it. Lukie climbed out of the wrecked table and lunged at Boucher, who lay in the middle of the floor, clutching his knee and cursing in French.
Suddenly a herd of humans stampeded through the door, led by Ellie. Barley and Oliver followed. Maple ran to her mother’s arms, and Barley and Oliver joined Lukie in hovering over the Butcher. Our family was followed by Mr. Flutbein, the mayor, and a dozen policemen. Guns were drawn and pointed our way. I didn’t know if they were going to kill the wild pigs, the mad Frenchman, or both, when the mayor boomed, “Where is the anteater?”
“Mr. Flutbein, I was removing this swine from the hotel, according to our policy, when the pig attacked me. Shoot it. Shoot it now!”
“He’s lying!” Maple shouted. “Boucher is an evil man, and he tried to kill our pet pig!”
“What pig?” the mayor asked with a puzzled look. “We are looking for an anteater.” He held up a photo of me in my costume.
I walked from behind Lukie’s protection and into Maple’s room. I came back with the sheepdog head held gently in my mouth.
“I think we have found our anteater,” one of the policemen said.
I rushed back to Lukie’s side, and we started spinning around like horses on a merry-go-round, rubbing and snuggling.
As the police dragged the Butcher off in handcuffs, Barley and Maple joined in the pile.
Icing on the Cake
RUMPY
T
HERE IS A
song sung by a great human named Aretha Franklin called “Respect.” I used to dance to it back in Vertigo when I entertained the locals. To tell the truth, I didn’t actually listen closely to the words. What I loved was the beat and particularly that place Ms. Franklin would sing, “Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me,” over and over again. Be you human, animal, vegetable, or microbe living at the bottom of the ocean, if you can’t dance to that part of the song, well then, you need to move to another part of the galaxy. Humans do have their moments, you know, but they often make things much more complicated than they really are. We animals fight over territory, but nothing we have ever done has started a war. Sometimes I think it must be hard to be a human with a brain that can at times create such wonder and at other times wreak such havoc.
I had come to New York expecting the whole human world to fit into mine, and I was kicked out-of-bounds like one of Barley’s explosive crossing shots on the soccer field. I admit I whined and got depressed, but even in my times of hopelessness, I still knew in my deepest heart that somehow, some way, I would see my brother again. The gods of good fortune had smiled down on me, and because of a random act of kindness, my world came together the way I had always dreamed it would. I didn’t have to hide, wear a dog suit, or stuff myself into a room-service table anymore. Not only had I found my brother but along the way I had earned a little “respect” — which in my humble, piggish opinion is all any of us really want anyhow.
At first, when Maple and Barley saw Lukie, they assumed I had a boyfriend. But Ellie chewed on her lip for a moment and said, “I can hardly believe it, but that is no boyfriend — that is Rumpy’s twin brother. I remember him from when they were babies. See how much they look alike?” Everyone made a huge fuss, and I twirled and twirled so Ellie would understand that she had been absolutely right.
A few hours after my ordeal with the Butcher, I was perfectly refreshed and enjoying my newfound celebrity status. E-mails and text messages spread the word like wildfire throughout the hotel about the heroic you-know-what living in the fish tank on the roof. And — get this — Lukie and I were invited to have dinner the next evening with the mayor and his mother. I was happy.
T
HE NEXT
morning, it was Halloween at last. The whole staff applauded me like a hero when Barley and Maple took Lukie and me to the park. Twins leading twins. It was about all you could hope to have.
I knew that Maple and Barley now understood the reason for my strange behavior over the past few weeks. When we got to the Great Lawn, they hugged Lukie and me, and then they climbed above us on a big rock where they could keep an eye out for strangers but could give us privacy.
There was so much to discuss. First, Lukie told me how he first saw the Pigilantes in Battery Park. He had been on a field trip with kids from the School for the Blind, teaching them how to follow him down a sliding board. Once he got the word I might be in town, he had made his way from Greenwich Village, where he had been living, to “Canada,” his nickname for uptown Manhattan.
I wanted to stay there all day and night and talk to Lukie, but in New York, there never seems to be enough time. Catching up with my long-lost brother would have to wait until after our dinner date with the mayor and his mom. The mayor’s birthday dinner had been postponed from the night before so that he could take care of his mother. He rebooked the dining room for the next night, and Mr. Flutbein and Ellie made it happen. Ellie was exhausted but thrilled to be working without the shadow of the Hunchback from Hackensack. There would be plenty of time for walks in the park.
