Tzimmes Cracked Corn (And I Don’t Care)
A Spontoon Island story
© 2022 Walter Reimer
(Characters courtesy of M. Mitch Marmel, J.T. Urie and E.O. Costello. Thanks!)


Thumbnail art by  susandeer

5.


Jacob:

“Athena, dear?”

“Yes, Jacob?”

“Have you been standing at the window again?”

My beloved wife smiled and swished her tail a little. Our house sits behind the old house that the New Haven Embassy currently occupies, and as a result Athena, a magnificent specimen of a champagne-furred skunk, likes to tease them at times. Despite her pregnancy, she is beautiful, husbandly bias notwithstanding, and the warm climate of the Spontoons is quite agreeable to her.

And, it must be said, the Spontoonies have few taboos regarding public nudity, provided it doesn’t upset the tourists.

One would think Communists would be a bit more open minded. I could cite Alexandra Kollontai as an example, but one can’t expect too much moral consistency from them.

Athena finished shouldering into a light robe, one that revealed more than it concealed, and I felt myself getting slightly warm under my collar. “Who’s the ‘Enemy of the People’ they’re yelling about?” my wife asked.

“That would likely be Inspector Stagg, my dear,” I replied, and I gave her a precis. When I was done, she looked rather crestfallen, and I took her paw to reassure her.

She kissed me, and I felt rather warmer under my collar, and more so after her robe and my suit jacket seemed to disappear.


***


Rosie:

Those mamzers.

I’ve had to deal with the New Haven shtarkers before, which may or may not have included punching their ambassador, some snooty badger named Wakefield, dead in the mouth at some point. By the way, I neither confirm nor deny that, and I’ll take the Fifth, so there. I’m normally pretty tolerant towards lefties.

Which brings up a story I haven’t told before. When I was still living in Gnu York although working the burly-Q circuit (hey, a girl needs a place to hang her hat), I learned that my Ma and Da, Tauba and Aurelio Baumgartner, were Communists. Yeah, I was surprised too, and no, I’m not making this up. They were both card-carrying members of the Party in the USA, and I found out that they got instructions, relayed to them by their local leadership from the Comintern, to go up to New Haven and have a chat with the Red Fist.

Let me say that this was before the Revolution. Hell, I think it was before the Depression hit. Anyway, according to the story I was told, Ma and Da were told to go up to New Haven City. They were to make contact with the leaders of the Red Fist, with the idea of somehow ordering them to siddown and shaddap.

If you’re thinking that Ma and Da didn’t have any luck, you’d be right and should probably place a bet on the air races. From what I was told, the Nine (those who weren’t in prison at the time) told the Comintern to put their instructions where the sun doesn’t shine, sideways, and after spending a day or two at the beach Ma and Da came home. Their cell leader wasn’t happy, and neither was the Comintern from what I hear, at being called, let me see if I can recall, “A bunch of deviationist Starlingists who are no better than they should be.”

Who, me? No, I’ve never been a member; Ma and Da barely managed to avoid the Palmer Raids, and they sort of drifted away from the whole thing. Besides, I like money, I do, and you don’t hear much about furs going into business for themselves over in Russia right now.

So anyway, the New Haven guys kept up their noise for a few hours until it abruptly shut off mid-sentence. I laughed at the sudden quiet, because it meant that the Power Collective had switched off the mains to them again. They’ll do that from time to time, citing “irregularities” with how the Nine pay the electric bill.

Or not, as the case may be.

Still, that’s them shut up, and as I help Vicky get the place ready for the lunch crowd, I hear B’onss and K’nutt come back in from buying the cheese. No prizes, they’re arguing.

But what they’re arguing about makes my ears flick.

"You s-s-s-s-should l-l-listen to the C-C-Comintern . . . "

"Ah, shaddap, K’nutt. I might be a stooge fer capital, but I know what side of th’ bread’s got th’ butter onnit."

"Ahhhh, s-s-s-shaddap you r-r-r-right wing exploiter."

The conversation was immediately shut down by the menacing form of Nick, holding a large butcher knife and giving the two handifurs a Very Significant Glance. That figured; Nick used to work for the Tsarists in Vladivostok before things went bad, so any Reds make him see red.

B’onss and K’nutt deposit the cheese in the cooler and get to washing the dishes, while I go back out to help Vicky. My vixen employee and friend glances at me and asks, “Rosie?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you surprised K'nutt is a Communist?"

