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More from Walt46
Listed in Folders
Moonlight and Mayhem
A Very Odd Romance
© 2010 by Walter Reimer
Thumbnail art by
cherushi and 
amonomega
Ten
August 23, 1935:
“Oh, my aching head.”
“Your aching head? What about MY aching head?”
“You didn’t stop a chair with it, Sam.”
“I stopped far too many fists with it, Max.” The badgeress ran her paws over her head, wincing at the bumps. “Where’s that damned cougar?”
“I heard he’s still in the hospital. You fight rough, Sam.”
“You weren’t there to see it, Max.”
“No, I was blissfully unconscious, my dear. Struck to my heart by your answer.”
“Can it, Max.” The badgeress sat up with a groan. “What I want to know is why I’M the one who ended up in jail. YOU started the fight.”
Max ran a finger over the flaking paint on the steel bars of her cell. “I didn’t, Sam. That fool cougar did.”
“But he wouldn’t have started it if you hadn’t started singing.”
“Was I singing? I can’t recall.”
“You were singing, Max.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t anything bad. I save those for special occasions.”
“Save it for now, Max. I need to get out of here.”
“Well, Sam, as to that – “
“What?”
“Um, your bail – “
“What?”
“It’s fifty dollars.”
“So?”
“Well, Sam, that’s quite a bit of cash, you see. And it’s not pay day yet.”
“Max . . . “
“And the bank’s not open yet.”
“Max, do you have any money?”
“Sure.”
“Then bail me out, you little squirt.”
“I’m thinking about it, Sam.”
“THINKING? WITH WHAT, YOU LITTLE – “
“Now, now, Sam, remember your blood pressure.”
“I’ll ‘blood pressure’ you, you – “ The badgeress sagged back on the mattress and held her head, waiting for the pounding to stop. “You’re just loving this, aren’t you?” she asked finally.
Well, now I have a captive audience,” Max said. “And she’s the most beautiful bruised and black-eyed badgeress in the entire world.” He poked his muzzle through the bars. “And she said Yes.”
She craned her neck, and they kissed. “Max,” she whispered.
“Sam?”
“Get me out of here? Please?”
He winked at her as he stepped back. “One jailbreak, coming right up.”
***
August 29, 1935:
“Barnsfield! Barnsfield next stop!” the train conductor called out. Sam reached over in her seat and tapped Max on his nose.
The fox lifted the flat cap he had jammed over his eyes when the train left the station and looked up at the badgeress. “Yeah, Sam?”
“We’re here, Max.”
“Oh, good. Wake me when we leave,” and he put his cap over his eyes again.
“Max?”
“Yes, Sam?”
“Do you want me to hit you on your head?”
“Not really.”
“So get up, slugabed, or I’ll knock you on your noggin.”
“Okay.” The tod-fox sat up and yawned. “I still have no idea why you want to do this.”
“It’s traditional. Besides, you’ve already met my folks.”
“Your father doesn’t like me.”
“My father’s met you, Max.”
“Your mother doesn’t like me, either.”
“You shouldn’t have said that, Max.”
“But, Sam – “
“No, Max. Telling my mother she has a big rear end is not the way to start a conversation.”
“Well, it might have been the way she was bending over.”
“Yes. Poking her in the rear and saying ‘Looks like the bread’s rising’ was probably not a good idea.”
“She hits pretty well. I can see where you got your fighting talents.”
“Learn from the best, Max.”
The two left the train and walked out the station to find a taxi waiting for them. A fox about two inches taller than him sat on the fender, reading a book, and as the couple approached he said, “Hi, Maxie.”
“Mort. Sam, my older brother Mortimer.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
The fox raised his cap, looked at the badgeress and said, “Max, you’re an idiot.”
“Am not.”
“Are so.”
“Am not.”
“You are so, you little snot. Ma’ll kill you.”
“Ma already knows, you jerk. You going to drive us to the house?”
“What for? You need directions or something?”
“Well, if you don’t want money . . . “
“Not from you, you twerp.”
“How about me?” Sam asked. “Is my money good?”
Mortimer looked her over again. “Yeah. Get in – not you,” he said to Max. “YOU ride up front.”
“Why?”
“So I can hit you easier.”
“Says you. You need to keep your eyes on the road,” Max said as they all climbed into the cab.