Mr. Flutbein had insisted that I be taken to the hotel spa for a deluxe treatment. There — to the amusement of most, and the shock of others — I was bathed, massaged, and coiffed like an Upper East Side matron. They even manicured my hooves and applied a topcoat of frosted pink. While I was in the spa, Maple was putting the finishing touches on her Halloween costume. As soon as dinner was over, we would head to Barton Academy and the big costume contest.
Dinner unfolded like a yummy Fruit Roll-Up. Mrs. Bloomfield, the woman I had saved in the park, still wore her dreadfully large hat and fawned over me and Lukie all evening as the cameras clicked away. She insisted on feeding me the salad course one leaf at a time, interrupting the cherished lettuce flow with multiple hugs and squeezes. The paparazzi ate it up. When you’re a star, you have certain duties . . . and posing graciously is at the top of the list.
The mayor beamed to see his mother so happy. I beamed to see my brother next to me. Mr. Flutbein brought Ellie, Oliver, and the twins by to greet the mayor. Ellie, of course, had excused herself and had retreated to the kitchen. With Boucher on his way to jail, she had been made temporary head chef by Mr. Flutbein. The packed dining room was buzzing with conversations and a lot of glances at our table. Then, quite elegantly, the mayor tapped his glass, silenced the crowd, and rose to his feet. He retold the now-familiar story of how I saved his mother. There wasn’t a dry eye in the dining room when he called for a toast to his mother — and me! Everybody stood and raised a glass as the band struck up “New York, New York.”
I could smell the cake and floral extravaganza before they even entered the room. Seconds later, Ellie and her staff surrounded a way-too-familiar room-service table, and they guarded the floral centerpiece on it as if they were Secret Service agents. The kids clapped and whistled as their mom passed by, and Ellie gave them a wink.
Just before the cake was rolled to our table, Ellie signaled to one of her sous-chefs. He pulled a string, and the top of the floral centerpiece opened up. Out flew the Pigilantes in perfect formation, thrilling the breathless guests. Frostbite took them around the room, swooping down and back into the crowd in a dazzling little air show before he led his squadron out an open window.
The mayor’s mother led the room in singing “Happy Birthday” to her son as the headwaiter rolled in Mom’s famous volcano cake and began to slice generous portions for the guests. Mrs. Bloomfield and I were presented with the first two pieces.
It was quite a New York moment, and as I sat there in the packed dining room of the fanciest hotel in New York City, with my adoring family and my beautiful brother by my side, feasting on volcano cake, I was beginning to really like this town.
A Taste of Show Business
BARLEY
T
HINGS MOVE
fast in the Big Apple. As I look down from the fish tank, winter appears to be losing its grip on good old Central Park. March is a lamb, not a lion, this year, my first spring back in New York.The skeleton-like branches of the trees are begging to sprout green buds, and the early-morning joggers aren’t dressed like Eskimos. Pretty soon I will be on the Great Lawn, trying out my new cleats in the fresh green grass. I can hardly wait.
It seems as if we have lived in this city for years. In many ways the park below reminds me of the view from the porch of our farmhouse back in Vertigo, but Tennessee now feels like ancient history. I think we have all become New Yorkers.
This has not been a hibernation winter for the McBride family, and a recap might be in order. I guess I better start with the aftermath of Monsieur Boucher’s attempted attack on Rumpy. Of course the local gossip rags had a field day with the story of our pet pig’s rescue of the mayor’s mother and Boucher’s violent behavior — but it only lasted a few days, until the next outlandish, headline-producing event came along, which involved Royal T’s hockey-playing boyfriend punching a photographer. In this town, there is never a long wait for splashy news. Mr. Flutbein did fire the Hunchback from Hackensack, but Boucher did not go to jail. My mom was not seeking revenge. She stayed calm and reminded us that you have to look for some good in every bad person or situation. That is the way she handled the problem with Boucher.
First she consulted with us, and then we unanimously agreed not to press charges. Instead, we requested that the mayor require Monsieur Boucher to do eight weeks of community service. We asked that he split his time between the park zoo and the animal shelter near our school.
Two weeks into his new job, a kind of miracle occurred. Mom went by one day to see how he was doing and to bring him a slice of spinach quiche. Over lunch, Boucher apologized to her for scaring her daughter. Then, in a tearful confession that had Mom searching her purse for tissues, the Hunchback told Mom that he had grown up in a dark, depressing neighborhood in Paris. More than anything in the world, he had loved to go to the zoo and the parks, and as a child, he had wanted desperately to have a pet — any pet. But year after year, his parents would never allow it.
