Ella Minnow Pea (11 page)

“Boil-seasoning with that, Mrs. Mittie?”

“Not this time, Xenia. I’m preparing gumbo.”

Then a most curious stare. I’m sure I won’t be able to relate to you with any great success this woman’s expression. But I’ll try, nonetheless (because it was such a strange mixture): surprise, slight anxiety, momentary consternation, then overwhelming, saucer-eye panic!

I began to stammer: “What is it? What have I—”

It then became obvious. In an eye bat. All this time—in my brain—never having seen her name written out, I was misspelling it. You see, Xenia’s name began not with an X, but with the other letter—the one that brought in this whole reprehensible era! Hers was, obviously, the legal spelling. Hence, my culpability.

This woman isn’t a stranger to me, Tassie. I am no stranger to her. There is twenty-year amity between us. This is why I am so sure that she wasn’t the one to report the violation. It was the other woman. The one in line with me wearing the worn-out tunic with all the paint splotches. Georgeanne Towgate. The ever-present, honor-bent Georgeanne Towgate!

I’m sure that she was the one whose ears got it all. My suspicion was met by a smile—a sinister simper, twisting her saliva-moist,
overly rubilious lips as she apparently thought it all through—especially how important it was to bring this glaring violation to the Council’s attention as soon as possible.

My thoughts were spinning at that moment as well: giving serious contemplation to pushing this Mary Cassatt aspirant—now my veritable
nemesister
—right over the railing. Straightway into the heaving sea. What a pharisaic, vigilante witch! The nerve—to report me—not once, but twice!

Not being one to waste time about such things, Mrs. Towgate, I’m certain, brought in her eyewitness report within minutes; by early evening your poor mother was in ignominious cephalo-strait.

The opportunity was mine to silence the witch in perpetuity. I let it go. I am an ignoble poltroon!

Sincerely
,

Your ignoble poltroon Mother

NOLLOPTON

Sunshine, October 15

Aunt Mittie,

Tassie gave me your letter. I am so sorry. What a moronic way to spell one’s name! Give me permission; I will happily terminate Mrs. Towgate, saving you the trouble.

Enterprise Thirty-two has hit a wall at 47. Instructor Mannheim with the university, in alliance with his tireless pupils, assures us that they will soon breach barrier 44. But I am not so sure. Many others here in town, though, seem to have given up. Pop is beginning to believe it to be an impossibility—this thirty-two letter-grail (“chimera” he calls it) we all pursue. But I am not in agreement with those who own this opinion.

So many long-time isle inhabitants are now gone. Most are expulsion victims, but some are no longer with us simply because they choose not to live in such a hostile, inhospitable place. It is no place to thrive, Aunt Mittie—no place at all to raise young ones, to be even marginally happy.

Mother worries about you with Tassie not there. (Especially given what you mention in your last letter.) Is the gentleman Rory being proper helpmate/protector? It gives her solace when she recalls your mentioning his ease with language—the way he seems to clearly embrace the challenges inherent in communication with restriction. Ah, that we might all ultimately rise to such challenges.

Tassie is well—heart-ailing, but otherwise well. We will not permit you to worry about her. She is writing to Nate as much as she can. There are no guarantees that her letters are getting through to him in the States; she can only trust that those to whom she passes them to smuggle out, with proper payment, will honor their contractual agreement.

By the way, her epistles must still be written with all alphabetical restrictions intact, lest interception bring them to the L.E.B., the result being Tassie’s own banishment. (Although, I must say she is in a better position than most, without even a single violation to her name.) This is an important point; recently, several on their way to Pier Seven (then on to the States) wrote parting letters without employing the necessary caution with respect to current alphabetical restrictions, only to have the recipients themselves brought up on charges! Remember, as well, that L.E.B. thugs are still wont to engage in spot home searches, hoping to turn up anything containing the illicitabeticals. One cannot be too wary; last Thurby, a woman who lives near us was brought into L.E.B. Precinct 2. The charge: an unthought-through grocery list seen by a thug, there on her icebox.

Pop is staying out late, coming home with a pungent alcohol smell about him. (I am not eager to tell you this, but Mother will not allow me to engage her on the topic). 48 hours ago he was put on notice by his wholesaler that U.S.-Nollop business transactions were moving to hiatal suspension. Were Pop to continue to create his miniatures, especially those popular moonshine vessels, he will have to emigrate to the U.S. Which means we will have to go too. I am sorry to say, Aunt Mittie, that I was not sympathetic. Because this obviously means leaving my eighteen-year home here, who can say how long? Leaving all that I cherish. Leaving Tassie. Leaving my sweet Aunt Mittie.

There have been reports that Nollop expatriates are having a rough time in the States, are very much “at sea” in American society, in cultural isolation as it were—unable to melt into the proverbial American melting pot. It will be the same with us, I am certain. As long as we are there we will live as outcasts.

I will tell Pop that we will live on my washerwoman’s income, on
our meager savings, until this crisis comes to a close. Then, as expatriates begin to return home, house construction will surely begin anew, carpenters such as Pop naturally obtaining ample employment in the process.

But let us say this never occurs. That the crisis continues. Because we cannot move below 47! Because the best brains at the university—the best brains in the nation cannot move us anywhere near 32 by November 16! What then?

It is late. Pop has yet to come home. Tassie sits writing letters to Nate—letters he may never see.

The gnawing apprehension has come again.

