( out of order )
It was Thursday, two days before the party. Gladys had been driving TP nuts, ringing the doorbell every five minutes with armfuls of party supplies. The counters were overflowing; there were bags and boxes in the laundry room, folding tables and chairs on the patio along with a pop-up tent ready to assemble. TP finally asked her to please come in without ringing the bell, and she didn't have to call out "yoo hoo" either. Her voice was growing shriller by the day as Saturday approached. She was in a frenzy, barking out orders like a drill sergeant to her crew.
Her sister and nephew had come to help. The nephew, a pale, droopy boy with bad acne and long, greasy hair had been given the task of stringing the hedge with tiny lights. TP worried about fire danger and electrocutions and nesting birds, but didn't want to put a damper on Glady's plans. Madeline was in charge of bouquets, but there'd already been several heated exchanges on the topic. Madeline wanted wildflowers from a nearby flower farm; Gladys insisted on white lilies and roses. The two were currently not speaking.
At the moment, Marge, Gladys and the sister were all in his kitchen making party favors and decorations. How three women could possibly produce so much racket was beyond him. He fled to the barbershop to get a haircut, then bought a new white shirt and swung by the farmers' market. His appetite was still voracious. In the last three days he'd gained back twelve of the twenty-six pounds he'd lost in the mistangle and he no longer had to cinch his pants up with a belt to keep them from falling off.
The baby carrots looked excellent; he bought three bunches to snack on, then added some cheeses from the cheese lady and a bean and rice roll up hot off the grill. That should tide him over till supper. Gladys had been plying him with all sorts of dishes she was making ahead for the bash, so he'd been able to binge to his heart's content.
That evening Evalda called. "Harold and I will be coming down for the dinner party. I've got appointments with two realtors in Baltimore to look at potential buildings for our new OPAA branch. I'll drop Harold off with you in the morning and be back late afternoon. Oh, and we'll be spending the night - I hope you haven't filled the guest room up with weeds and dead insects. I'm very sensitive to dust."
You're welcome, TP thought as he ended the call. But he'd be glad to see Harold again.
Saturday came at last. Evalda and Harold arrived promptly at 8 a.m. Archie had come as well, greeting TP with a mournful woof, his tail wagging furiously. Harold had brought Richard and the Duke and his dump truck, and after greetings were complete, he went straight to the back yard to make a few runs along his dumping route.
"I'll be back by four to get Harold cleaned up. I'm sure he'll be filthy by then. TP, you look skeletal. There's something going on with you, and - "
He cut her off. "It was a parasite. You were right. I did a cleanse and got rid of it."
She raised her eyebrows. "Well, I'm glad you finally took my advice about something."
Later as he was polishing his shoes in the laundry room Madeline came barreling in, her color high, her eyes sparking. She shook a bundle of napkins in his face.
"I found these on the counter. Have you not seen them? Really, TP, Thad and Glad? Thad and Glad?"
He looked at the napkins and blanched. Good God. They were pale blue with silver embossing. 'Thad and Glad' was written in fancy script in the center, the words flanked by looping ribbons and pealing bells.
TP raised his eyes to Madeline's, his mouth hanging open. "It looks like..."
"Exactly," she said. "Wedding, or at the very least, engagement. She's planned this all out, don't you see? Gladys creates her own fantasy world and believes in it, no matter the reality. You have to set her straight. I wouldn't put it past her to make some crazy announcement at the party, hinting that you're celebrating your engagement. Rein her in, TP, or you're in for a big embarrassment."
She thrust the napkins at him and flounced out. He sighed heavily. Maybe he could just get rid of the napkins and tell Gladys there'd been an accident. Something got spilled on them. Yes. He went to the kitchen and ran water over the whole bunch, kneading them for good measure. When they were well past redemption, he put them in the trash. There wouldn't be time for her to order more. But maybe he should get some to replace the ruined ones?
Madeline was on the patio, making small wildflower bouquets for the tables. She and Gladys had apparently come to a compromise, as one large vase stood in the shade under the tent, overflowing with white lilies and roses.