In some twisted way, he developed an extreme jealousy of children who had pets, and it only got worse when the family moved to Hackensack, New Jersey, where it seemed that every single child he met had at least one dog or cat. His seething resentment festered into a hatred of all animals and children. He begged Mom’s forgiveness, and she accepted his heartfelt apology.
After finishing his community service, he stayed and worked at the animal shelter for the rest of the winter, and with Mom’s encouragement, he attended classes to become a vegan chef. Just last week, he got a job at a restaurant in Woodstock. He finally got his first pet — actually two of them — orphaned German schnauzers from the shelter he had grown to love. He stopped by the hotel for a visit and then headed for Woodstock with his van and his new family of dogs.
Mom’s job as temporary head chef at the hotel lasted only two weeks. Then Mr. Flutbein made her full head chef. The publicity that focused on Rumpy’s story had increased the hotel’s fame and popularity, and Mom was not one to see an opportunity and not take advantage of it. The advance wait for a table was now three months, and people came from all over the world to eat and stay at Flutbein’s Hotel.
More important for our immediate family, Mr. Flutbein lifted the ban on exotic animals in the hotel and granted us permission for both Rumpy and Lukie to stay in the fish tank. If that wasn’t enough to make us dance a jig, he gave us the use of an old farmhouse that his family owned out on Long Island, where the pigs could stretch their legs, roll in the mud, and get in touch with their inner-farm-animal selves, and Mom could plant her garden.
At the first chance, Mom, Dad, Syrup, and both sets of twins — kids and pigs — piled into a rented van and drove to see the farm. It was unbelievable. Lukie and Rumpy ran and snorted and dug with their snouts until they could hardly stand up. Then we had a huge family soccer game. Lukie is as nimble a goalie as his sister. Dad sprained his ankle. Maple fixed him up with a special bandage and fashioned a designer cane for him out of an ash-tree branch.
Later, Mom laid out the plot for a giant vegetable garden that she would plant after Groundhog Day, which would provide fresh vegetables for the restaurant. Maple and I found a place near the driveway where we could build a small stage to bring back Rumpy’s Vertigo tango act for our new neighbors and their kids.
Meanwhile, back in the kitchen at Flutbein’s, Mom didn’t wait long to put her unique touch on a classic New York eatery. She emptied Boucher’s meat locker, rewrote the menu, and brought a new philosophy of natural ingredients cooked by happy people in a happy kitchen environment, which instantly resulted in rave reviews of the food, decor, and service. Despite the three-month wait, hopeful diners stood in long lines running down Fifth Avenue in case of a cancellation.
Then Mom took up our idea of Rumpy’s entertainment revival. She introduced “Tango Night on Tuesdays” at Flutbein’s, with a top-notch couple from Argentina. I don’t suppose I have to tell you who the featured closing performer was. By my count, from Christmas to Valentine’s Day, Rumpy appeared on the Today show, the Tonight Show, Live with Regis and Kelly, Sesame Street, and several European networks. Rumpy is wallowing in the glory, but I think what makes her even happier is that she is with her brother. While Rumpy soaks up the spotlight, Lukie is doing what he loves at our neighborhood school for the blind, where we drop him off every morning on our way to Barton Academy. In the evenings, we take him and Rumpy for long walks through the park, where they seem to be known by both locals and tourists alike. Every weekend, they go out to the farm.
Maple, of course, won the costume contest at Barton Academy with her Marie Antoinette outfit, and she became quite a celebrity at school — but that was only the beginning. After seeing her other designs, Karen Wu immediately offered Maple a part-time apprenticeship. Mom made sure it didn’t interfere with her schoolwork, and so now, two afternoons a week, Maple designs kids’ clothes for the House of Wu. They bought her the latest high-tech sewing machine and a new computer, which she uses to create all her designs — as well as to do her homework. Syrup is still her cat coat and can be seen most nights staring into the computer at Maple’s latest creations.
With Flutbein’s becoming the rave of Manhattan, it didn’t take long for the new chef to get on the hip-restaurant radar. Gone was the “buckets-of-blood lunch bunch.” They were replaced by foodies from all over who had heard about Mom’s cooking. Among them were the producers of the Food Network, who told Mom they were looking for a new concept for a cooking show. That is when she asked Dad for help; new TV concepts were right up his alley.
