Ella Minnow Pea (8 page)

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NOLLOPVILLE

Toes, September 19

Ella,

Mr. Warren is here. I wasn’t aware that he was so young! Perhaps he only looks young. I chose not to ask his age so as not to embarrass him. Maybe twenty-four. No more than twenty-six, I think.

He is also very attractive. He parts his hair in the center, picking up on the style of the local boys. I can tell he wants to fit in. I can tell that he wishes not to arouse anyone’s suspicion.

He is single, as well—at least from what I have been able to learn. He was happy to show me pictures of his mother, his cocker spaniel, even his eight-year-young niece, but no beautiful fiancée, thank heaven!

I’m not sure why I am acting the schoolgirl. Perhaps because it has been so long since we’ve given welcome to such an interesting visitor. I know what you must be thinking. But I can assure you: the purpose of Nate’s visit is
not
to fall in love with me. Yet in my heart of hearts, I must confess: I simply cannot stop myself from the inevitable “what if”!

He got in last night, by the way.

Have I written that he’s witty? Clever to near-fault, it turns out. Not to mention the fact that he speaks with such a mellifluous Savannah-honey-voice that I come close to simply melting away each time he opens his mouth!

I must confess, as well, to being still in the thrall of two full glasses of Sonoma Cabernet. I write you—glancing at the clock near my cot—at one in the a.m. Sleepy, I know I ought to be, but I am not!

I must also relate how taken Mother is with our new houseguest. For his part, Mr. Warren has been most open to our
smile-accompanying, eager-to-please hospitality—reciprocating our courtesies with southern-tangy flattery, in couplet with sweet masculine grace.

He will be staying with us for a week or so before traveling to your neck of the forest to meet with Mr. Lyttle. If I am lucky, his trip to town will concomitate perfectly with my own trip to see my most favorite cousin.

Tomorrow I shall wake, thereupon to wish none of this were put to paper, but by then it will be too late, for this letter is going into the corner mailbox as soon as I can throw on a robe to venture out. What a lovely time we have spent this evening, Sweet Ella, even without the use of the four illegal letters.

(I must own to a slippage on occasion; there was slippage from each of us as the evening wore on, our tongues becoming looser; it was almost impossible not to stumble in light of the intoxicating circumstances. But we were lucky in that when such a misspeak took place, there were no ears pressing themselves against the portals or fenesters to overhear.)

I trust, as always, the safe, nonintercept passage of this letter. For while arguable is the possibility that Nollop speaks to us post- mortem—sans mortar as it were—the one thing that isn’t contestable, that rings with pure alloyless truth, is the last thing that left our venerable vocabularian’s mouth prior to his expiration: “Love one another, push the perimeter of this glorious language. Lastly, please show proper courtesy; open not your neighbor’s mail.” (You may recall that this was a rare pet peeve of Mr. Nollop’s.)

Love
,

Tassie

NOLLOPVILLE

Wetty, September 20

Ella,

I beg you to ignore that last letter. I was in a state of shameful inebriation. Mr. Warren is a nice man. That is all. A nice man. I am near mortification!

Love
,

Tassie

NOLLOPVILLE

Wetty, September 20

My loving sister Gwenette,

I cannot teach. Without that grammatical unifier. It is impossible. I plan to resign tomorrow.

Semicolons are simply not an option. These youngsters are only seven! Young people of such age can’t fathom semicolons!

Nor can I employ an “or” when I want the other one—the one that brings together, not separates.

My brain throbs. I have a hangover. Far too much wine last night.

The wine. Plus the loss of that grammatical unifier. It is all too much.

Forgive me for my weakness.

Love
,

Your sister Mittie

NOLLOPTON

Thurby, September 21

Throbbing Sister Mittie,

Still you are luckier to be in the village. Eighteen families were sent away this morning. Many of the members I knew. Losing the first three letters was relatively easy in comparison to this most recent banishment.

Slips of the tongue. Slips of the pen. All over town people hesitate, stammer, fumble for ways to express themselves, gripgrasping about for linguistic concoctions to serve the simplest of purposes. Receiving no easy purchase.

