The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

“She has a commanding figure and is very pleasant. Just don’t call herShirl, that’s all!”

Qwilleran said, “There’s something on your mind, Polly. It’s been bothering you ever since Shirley’s party. Would you like to unload?”

She looked relieved. “How to begin…At the end of the dinner, Shirley’s son, Donald, who has been functioning as president of Bestbooks, made a very touching speech about Shirley and how she gave up a library career three years ago to save a century-old bookstore that had been going downhill. In the last three years, Shirley’s personality and brainpower have tripled the annual income. For that reason the Bestbooks board of directors have voted Shirley a bonus: something she has always wanted—a trip to Paris. Shirley screamed—something she never does. Then Donald said that all expenses would be paid—for two!Shirley looked at me, and I screamed! Then we clutched each other and both cried.”

Qwilleran was stunned into silence but recovered to say, “I’m very happy for you, Polly!”

She said, “I only wish you were going with me.”

“So do I, dear.”

Polly said, “At least I won’t have to impose on neighbors and worry about Brutus and Catta. They can stay at Pet Plaza, and Judd Amhurst can manage the bookstore.”

She added, “A Lockmaster travel agent will handle airline tickets, hotel reservations, and sightseeing.”

Later that evening, and in the days that followed, Qwilleran speculated that they could have been traveling about the globe together. Why had they both allowed themselves to be trapped in the workaday world? Now there was no telling whom Polly would meet. There had been that professor in Canada, that antiques dealer in Williamsburg, those attorneys and architects at the K Fund in Chicago.

And now there were all those Frenchmen! She liked men, and they were attracted to her agreeable manner, resulting from a lifetime career in a public library. Her musical voice might be interpreted as being seductive. She had a beautiful complexion—the result, she said, of eating broccoli and bananas. She dressed attractively—with individual touches of her own design. Altogether, Polly seemed too young for the silver in her hair. And when she entered a room wearing a Duncan plaid over the shoulder, pinned with a silver cairngorm…she stopped conversation.

And now those two likable and attractive women were going to Paris!

NINE

The next day, a Tuesday, Qwilleran met his Qwill Pen deadline but felt an underlying disappointment, although he kept telling himself to snap out of it. Everywhere he went, the entire population of Pickax seemed to know that Polly was going to Paris without him.

One conference was with Lisa Compton, who wanted to update him on the proposed program at the Senior Health Club. When given a choice of venue, she gladly chose the barn.

“How’s your crotchety and lovable husband?” he asked. Lyle was superintendent of schools.

“Crotchety and lovable, in that order,” she said cheerfully.

They decided it was too good a day to sit anywhere but the gazebo.

He asked, “Is there anything the Qwill Pen can do for you?”

“That’s for you to decide, Qwill. I’ll tell you where we stand. The building itself is progressing incredibly fast. With all-volunteer labor. We’re selling memberships and collecting ideas for activities. I’ve never seen this town so excited. The wonderful thing is that they want to learn how to do things! Does the Qwill Pen have any suggestions?”

“As a matter of fact, yes! I’ve been thinking about it—and about the pleasure I get from writing a private journal. It’s not like a diary, where you record daily events—but a place for thoughts and ideas, no matter how personal or crazy. No matter how amateurish, it’s something to leave to future generations—something that will be appreciated. I’d be willing to introduce the idea, give a few tips—even read some of my own entries.”

“Qwill! This is more than I expected! You could introduce the idea now—in the community hall, and get them started. Is there anything I should be doing?”

“Just tell the stationer to lay in a good supply of ordinary school notebooks with lined pages.”

That night as Qwilleran sat down to write in his private journal, he had a flashback to his lean and hungry years as a young man in New York. He wrote:

My furnished room had an old windup Victrola and a single 78 record: Johnny Mercer singing “I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter.” I played it every night because I couldn’t afford to buy another one.

Now, three decades later, it runs through my mind every night when I sit down to write to myself in my journal.

Qwilleran’s phone rang frequently the following day.

“Is it true about Polly?”

“Why aren’t you going?”

“Why Paris?”

“Does she speak French?”

“Are you giving a big party?”

“How long will she be gone?”

Finally he remembered the advice of his childhood mentor: “When fed up, take the bull by the horns.”