“No I don’t.”
“Ouch!”
“See?”
“Oh yeah?”
“Ouch!”
“Two can play that game all day, Mort.”
Sam sighed and looked out the window as the taxi left the station. Barnsfield was a town south of Seathl, where (according to Max) his family first settled after leaving Holland. As with a lot of things Max said, Sam accepted this not with a grain of salt, but with the entire shaker.
The two foxes in the front seat sat in stony silence, broken only by each punching the other at random moments. The silence grew uncomfortable until Mortimer suddenly said, “Ma’s at the graveyard.”
“Dancing again?”
“I think she’s just visiting this time.”
“Can we stop there?”
The cab swerved down a side street, almost hitting a large truck. Horns sounded as Mortimer said, “Your funeral, jerk.”
“Moron.”
“Fathead.”
“Ma hates you.”
“Ma hates all of us, Max.”
“True. Hey, Sam?”
“Yes, Max?”
“Last chance, honeyfur. You SURE you want to do this?”
A paw reached over the seat and grabbed one of Max’s ears. Twisting it only slightly, Sam said sweetly, “Why, Max, I’m quite sure of it. I plan on inviting her to the wedding, you know.”
Mort glanced at her, then at Max. “You’re inviting Ma to the wedding?”
“Yeah.”
The older fox whistled. “Hey, lady, am I invited?”
“It’s Sam. And yes, you are.”
“Why, Mort?” Max asked.
The fox chuckled. “I ain’t missing this. I’ll give up a day’s pay for it.”
***
The cemetery was located beside a meeting hall that doubled as a community center and a church catering to several congregations. Sam left the two vulpines to bicker and swing at each other, and walked among the neat rows of headstones to where a single older vixen stood, looking down at a certain grave. “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused,” the older femme said. She squinted up at the badgeress; she was a bit shorter than Max. “Who the hell are you?”
“Samantha Rain Sky.”
“Oh yeah. You’re marrying Max, so I hear.”
“That’s right. Is this your husband?”
“Yeah, this is Michael.” Mrs. Vreeland spat on the grass. Flowers had been strewn over the grave. The granite headstone bore the inscription
Here Lies Michael E. Vreeland
Beloved Husband
1879-1934
Below the name and dates was the legend
‘Here lies my husband, let him lie.
He’s at peace, and so am I.’
Sam studied the inscription and glanced back at the older woman.
She glared back at the badger.
“How did he pass on, Mrs. Vreeland?”
Mrs. Vreeland snorted. “Name’s Phyllis, girl.”
“Sam.”
“Sam, huh. So you’re the girl who’s marrying Max.”
“That’s me.”
The vixen spat again. “You don’t look crazy,” she said in accusatory tone, “so why in hell are you two getting hitched?”
“I love him, Phyllis.”
Phyllis shook her head. “Love makes fools out of everyone,” she asserted. “I met Mike at a church social back in ’96. Good man, considering.” She gave a sour grin. “It was his idea.”
“What was?”
“Naming all the kids with names starting in M. Mortimer, Mary, Max, Mike Junior, Margaret. I never thought Max would amount to much, but now he’s an officer.” She started walking away from the grave at a surprising clip, and Sam lengthened her stride in order to catch up with her. “Mike bought it last year, working at the foundry. He was the union shop steward, and good at it too. The collective’s looking after me, so I don’t rely on my kits to pay the bills.”
“I see. I wanted to meet you, and invite you personally to the wedding – “
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be there,” Phyllis said. “Is that Mortimer and Max?”
“Yes.”
“Good! Saves me a trip, and Morty knows better than to charge his mother for the fare.”
They walked up just as the two tod-foxes stopped trading verbal jabs and started trading physical jabs, both showing moves that might have impressed Max Smelling. “Stop it, both of you!” Phyllis snapped, slapping both foxes until they stopped trying to swing at each other and started ducking in an effort to avoid being hit by their mother. “You both ain’t so old I can’t get the castor oil!”
The implicit threat had its effect. Sam noted that Max looked a bit ill at the idea of castor oil.
She mentally filed the information away for future reference.
Mort whined, “But, Ma – “
His mother slapped him. “Stop whining! You ain’t no wet-behind-the-ears kit anymore, Mort! And YOU,” and here she started boxing Max’s ears, “what the hell are you doing, seducing young and innocent women like this?”