Mom and Dad spent several weeks working together on the idea, and they didn’t argue once. Whatever they were cooking up, they kept it top secret. It drove us crazy, and we tried every trick we knew to get either one of them to spill the beans about the show, but they stuck to their guns.
Dad did not move into the fish tank, as we were already a bit overcrowded, but he got an apartment several blocks away, which they used as an office, and it was off-limits to Maple and me. That was fine, though. We just liked having Dad close by. As far as living together, well, we will just have to wait and see. But it is nice to have them both in our lives at the same time.
As for me, after the party at Flutbein’s, things just moved along. School was good, and of course there was always soccer. Then one morning, an announcer on ESPN launched a verbal bombshell that shocked not only me but the whole soccer world. Darryl Meacham — still my all-time soccer hero — had left Real Madrid and was moving to Hollywood to play for the Los Angeles Galaxy in the MLS. He was also talking about starring in a movie.
The story was on every sports page and Web site in New York and all over the world. It wasn’t like he was the first athlete who turned into a movie star, but I just thought playing for Real Madrid was the top of the international heap, and once a Madridista, always a Madridista. I had done the math — I was twelve, and Meacham was twenty-seven — so by the time I turned seventeen and he was thirty-two, we could both be playing for Real Madrid at the same time, or maybe he would come to America and finish out his career with the Red Bulls. I was so disappointed.
As the headlines continued in the papers, I went to the indoor field at Chelsea Piers and kicked away my anger and frustration every afternoon. I was so tunneled in on Meacham that all the excitement at home about the debut of the TV show didn’t register. It was Maple who reminded me on the way to school, and she had to ring me again when I forgot that I was supposed to meet her at the House of Wu. A car was picking us up to rendezvous with the rest of the family at the premiere, which was being held at Flutbein’s.
I was still in my soccer clothes, so Maple quickly grabbed an outfit for me from the fitting room. We had yet to see the show or pick up any clue about it. All Dad would say was that the Food Network people thought it was going to be a smash hit. I didn’t want to be a pessimist, but Dad had said that about everything he had ever written or produced. Mom, on the other hand, said the same thing, and Mom was a straight shooter. We could see her excitement, and this made us even more curious. But they still wouldn’t tell us anything.
“You need to get over this Meacham thing,” Maple said as we climbed into the backseat of the car. “You are just being selfish.”
“I’m not the one who bailed,” I said defensively.
“Put yourself in his shoes. He’s only trying to make the most of his time as a star.”
“He’s a soccer player, not a movie star or an action hero,” I snapped as we sped along Fifth Avenue past Rockefeller Center.
“Wrong,” Maple said. “It’s all the same thing. Do you think the House of Wu would be in business if they sold the same stuff over and over again? Change is a necessary thing, and maybe in Meacham’s case, he needed a change.”
I didn’t reply. I stared out the window as we passed a horse-drawn carriage full of tourists heading into the park. I did not like where this conversation was going. Maple was making too much sense.
The scene in front of Flutbein’s fortunately brought the subject to a close. It looked like Oscar Night. All that was missing was Joan Rivers and her daughter. A long line of stretch limousines crept toward the curb, where a red carpet made a path to the street. Rows of photographers were packed behind lines of policemen, their cameras aimed at the approaching cars. One after another deposited stylish passengers.
“There’s the mayor,” I said to Maple, but she was fixated on the girl exiting the car in front of us. “Oh my gosh! It’s Royal T, and she is sooo thin. Can you believe she is wearing the same Karen Wu dress she wore at the Grammys?”
I looked, but Royal T had already disappeared amid a barrage of flashbulbs. Next thing I knew, our door was open, and there was the familiar happy face of Freddy the doorman. “Now this is the way to arrive at Flutbein’s,” he said with a wink and a hand for Maple.
The crowd erupted into a cheer, and Mom, Dad, Rumpy, and Lukie scurried down the red carpet to meet us. We smiled and waved to the cameras as Freddy kept us moving past the throng and through the safety of the revolving doors.
Inside, several efficient handlers dressed in chef clothes and exercise outfits quickly led us to the main dining room. It was more packed than the night of the mayor’s birthday party. The crowd applauded as we were escorted to the head table, where the mayor and his mother greeted us. We took our seats.
Mom looked gorgeous in — what else? — a Karen Wu / Maple McBride dress they had designed especially for the occasion. Dad had bought a new pair of jeans, had gotten his hair cut, and actually wore a pair of socks. Rumpy had bows on her head and tail, and Lukie sported a bow-tie collar. The lights went down, and the big screen at the front of the dining room lit up.