I think it over. "Not really. If he isn't the wretched of the Earth, I don't know what is." I grin at her. “If there's a Five-Year Plan for stupid, K'nutt will fulfill it in three months.” We both laugh, and I decide to change the subject. “You know, the Inspector proposed to me.”

She grins. “Yeah?”

“It’ll be a church wedding, of course – “

“Uh huh.”

“Would you be one of my bridesmaids, is what I’m saying.”

That netted me a hug. “Sure I would, Rosie. It’d be an honor.”

Another vixen poked her nose around the gate. “Congratulations! Am I too early to put in a lunch order?”

“Kara!” And I went through the same thing with Kara Karoksdottir, even to asking my lawyer if she’d stand for me at my wedding.

Kara and Vicky both grin fit to bust, and like Vicky Kara agrees to be a bridesmaid. I’d been thinking about this, can’t you tell?


***


Willow:

Flying across the Atlantic in September is quite a bit more agreeable than trying to brave it in the middle of winter. Remembering the travails Reggie and I suffered on Aeolus while the big flying boat fought its way west, this time around it was almost like taking a liner.

I had worried that Tommy would fuss, but our son’s been no trouble so far.

So far, the only low point in our trip to Spontoon this time was getting to Southampton. The plane, being owned by F.R. Buckhorn and Sons, would always wait for us, which was a very good thing as the train we took from Victoria Station had been forced to stop between Lickfold and Bishop's Iching while a wreck was cleared off the tracks.

‘Bishop’s Iching.’ I sometimes really wonder how the British name their towns. Or why. Something tells me that I don’t want to know that.

Still, pilots Fisher and Price were waiting for us when we got to the port, and they and the attendants all oohed and ahhed over little Tommy while we got aboard. A few more checks to make sure that the plane would stay in the air once it got up, and we were soon on our way west.

We landed in Gnu York late that afternoon U.S. East Coast time, and we took a cab to the waiting FRB consist at Pennsylvania Station. Loaded aboard, and off we went.

One of the great things about trains is the rhythmic sound as the wheels go over the rails; couple that with the gentle rocking motion, and it’s the perfect recipe for lulling infant fawns to sleep.

Does pretty well for said fawn’s mother, too.

The dispatch boxes containing paperwork from FRB’s various American subsidiaries were waiting for us in Gnu York, so Reggie busied himself until dinner with reading through reports and making notes. When he joined us for dinner, he looked a bit tired, poor thing.

Made me feel a little guilty about getting a nap.

Just a little.

“Anything wrong, Reggie?” I asked while we ate dinner. He seemed a little distracted.

“Hm? Oh, just the boxes, Willow. Father decided to have all of our offices here send their reports to me.”

“Well,” I said as I buttered a roll, “if you don’t get some rest, you’ll start making mistakes. You haven’t slept since we left Southampton.”

“I was worried about you and Tommy, dear.”

I smiled as the air in the dining car turned a little pink. “And I won’t have you getting sick on this trip, Reggie dear. Now, please, after dinner I want you to relax and get some sleep. We have three days to get to Los Antelopes.”

My darling husband nodded again. “You’re right, Willow, and when you’re right, you’re right. Those dashed boxes will still be there tomorrow.” He ate a few more bites of his dinner and stopped as his ears swiveled. “Willow?”

“Yes, dear?”

“A thought just occurred to me.”

“Oh?”

“Well, your old boss, Allan Minkerton.”

“Yes?”

“And Rosie’s friend . . . um, whatshername, Toni.”

“Yes?”

My love looked at me. “We’re not too far away from either of them, I think. Should we stop in Fillydelphia and wire them? See if they’d like to come with us?”

I blinked. Lord, that was a great idea.

“That’s a wonderful idea, Reggie. I think they’ll be thrilled.”

“Righto then. Lodge?”

The beaver was already at Reggie’s elbow. “I have taken the liberty of sending telegrams to Wiltmington and Washington while you and Mrs. Buckhorn were boarding, Sir. I expect that responses will be awaiting you when the train arrives in Fillydelphia.”

“Excellent, Lodge!” Reggie said, and Lodge shimmered off.

Leaving me mentally kicking myself because I didn’t think of it first, but I should know better than to second-guess Reggie’s valet.

And there’s one small advantage to having my friends along for the cross-country ride. More fawnsitters.






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