“Good morning, Ada.”
“Fran that is a very boring thing you do. Very borning. ‘Good morning’ every morning.”
“Poetry so early.”
“Poetry?”
“’Very borning. Good morning.’ That’s poetry. Or at least it’s rhyming.”
“I did not say ‘borning.’ I said ‘boring.’”
“Why don’t you want to be a poet? It’s the loveliest thing you have ever done in your life. With your life, for that matter.”
“Making biscuits makes you a success?”
“This morning you made a poem of you own. You should feel proud.”
“I did not make a poem, because I did not rhyme anything. Even if I did say ‘borning’ which I did not because it is not a word, there is no poem.”
“Poetry is not only rhyming after all, Ada. Besides, can’t we make new words? As a matter of fact, maybe ‘borning’ is already a new word. I’ll look it up as soon as the biscuits are done.”
“Typical Fran logic. Did it ever occur to you that new words are not in the dictionary?”
“It must be somewhere. Maybe we need a new dictionary. There’s a task for you, Ada. Get us a new dictionary.”
“And you, Fran, if you had all the world’s wheat at your feet, would your task be to always be making biscuits?”
“You forget that I also make chocolate chip cookies and strudel all of which disappears with famous quickness into your mouth.”
“Fran, did you invite Montague to breakfast? He’s coming up the walk. What an absurd shade of blue that coat is. Where would a person find something like that? With red buttons up and down the sleeves.”
“Montague?”
“What a tubby ass. Even at this distance, I can see spasms of his greedy craw – biscuits, biscuits, biscuits.”
“Let me catch the door before the bell rings. Montague is quite enough without the bell.”
“Good morning, Montague. Please tell Ada that you invited yourself to breakfast. Explain that I did not do it.”
“No one invited me. I could smell biscuits all the way from the lake.”
“I did not say that you sent out an invitation, Fran. I only asked if you had invited him.”
“Did I, Montague? I may have and forgotten.”
“I already said. I invited myself because the biscuits smelled so good. There are quite a few geese still hanging around the lake. If they had any sense, they would be flying south by now. It’s getting cold. They could be frozen in for the winter.”
“Well, anyway, it does not matter whether or not Fran invited you. God himself has ordained the baking and the eating of biscuits until the end of time.”
“If they do get frozen in, a properly thrown rock would put goose on the table for you and Fran.”
“Montague, it is well known that you and Fran will eat anything but keep me out of your stoned goose plan. As a matter of fact, I might run down to the lake and tell those birds what the two of you are cooking up.”
“Is that urge stronger than the one to eat breakfast, Ada? If not, please set the table for me. Montague, you would not believe how creative Ada has been this morning. The first thing she did was create a poem. Now she is being humorous.”
“Ada, since I have invited myself to breakfast, the least I can do is help you set the table. ‘Humorous.’ Does that have something to do with bones? Or is it spirits?”
. . .
“Ada, don’t you think that Montague is eating too fast?”
“It’s because I can’t stay long. I think one of my hives is planning a late swarm and I want to be there to try and capture the new colony. I was thinking that the two of you might want a hive of your own.”
“Do you think that would be a good idea, Fran? I mean now Montague does sometimes provide honey. If we had our own hive, he would get his breakfast for free.”
“Excellent observation, Ada. Montague, I don’t think you want to put yourself in the position of seeming to be a parasite.”
“That would be unfortunate, wouldn’t it Fran. Instead of ‘Here comes Montague in a ridiculous coat,’ we would have to say, ‘Here comes the parasite with his extended proboscis.’”
“Proboscis sounds too obscene for me to agree to have one of those.”
“Explain to him, Ada that having a proboscis is not obscene for a parasite. Being a parasite is what is obscene.”
. . .
“You’re reading a book, Ada.”
“You are surprised, Fran?”
“On Sunday afternoon, you‘re usually reading manuscripts.
What is that smell? There are so many books stuffed into this room. We need to air it out. Do you smell that? I think something must have died in here.”
“Have you started dinner yet, Fran?”
“Not yet.”
“Listen to what this cookbook says: ‘Cut up birds are more difficult to hold than whole ones. If the bird must be held longer than a day, it is suggested that it be cooked and reheated for serving.’ I have an idea for dinner. Let me do all the work.”
. . .
“Ada, this is delicious. You have quite outdone yourself. Don’t you think so, Montague? Please pass a biscuit.”
“Scandalous is what I call it. I should never have told you about those poor geese. Pass the gravy, please.”
“Ada, tell Montague how this cooked goose came about. I think the story will soothe his conscience. Otherwise, between bites of the crispy breast, he may conclude that you have become callous.”
“Perhaps you are right, Fran. Please understand, Montague, that it was never my decision. When I arrived at the lake, I saw this one alone old goose sitting on a rock just off the water. He was poking with his bill at something under his wing. I walked right up to the rock and sat down beside him, expecting him to fly away. I watched him. Eventually he looked up at me and continued staring into my eyes. His bill shuddered just a bit but no sound came out. I asked him, ‘Did everyone else leave?’ He shook his head ‘Yes.’”
Montague swallowed. “He shook his head ‘yes’?”
“I asked him why he stayed behind. He shared that because he was so old he thought he would not survive the flight and now he feared he would not survive the winter by the lake.”
“In words he told you this?”
“I understood him, Montague.”
“Are you saying that there is a language spoken by geese that you understand?”
“I understood what he was communicating to me, Montague.”
“Please allow Ada to continue, Montague. Remember that Ada is intuitive. Maybe geese are also intuitive. Go on, Ada.”
“A stone about the size of my fist was lying right by my foot. The goose first nudged it and afterwards my hand with his bill. He then turned away, facing the water with his back to me. I think I actually hit him harder than was necessary. I still can’t get the stain out of my blouse. I’ll probably have to throw it away.”
“Montague, Ada cleaned and cooked it all by herself. She used a cookbook. Isn’t it delicious?”
“I’m afraid it is very good. Poor devil.”
“Ada did just what the cookbook said. Because the goose was so old, she prepared a special marinade. Pass a biscuit would you please, Ada. This is just delicious.”
“Delicious.”
“Delicious.”
“Delicious.”
We Are Many: Is It Up or Down from Here?
Copyright © 2015 by Renee Foss
All rights reserved