Help me, sweet Aunt Mittie, not to give in to it.

Love
,

Your niece Ella

NOLLOPVILLE

Monty, October 16

Ella,

I cannot help you. Not now. Please tell Tassie: Rory is gone. It began this way: brash Council representatives, upon reaching his northern acreage, gave him papers that gave
them
authority to appropriate his property. No reason was given other than: “It is the Council’s wish.”

“Meaning it isn’t Nollop’s wish?” was Rory’s angry response.

“On the contrary. The Council serves
only
Nollop. By extension, then, Mr. Cummels, whatever laws the Council passes are laws which by their nature must certainly have met with Nollop’s approval.”

“But I can’t possibly see how stealing another man’s property meets with Nollop’s approval.”

“The reasons are strictly ecclesiastical in nature, Mr. Cummels. Perhaps the Council wishes to erect a tabernacle on this site.”

Rory was seething, his countenance nearly vermilion in hue. My worry that moment was that poor Rory might have a coronary arrest!

“A tabernacle—a temple—you actually mean—you actually mean a house in which to worship Nollop?”

“That is correct.”

“But what about the Supreme Being we presently choose to worship?”

“There is no other Supreme Being but Nollop.”

“Repeat that statement, sir. Please. I want Mrs. Purcy to hear it.”

I was then brought over as close witness.

The Council representative—his voice: even, treacly polite—gave his response again, with slight elaboration: “Mr. Cummels,
it is the Council’s earnest conviction that there is no other Supreme Being but Almighty Nollop. None whatsoever. Praise Nollop. Nollop eternal.”

At this point, Rory lost all control. Now, Rory isn’t a very religious man—at least I never thought so. But he became at that moment positively apoplectic—moving to assault the representative with everything available to him in his verbal arsenal, utterly without restraint—letting loose with a veritable, vituperative salvo—nothing printable here. Expulsion was complete within an hour’s time, as an outgoing ship was set to leave at precisely the moment Rory was brought to the pier.

There was a cursory exchange between us—an impotent attempt at a chin-up bon voyage replete with the now customary, almost prosaic parting anguish. A moment later he was gone. As the ship was pulling away, Rory gave the store hasty mention. It is mine now. I will try to run it as best I can, preserving solvency until his return. Given this provision: he actually returns.

That is, given this provision as well: the Council chooses not to turn the little store into yet another Nollopian church. A church to bring a smile to that corpsal countenance we all must revere, or else. We have seen the “or else.” It no longer scares me. The lamp will burn late tonight. We will best 47. Our battle may ultimately result in our extinction, but we will win at least this small success. Less than 47. It can be. Nollop was able in 35. Let us remember, as well, that Nollop was an imbecile.

With love
,

Your Aunt Mittie

NOLLOPTON

Toes, October 17

Nate,

I’m not sure this letter will reach you, though I pray the contrary. Time is running out. We cannot go below 47. As much as we try—that is, those who are still trying. I’m aware that some are still laboring at the university. Mother writes to Cousin Ella that she continues her own moiling over the alphabet up in the Village. But the mass exit has nonetheless begun. Townspeople. Villagers.

As three more tiles have given plunge. All in one evening. Two “E,”s then a “B.”

We have one “E” remaining. The “B” may be a blessing. Other possibilities might have been more troublesome. (Yet as I peruse what I have written up to now, I note six “B”s in the last two sentences!) Who, then, can ever be sure about such a thing? At this point, losing
any
letter can only be problematic.

We have come to a travailious time, Nate. Mother’s Rory is gone. Mother, Aunt Gwenette, Uncle Amos—each has one violation to spare, then banishment. I am growing so weary with that term. “Banishment.” You hear it all over. In urgent whispers; in hopeless cries. Companion to the listless, vacant stares—stares belonging to those who live in resignation to the grimmest possible outcome, all but put to seal. “Banishment.” We say the term. We write the term. Believing somehow that in 36 hours, it surely will
not
be gone. That somehow the cavalry will come to our rescue!

But
we
are our own cavalry. The only cavalry there is. Whose horses seem in permanent hobble status!

“Banishment”: the next banishment victim! To become one more invisiblinguista. The 4000th, 5000th such victim? Is anyone counting? Perhaps Nollop? Expunging each entry in his Heavenly
Lexicon—one at a time—until the tome’s pages stop resembling pages at all. Until they become pure expurgatory-tangibull. Raven-striate leaves. Ebony reticulate sheets. Tenebrous night in thin tissue.

Contemnation by tissue! It is almost unbearable.

Am I being morose? I’m sorry. I cannot help it. I want you here. I cannot say how much.

Write me. Will I receive your letter? I can only hope.

I miss you so.

Love
,

Tassie

^Th
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NOLLOPTON

Topsy Turvy, Octavia 19

My Nate,

Mannheim has come through! He has at least met the goal I wrote you concerning in my last letter: he has come up with a sentence 44 letters in length containing all the necessary 26 appearances. With the recent spate in migrations to the States, there is now a shortage: not nearly enough six- to seven-year-youngs to write the sentences. Conveniently, though, Mannheim is papa to an intelligent six-year-young lass—Paula—who met with success in her initial attempt at transcription. I cannot, alas, mail it to you, as I then put yours-truly at peril. (Only were I a youngster, six or seven, might I attempt to courier via the post such a precarious missive.) Perhaps it will somehow reach you through other means.