Sam raised her eyebrows at that.
“Huh? I didn’t seduce her, Ma.” Max’s expression was one of pure shock.
“Oh, you didn’t? You must have! There’s only one way she’d even go near you . . . unless she’s off her nut somehow.”
“Ma, she isn’t crazy,” Max said. “The Syndicate doesn’t make crazy people officers.”
“Then how do you explain yourself?” Mort sneered, and promptly yelped as his mother aimed a swat to his muzzle. “Ow! Ma!”
“Drive me home, Mort.”
“Sure, Ma. Hop in the back and we’ll go.”
Sam glanced at Max, who shrugged and slid into the front seat beside Mortimer, while she sat beside Phyllis.
As the cab started down the road Phyllis leaned over to Sam. “You’re a fine young woman. I hope you don’t take any crap from my son.”
Sam smiled and caught Max’s eye as he glanced back at her. “I don’t plan on taking crap from anyone, let alone Max.”
Phyllis nodded approvingly.
The Vreeland home was neat as a pin, the hedges and lawn primly manicured and the house painted. Phyllis showed Sam in, with the bellowed admonition, “WIPE YOUR FEET!”
“Perhaps I should take my shoes off and leave them outside.”
The older woman nodded, and Sam started to untie her shoes.
“Sam,” Max whispered.
“Max?”
“Don’t do it.”
“What?”
“Take your shoes off.”
“Why?”
“Ma likes to really lay the wax down on the floors. She gets a laugh out of watching people slip and fall.”
“Now I see where you get your sense of humor, Max.” The badgeress finished taking off her shoes and socks, then stepped into the house, carefully wiping her feet on the mat.
The wooden floor was polished like glass, and Phyllis looked vaguely disappointed as Sam negotiated the terrain as if it were an icy deck in a heavy sea. Presently she was seated on a settee, smiling as the vixen walked into the kitchen and loudly ordered her youngest daughter, Margaret, to make some coffee.
The girl protested, “Coffee? Ma, it’s – “
A smack and a feminine yowl indicated that Mrs. Vreeland brooked no backtalk from any of her children, male or female. Phyllis walked back into the living room. “Now, Sam, tell me about yourself. When did you get out of the asylum?”
“I’ve never been in an asylum, Phyllis.”
“Dear, you must have. Or maybe the Syndicate doesn’t know . . . suppose they have a doctor on call? I could get one to look you over.”
“My last physical was in January.”
“Ah. Must be something else, then.” The older woman thought. “Max has lied to you and told you he stands to inherit a fortune?”
“No.”
“Hmm. Max has lied to you about a rich uncle?”
“Nope.”
“Max has lied to you about a rich aunt?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Max?”
“Yeah, Ma?”
“You haven’t lied to Sam?”
“No, Ma.”
Phyllis sat down. “You’re going to sell Max for scientific experiments?”
Sam grinned and made a great show of thinking about the question before replying, “No.”
“Why the hell not? He’s fit – healthy too; from the looks of him, he’s been taking care of himself. Has he shown you any pictures of himself as a kit?”
“No, he hasn't.”
“Destroyed ‘em all,” Max mumbled.
“Don’t mumble, you little jerk. Fetch me the album,” his mother ordered, and Max obeyed. Phyllis flipped some pages and as Margaret brought in the coffee she started showing off his baby pictures to Sam.
“This is when we sent him off to Pioneers camp, when he was six.”
“You never said you were in the Pioneers, Max.”
“I was sent back after two days, Sam.”
“Who’s the kit in the picture with him?”
“His cousin Jack. We don’t talk about him.”
“Why?”
“Well, he emigrated to America. Last we heard he got a job as a sheriff’s deputy down in Florida.”
“Idiot,” Max muttered.
“Max!”
“Yeah, Ma?”
“You still Apache dancing?”
“Sure, Ma.”
“You teaching Sam?”
“Sure thing.”
His mother leaned close to the badgeress and said confidentially, “He loves that. Says it’s close to actually fighting, but you can’t get arrested for it.” She spooned some sugar into her coffee and glared at Max. “Of course, he does tend to scare off his girlfriends. I can see why you haven’t dumped him,” she said, now glaring at Sam.