I go to the baker’s. I point. We all point. We collapse upon our mattresses at the close of each evening, there to feel … feel … utterly, wholly diminished.

There. I now happily enlist in the “first offense club.” It feels exhilarating! You know I cannot allow you to be a member of any club to which I cannot belong. I will show a copy of this letter to one of our local authorities.

I will receive my official censure.

We shall be sisters-true as always.

Love
,

Gwenette

NOLLOPTON

Fribs, September
22

Mrs. Minnow Pea:

We appreciate your coming to us with a copy of your letter to your sister, but it was unnecessary. Your offense was known to us even before the letter’s receipt by your sister. Effective as of September 15 the primary responsibility of our isle’s new assistant chief postal inspector has been to scan all post for use of illegal letters of the alphabet, then to make nightly reports to the Council. A report has been put on file on your behalf, your official sentence to be forthwith in issuance.

Forty-eight hours hence you will present yourself to an officer of the L.E.B. at Town Center, there to choose between cephalo-stock or public flogging, as your use of the letter-combination at the close of the tertiary paragraph in your epistle to your sister contains not one employment of an illegum, but two. Perhaps you were unaware. This is no excuse (especially in light of the fact that your choice of this letter-combination was attributable to flagrant provocation).

We might note—to allay certain fears—that the assistant chief postal inspector may not upon Council behest report the content of anything he sees in the performance of his responsibilities. His task is merely to seek instances of illicitabetical activities. Ours continues to be a free, open society. There will be no censures or prosecutions for exercising one’s free speech rights in service to the laws of this nation, even if those rights entail criticism of the High Council. You may be certain of no violation of Nollop’s terminal-cot wishes when we say that all letters, all parcels that the inspector
opens which are not violative will be promptly put to seal, then sent on their way. As a further assurance of the guarantee of your constitutional right to privacy, please note: the assistant chief postal inspector is an imbecile-savant from France. English is a foreign language he has yet to master.

Sincerely
,

Hamilton Ferguson

Chief Secretary

Office of High Isle Council

NOLLOPTON

Satto-gatto, September 23

Tassie,

I cannot believe it. Neither can Pop. What was Mum thinking? We are encouraging her to choose cephalo-stock. I will not allow any mother of mine to submit to the lash.

With love
,

Ella

NOLLOPTON

Sunshine, September 24

Mittie,

I cannot imagine that they are looking at our mail without ulterior motives. Henceforth, I encourage you not to censor your text, but to give serious thought to using the Tisbee-Cohane Cross-Isle Courier Service for all letters you wish to post to me. They are as fast as the Pony Brothers Express; most importantly, their gypsy operation more often skirts the attention of the postal inspectors. I will use them as well. I will also encourage the girls to employ their services. The only potential unpleasantness I can foresee in making the switch will be an occasional stench upon the envelope, owing to the fact that the Tisbee-Cohane Cross-Isle Courier Service is run by employees of the Tisbee-Cohane Septic Evacuators.

Still, though, I think it worth it. We now live in an official police state, be sure of it.

I chose cephalo-stock, you will be happy to hear. (Following much pressure by family members.) It was not so traumatic as one might think. There were a number of others in similar straits. Many of the families brought bulging picnic baskets. There was also a lovely fish fry with hush puppies (your favorite!), buttery corn-on-the-cob, mouth-watering tomato slices … Also, the singing of tuneful Gullah folk songs. It was, I must profess, one of the nicest afternoons I remember having spent in some time. Amos was even able to sell a few of his miniature spittoons.

Two chose whipping. Valiantly, the men took their lashes—later wearing the crimson stripes as emblems of honor. You may know these two; they are from the Village—members of a sect which believes that Nollop’s wishes have been put to gross misinterpretation. Rather than shunning the letters per Council proclamation,
they urge the opposite to the extreme. The problem with this position, as refreshing as it seems, is the unfortunate result that naturally follows the putting of such belief into practice.

Must go now to massage the crick in my stiff neck.

