The Bear Went Over the Mountain (29 page)

“We know you haven’t had much time to adjust to freedom,” said Eunice sympathetically, “the way they whisked you right up here to Washington. But Senator Loveland’s committee is hoping that your presence will be a rallying point for freeing other political prisoners around the world.”

It seemed to the old man that it was only yesterday that he’d walked out of prison with his novel under his arm. It was under his arm now, in a battered leather briefcase. No one knew of its existence, only he, and now he hardly knew what it contained—something about love—or was it about Ratty? He hoped it was about Ratty.

The old philosopher gazed around the room. Such excitement, so many people. It was really too much, he felt quite weak. There was a peculiar bubbling in his chest … a fountain was erupting.

“Oh!… oh dear … catch him, Hal! Quick, a doctor!”

The bear gently carried the little old man through the crowd and laid him down on a couch. A doctor was there in moments, took the old man’s pulse, and shook his head.

The bear backed up slowly through the craning figures in the crowd. Once outside the Green Room, he hurried down the hall. The guards, recognizing him as the president’s personal guest, nodded to him as he passed.

He stepped out of the White House and was met by the Secret Service agent who’d been with the vice president in Boston. “Hey, how’re you doing?” asked the agent with a grin, and made the gesture of bopping someone on the head.

“Fine,” said the bear, and signaled for his limousine. The signal was relayed to the VIP holding area, and his limo was brought forward. He ducked into the backseat, and there, behind the tinted windows, he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Yessir,” said the driver. “Where to?”

“New York City,” said the bear.

“New York City?”

“Do you know where it is?”

“No problem.”

The limo pulled out onto E Street, and the bear opened the battered leather briefcase.

There, inside, on fragile, wrinkled squares of paper, in the crabbed, spidery hand of one who writes by night, surreptitiously, was everything a bear needed for his much-awaited sequel.

He reached into the limo’s bar, which had been stocked according to his special instructions. He removed a jar of honey and put it to his lips.

Wild blueberry. You can’t beat that.

He opened a bag of Cheesy Things and settled back into the seat for the long ride home.