“Oh?”
“Yes, you’re bigger than he is. And a badger. No grandkits, I see.”
“I’m sorry that I’m not a vixen – “
“It’s okay. You can’t help what you are, and Max has such lousy luck with the vixens I’m not surprised you caught him. I’ve got enough grandkits from Mort and Mary’s families so far. I’m already having a hard time keeping their names straight in my head.” She slurped her coffee while defiantly glaring at the others in the room, as if daring them to say something about her manners.
When no one did, she looked a bit disappointed again. “Anyway, when are you two going to do this? And where?”
Sam smiled across the room at Max, who eyed the scrollwork on the mantelpiece clock. “Well, Phyllis, I had decided that the service will be at the base up in Seathl, on September fifth.”
“That’s a bit fast. You SURE you ain’t pregnant by him?”
“Very sure, Phyllis.”
“Who’s doing the service?”
“Well, I had planned on asking one of the chaplains – “
The older woman snorted a laugh. “You’ll use Father Wanamaker, and like it. I’ll talk to him tomorrow, and he’ll be there. It’s only just desserts – the loudmouth gives us two hours every Sunday. Hardest thing in the world to shut him up, the stupid beaver.”
“Who else will be coming?”
“His brothers and sisters, of course. Maybe a few cousins.”
“Not Cousin Alf, Ma.”
“He wouldn’t come anyway, Max.”
“Who’s Cousin Alf?”
“Cousin on his father’s side. Alf’s a shaman up around Cranston. Talks to trees,” she said disgustedly.
After perhaps an hour, Sam and Max said their goodbyes, and Mortimer drove them back to the train station. Max sat in stony silence, sulking with his ears laid back and his arms crossed over his chest.
As they started to walk into the station, Mortimer said, “Max.”
“What, Mort?”
“She’s too good for you.”
Max looked Sam up and down, and said, “I agree.”
The older fox said, “Sally and I’ll be there,” and drove off.
“Sam?”
“Max?”
“Do you still want to go through with this?”
“Of course! Do you?” She smiled at him.
Max slowly smiled. “Of course.”
<NEXT>
<FIRST>
<PREVIOUS>
A Very Odd Romance
© 2010 by Walter Reimer
Thumbnail art by
cherushi and 
amonomegaTen
August 23, 1935:
“Oh, my aching head.”
“Your aching head? What about MY aching head?”
“You didn’t stop a chair with it, Sam.”
“I stopped far too many fists with it, Max.” The badgeress ran her paws over her head, wincing at the bumps. “Where’s that damned cougar?”
“I heard he’s still in the hospital. You fight rough, Sam.”
“You weren’t there to see it, Max.”
“No, I was blissfully unconscious, my dear. Struck to my heart by your answer.”
“Can it, Max.” The badgeress sat up with a groan. “What I want to know is why I’M the one who ended up in jail. YOU started the fight.”
Max ran a finger over the flaking paint on the steel bars of her cell. “I didn’t, Sam. That fool cougar did.”
“But he wouldn’t have started it if you hadn’t started singing.”
“Was I singing? I can’t recall.”
“You were singing, Max.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t anything bad. I save those for special occasions.”
“Save it for now, Max. I need to get out of here.”
“Well, Sam, as to that – “
“What?”
“Um, your bail – “
“What?”
“It’s fifty dollars.”
“So?”
“Well, Sam, that’s quite a bit of cash, you see. And it’s not pay day yet.”
“Max . . . “
“And the bank’s not open yet.”
“Max, do you have any money?”
“Sure.”
“Then bail me out, you little squirt.”
“I’m thinking about it, Sam.”
“THINKING? WITH WHAT, YOU LITTLE – “
“Now, now, Sam, remember your blood pressure.”
“I’ll ‘blood pressure’ you, you – “ The badgeress sagged back on the mattress and held her head, waiting for the pounding to stop. “You’re just loving this, aren’t you?” she asked finally.
Well, now I have a captive audience,” Max said. “And she’s the most beautiful bruised and black-eyed badgeress in the entire world.” He poked his muzzle through the bars. “And she said Yes.”
She craned her neck, and they kissed. “Max,” she whispered.
“Sam?”
“Get me out of here? Please?”
He winked at her as he stepped back. “One jailbreak, coming right up.”