By the way, this is the sixth anniversary of Amos’s recovery. Not so much as a beer in all these years in spite of the sort of stressful circumstances that might prompt even Carrie Nation to imbibe (naturally using her hatchet as a resourceful bottle opener!).

Love
,

Your sister Gwenette

NOLLOPVILLE

Monty, September 25

Ella,

Last night, I woke from a horrible nightmare in which I saw myself sitting beneath the cenotaph as another tile fell to earth. The tile came to rest facing up. It was an “I.” I woke screaming. Mother spent the next few minutes trying to convince me that the chances of this happening were slim—that so far, Nollop has been most helpful to us by keeping all vowels firmly in place. Hearing my scream, Nate came into the room to comfort me as well.

“Then you believe in the power of Nollop?” I put to Mother.

Mother shook “no,” but then gave this response: “Here is what I believe: if Nollop actually exists—in spirit form, of course—then perhaps it is for some positive purpose—perhaps even the interposing of a finish to all this insanity emanating from Council Chambers.”

Now Nate was smiling. “The fable of Nollop has won acolytic support in the Purcy house of all places!”

Mother: “Mere supposition, Mr. Warren. I’m only saying
if
Nollop exists …”

Now a bigger smile from Nate, then: “So why thinkest thou, he hasn’t chosen thus far to take ‘heavenly’ retribution against this cretinous council of yours?”

My turn now: “Because he is waiting for the right moment?”

Nate shook no, while grinning his biggest grin of all. “You want the truth of what I think? Here’s the nutshell: Nollop when he was alive was pure charlatan. A veritable con man. Phenomenally successful in pulling the wool over the eyes of 35,000 naivetés, ripe for the pulling. If he exists at all as manipulating eternal spirit, I see no reason for his not being of the selfsame ilk.”

“Humbug terrestrial, humbug everlasting?” Nate was beginning to make sense.

“Humbug, yes, as well as simply not a very nice man. Listen up, my pretty Purcy postulators …”

(Nate was becoming a bit familiar; this was not a problem for Mother or for me!)

“…  your council was built on power-lust. Nollop’s whole life was a construct not only of such lust for power, but of an unnatural craving for outright worship. Yet the man was without any merit, any virtue—holy or otherwise—whatsoever. Look at what befell his secretary. For that matter, look at what befell nearly everyone he met. All those instances of truth, fairness, humanitarianism, altruism: pure mythology. Perhaps worse than mythology: Nollop has become your Baal.”

“Baal?” This from Mother, although I was taken aback as well.

“There’s ‘Biblical’ for you.”

My shiver was obvious.

Nate was finishing up now: “Allow me, finally, to offer up this arresting little trenchancy: given a few weeks, I, or either of you—most anyone on this isle for that matter—might learn how truly easy it is for one to create a sentence of length matching Nollop’s—perhaps one even shorter. In fact, this may be our ultimate salvation.”

Mother fell silent, I as well.

Sweet Ella, broach this at your next meeting. I am curious to learn the response it receives.

Love
,

Tassie

NOLLOPTON

Toes, September 26

Tassie,

Intriguing as Nate’s proposition is (I will present it as you suggest.), an even more curious event has taken place. An “O” has fallen. One of the four “O”s. (The last appearance in the vulpine-canine sentence.) The Council has gone into emergency session. What meaning to assign to loss of a letter whose removal leaves three companions still extant?

I carry a mischievous grin upon my lips. How will they glean? Whatever will be their ruling this time, now that Nollop has become strangely obtuse? We await their pronouncement. In the meanwhile, I eagerly await the arrival of my cousin, along with her new companion, Nate.

Love
,

Ella

NOLLOPVILLE

Wetty, September 27

My sweet Mittie,

This will be my last letter to you. I can write no more. Writing has never been an easy task for me, even prior to the loss of the fourth letter. It now takes a large part of my wakeful hours trying to make intelligible contact with those I love. I haven’t your schooling nor your facility with language. It compels all the mental energy I can summon simply to communicate orally with Cooney, not to mention the young ones.