"Madeline, will you keep an eye on Harold while I make a quick trip?"
"Sure," she said. "Did you get rid of them?"
"The napkins? Yes, I'm going out to buy something a little less, ah, suggestive."
He found some party napkins at the supermarket. White, with blue flowers. That should do.
Back home, TP and Harold feasted on pre-party foods for lunch. There were three crock pots going on the counter, hors-d'oeuvres in the fridge and various pans, pots and bowls at every turn. It was heavenly.
Afterwards TP went to his room to line out his clothes and Harold came along, climbing up on the bed and rolling this way and that. Archie lay on the floor and promptly fell asleep.
"My mom's coming home in two days."
"That's great. You must miss her."
"She's going to start her own magazine so she won't have to go away any more. And we might move."
"Oh?"
"Grandma Evie wants Mom to help at the new pet shelter in Baltimore."
"And what does your mom think about that?"
Harold rolled onto his back and stretched his legs up on the headboard.
"She might like it. She can take pictures of the dogs and put them in her magazine."
"Sounds like a good idea."
"Uncle TP, did you get rid of the dark thing?"
"Yes, I did. It's all gone."
Harold drummed his feet against the headboard.
"Did you have to fight it?"
"I made a special medicine that chased it away."
"Like the one Gladys spilled?"
"Yes, pretty much like that one." He held up a jar holding small bits of the vegetable stone.
"That's the medicine? It looks like red glass."
"It does, doesn't it."
"Does it hurt your tongue?"
"No, it melts after awhile."
"How much do you take?"
"Only a tiny bit. It's very powerful."
Harold sat up and sighed deeply. "That's a relief. I brought Richard and the Duke along in case we had to fight it off again."
TP felt a wave of regret that Harold had had to experience his nightmare. He hoped it hadn't traumatized the child for life.
"If I move to Baltimore, maybe we can go canoeing sometimes."
"Definitely. I'd like that very much." He rummaged through his collection of ties. Red, blue or silver? Blue, he decided.
"Uncle TP, would the medicine work for dogs?"
"I suppose so. Are you worried about Archie?
"He's sleepy today. I think I'll stay here awhile with him, while he takes a nap."
Harold could probably use one himself, TP thought. He left the room quietly, closing the door save for a crack, and went out to the back yard.
Gladys was putting lace doilies and little bags of party favors on the tables, covered with crisp white tablecloths. The nephew was helping. His name was Chester, but he wanted to be called Fabian.
"There you are, Thad! Everything's coming together as planned!"
He went over to her. "Gladys, does this party have any particular theme?"
"Theme?"
"I mean, are we celebrating anything in particular?"
"Oh, no," she said breezily. "Just a happy summer get-together."
"Good," he said, feeling relieved. "What's the schedule again?"
"Drinks at five, dinner at six, poetry reading at seven, and of course, music."
"Who's reading?" he asked.
"Several folks have volunteered. One of our neighbors is reading Emily Dickenson, I think, and Mr. Burley from across the street will participate. He's a literature teacher, you know. And I have a little something as well. But the star will be our own Chester. He's quite the poet, isn't that right, dear?"
Chester/Fabian shrugged, flinging back a lock of hair.
"Who are your favorite poets?" TP asked him.
"I see myself as a torch bearer for Williams and Ginsberg. Someone's got to carry on the Beat, you know?"
"I can't wait," said TP.
Marge appeared from next door to help set up, throwing him one of her suspicious looks. What was it with her? She and Mel were both a bit strange, he thought. Anyway, he had other things to think about. The musicians would need a level spot to set up on. He had some sheets of plywood in the garage that could be covered with cloth.
"Fabian? Maybe you could give me a hand."
The boy gave him a half smile, possibly in appreciation for calling him Fabian, or maybe for offering an escape route from Gladys and her doilies. TP could sympathize on both counts. He knew what it was like to despise your name. Chester didn't exactly conjure up images of sensitive poets. And having prolonged exposure to Gladys' voice and mannerisms would be enough to drive anyone to the brink.
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