***
August 29, 1935:
“Barnsfield! Barnsfield next stop!” the train conductor called out. Sam reached over in her seat and tapped Max on his nose.
The fox lifted the flat cap he had jammed over his eyes when the train left the station and looked up at the badgeress. “Yeah, Sam?”
“We’re here, Max.”
“Oh, good. Wake me when we leave,” and he put his cap over his eyes again.
“Max?”
“Yes, Sam?”
“Do you want me to hit you on your head?”
“Not really.”
“So get up, slugabed, or I’ll knock you on your noggin.”
“Okay.” The tod-fox sat up and yawned. “I still have no idea why you want to do this.”
“It’s traditional. Besides, you’ve already met my folks.”
“Your father doesn’t like me.”
“My father’s met you, Max.”
“Your mother doesn’t like me, either.”
“You shouldn’t have said that, Max.”
“But, Sam – “
“No, Max. Telling my mother she has a big rear end is not the way to start a conversation.”
“Well, it might have been the way she was bending over.”
“Yes. Poking her in the rear and saying ‘Looks like the bread’s rising’ was probably not a good idea.”
“She hits pretty well. I can see where you got your fighting talents.”
“Learn from the best, Max.”
The two left the train and walked out the station to find a taxi waiting for them. A fox about two inches taller than him sat on the fender, reading a book, and as the couple approached he said, “Hi, Maxie.”
“Mort. Sam, my older brother Mortimer.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
The fox raised his cap, looked at the badgeress and said, “Max, you’re an idiot.”
“Am not.”
“Are so.”
“Am not.”
“You are so, you little snot. Ma’ll kill you.”
“Ma already knows, you jerk. You going to drive us to the house?”
“What for? You need directions or something?”
“Well, if you don’t want money . . . “
“Not from you, you twerp.”
“How about me?” Sam asked. “Is my money good?”
Mortimer looked her over again. “Yeah. Get in – not you,” he said to Max. “YOU ride up front.”
“Why?”
“So I can hit you easier.”
“Says you. You need to keep your eyes on the road,” Max said as they all climbed into the cab.
“No I don’t.”
“Ouch!”
“See?”
“Oh yeah?”
“Ouch!”
“Two can play that game all day, Mort.”
Sam sighed and looked out the window as the taxi left the station. Barnsfield was a town south of Seathl, where (according to Max) his family first settled after leaving Holland. As with a lot of things Max said, Sam accepted this not with a grain of salt, but with the entire shaker.
The two foxes in the front seat sat in stony silence, broken only by each punching the other at random moments. The silence grew uncomfortable until Mortimer suddenly said, “Ma’s at the graveyard.”
“Dancing again?”
“I think she’s just visiting this time.”
“Can we stop there?”
The cab swerved down a side street, almost hitting a large truck. Horns sounded as Mortimer said, “Your funeral, jerk.”
“Moron.”
“Fathead.”
“Ma hates you.”
“Ma hates all of us, Max.”
“True. Hey, Sam?”
“Yes, Max?”
“Last chance, honeyfur. You SURE you want to do this?”
A paw reached over the seat and grabbed one of Max’s ears. Twisting it only slightly, Sam said sweetly, “Why, Max, I’m quite sure of it. I plan on inviting her to the wedding, you know.”
Mort glanced at her, then at Max. “You’re inviting Ma to the wedding?”
“Yeah.”
The older fox whistled. “Hey, lady, am I invited?”
“It’s Sam. And yes, you are.”
“Why, Mort?” Max asked.
The fox chuckled. “I ain’t missing this. I’ll give up a day’s pay for it.”
***
The cemetery was located beside a meeting hall that doubled as a community center and a church catering to several congregations. Sam left the two vulpines to bicker and swing at each other, and walked among the neat rows of headstones to where a single older vixen stood, looking down at a certain grave. “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused,” the older femme said. She squinted up at the badgeress; she was a bit shorter than Max. “Who the hell are you?”
“Samantha Rain Sky.”
“Oh yeah. You’re marrying Max, so I hear.”
“That’s right. Is this your husband?”
“Yeah, this is Michael.” Mrs. Vreeland spat on the grass. Flowers had been strewn over the grave. The granite headstone bore the inscription
Here Lies Michael E. Vreeland
Beloved Husband
1879-1934
Below the name and dates was the legend
‘Here lies my husband, let him lie.
He’s at peace, and so am I.’
Sam studied the inscription and glanced back at the older woman.
She glared back at the badger.
“How did he pass on, Mrs. Vreeland?”
Mrs. Vreeland snorted. “Name’s Phyllis, girl.”
“Sam.”
“Sam, huh. So you’re the girl who’s marrying Max.”
“That’s me.”
The vixen spat again. “You don’t look crazy,” she said in accusatory tone, “so why in hell are you two getting hitched?”
“I love him, Phyllis.”
Phyllis shook her head. “Love makes fools out of everyone,” she asserted. “I met Mike at a church social back in ’96. Good man, considering.” She gave a sour grin. “It was his idea.”
“What was?”
“Naming all the kids with names starting in M. Mortimer, Mary, Max, Mike Junior, Margaret. I never thought Max would amount to much, but now he’s an officer.” She started walking away from the grave at a surprising clip, and Sam lengthened her stride in order to catch up with her. “Mike bought it last year, working at the foundry. He was the union shop steward, and good at it too. The collective’s looking after me, so I don’t rely on my kits to pay the bills.”
“I see. I wanted to meet you, and invite you personally to the wedding – “
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be there,” Phyllis said. “Is that Mortimer and Max?”
“Yes.”
“Good! Saves me a trip, and Morty knows better than to charge his mother for the fare.”
They walked up just as the two tod-foxes stopped trading verbal jabs and started trading physical jabs, both showing moves that might have impressed Max Smelling. “Stop it, both of you!” Phyllis snapped, slapping both foxes until they stopped trying to swing at each other and started ducking in an effort to avoid being hit by their mother. “You both ain’t so old I can’t get the castor oil!”
The implicit threat had its effect. Sam noted that Max looked a bit ill at the idea of castor oil.
She mentally filed the information away for future reference.
Mort whined, “But, Ma – “
His mother slapped him. “Stop whining! You ain’t no wet-behind-the-ears kit anymore, Mort! And YOU,” and here she started boxing Max’s ears, “what the hell are you doing, seducing young and innocent women like this?”
Sam raised her eyebrows at that.
“Huh? I didn’t seduce her, Ma.” Max’s expression was one of pure shock.
“Oh, you didn’t? You must have! There’s only one way she’d even go near you . . . unless she’s off her nut somehow.”
“Ma, she isn’t crazy,” Max said. “The Syndicate doesn’t make crazy people officers.”
“Then how do you explain yourself?” Mort sneered, and promptly yelped as his mother aimed a swat to his muzzle. “Ow! Ma!”
“Drive me home, Mort.”
“Sure, Ma. Hop in the back and we’ll go.”
Sam glanced at Max, who shrugged and slid into the front seat beside Mortimer, while she sat beside Phyllis.
As the cab started down the road Phyllis leaned over to Sam. “You’re a fine young woman. I hope you don’t take any crap from my son.”
Sam smiled and caught Max’s eye as he glanced back at her. “I don’t plan on taking crap from anyone, let alone Max.”
Phyllis nodded approvingly.
The Vreeland home was neat as a pin, the hedges and lawn primly manicured and the house painted. Phyllis showed Sam in, with the bellowed admonition, “WIPE YOUR FEET!”
“Perhaps I should take my shoes off and leave them outside.”
The older woman nodded, and Sam started to untie her shoes.
“Sam,” Max whispered.
“Max?”
“Don’t do it.”
“What?”
“Take your shoes off.”
“Why?”
“Ma likes to really lay the wax down on the floors. She gets a laugh out of watching people slip and fall.”
“Now I see where you get your sense of humor, Max.” The badgeress finished taking off her shoes and socks, then stepped into the house, carefully wiping her feet on the mat.
The wooden floor was polished like glass, and Phyllis looked vaguely disappointed as Sam negotiated the terrain as if it were an icy deck in a heavy sea. Presently she was seated on a settee, smiling as the vixen walked into the kitchen and loudly ordered her youngest daughter, Margaret, to make some coffee.
The girl protested, “Coffee? Ma, it’s – “
A smack and a feminine yowl indicated that Mrs. Vreeland brooked no backtalk from any of her children, male or female. Phyllis walked back into the living room. “Now, Sam, tell me about yourself. When did you get out of the asylum?”
“I’ve never been in an asylum, Phyllis.”
“Dear, you must have. Or maybe the Syndicate doesn’t know . . . suppose they have a doctor on call? I could get one to look you over.”
“My last physical was in January.”
“Ah. Must be something else, then.” The older woman thought. “Max has lied to you and told you he stands to inherit a fortune?”
“No.”
“Hmm. Max has lied to you about a rich uncle?”
“Nope.”
“Max has lied to you about a rich aunt?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Max?”
“Yeah, Ma?”
“You haven’t lied to Sam?”
“No, Ma.”
Phyllis sat down. “You’re going to sell Max for scientific experiments?”
Sam grinned and made a great show of thinking about the question before replying, “No.”
“Why the hell not? He’s fit – healthy too; from the looks of him, he’s been taking care of himself. Has he shown you any pictures of himself as a kit?”
“No, he hasn't.”
“Destroyed ‘em all,” Max mumbled.
“Don’t mumble, you little jerk. Fetch me the album,” his mother ordered, and Max obeyed. Phyllis flipped some pages and as Margaret brought in the coffee she started showing off his baby pictures to Sam.
“This is when we sent him off to Pioneers camp, when he was six.”
“You never said you were in the Pioneers, Max.”
“I was sent back after two days, Sam.”
“Who’s the kit in the picture with him?”
“His cousin Jack. We don’t talk about him.”
“Why?”
“Well, he emigrated to America. Last we heard he got a job as a sheriff’s deputy down in Florida.”
“Idiot,” Max muttered.
“Max!”
“Yeah, Ma?”
“You still Apache dancing?”
“Sure, Ma.”
“You teaching Sam?”
“Sure thing.”
His mother leaned close to the badgeress and said confidentially, “He loves that. Says it’s close to actually fighting, but you can’t get arrested for it.” She spooned some sugar into her coffee and glared at Max. “Of course, he does tend to scare off his girlfriends. I can see why you haven’t dumped him,” she said, now glaring at Sam.
“Oh?”
“Yes, you’re bigger than he is. And a badger. No grandkits, I see.”
“I’m sorry that I’m not a vixen – “
“It’s okay. You can’t help what you are, and Max has such lousy luck with the vixens I’m not surprised you caught him. I’ve got enough grandkits from Mort and Mary’s families so far. I’m already having a hard time keeping their names straight in my head.” She slurped her coffee while defiantly glaring at the others in the room, as if daring them to say something about her manners.
When no one did, she looked a bit disappointed again. “Anyway, when are you two going to do this? And where?”
Sam smiled across the room at Max, who eyed the scrollwork on the mantelpiece clock. “Well, Phyllis, I had decided that the service will be at the base up in Seathl, on September fifth.”
“That’s a bit fast. You SURE you ain’t pregnant by him?”
“Very sure, Phyllis.”
“Who’s doing the service?”
“Well, I had planned on asking one of the chaplains – “
The older woman snorted a laugh. “You’ll use Father Wanamaker, and like it. I’ll talk to him tomorrow, and he’ll be there. It’s only just desserts – the loudmouth gives us two hours every Sunday. Hardest thing in the world to shut him up, the stupid beaver.”
“Who else will be coming?”
“His brothers and sisters, of course. Maybe a few cousins.”
“Not Cousin Alf, Ma.”
“He wouldn’t come anyway, Max.”
“Who’s Cousin Alf?”
“Cousin on his father’s side. Alf’s a shaman up around Cranston. Talks to trees,” she said disgustedly.
After perhaps an hour, Sam and Max said their goodbyes, and Mortimer drove them back to the train station. Max sat in stony silence, sulking with his ears laid back and his arms crossed over his chest.
As they started to walk into the station, Mortimer said, “Max.”
“What, Mort?”
“She’s too good for you.”
Max looked Sam up and down, and said, “I agree.”
The older fox said, “Sally and I’ll be there,” and drove off.
“Sam?”
“Max?”
“Do you still want to go through with this?”
“Of course! Do you?” She smiled at him.
Max slowly smiled. “Of course.”
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Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Red Fox
Size 72 x 120px
File Size 70.1 kB
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