As the week wore on, Qwilleran worked on the second segment of the “Great Storm” script and wrote a “Qwill Pen” column for Friday, decrying the increase in bad manners among phone users. He blamed people in a perpetual hurry, people phoning from their cars, and telephone subscribers annoyed by calls from salespersons and solicitors. Too many persons were shouting “Who’s this?” into the mouthpiece . . . or “Whoozis?” The offending party could be the one answering the phone, or a caller who has reached a wrong number, or anyone too busy to care about civilities.
Qwilleran wrote, “Is this a fad? A phenomenon? A social disease, peculiar to areas 400 miles north of everywhere? If you are a member of the Whoozis Club, please drop us a postal card. The ‘Qwill Pen’ would like to be enlightened.”
Friday, June 20, had been circled on Qwilleran’s calendar. It was his mother’s birthday! She had died when he was in college, and after that his life had been a roller-coaster ride.
Then, suddenly, Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran came rushing back into his memory again. He had read letters she had written to a friend before he was born. They were the key that unlocked the door to his early life. She was a single parent. His father had died before Qwilleran was born. Now he could appreciate her efforts to give him a normal upbringing.
Jamie, she called him. He had a playmate called Archie, whose dad took the two boys to the zoo, parades, and ball games. As the boys grew older, Mr. Riker gave them the advice needed from a father.
There were certain things Qwilleran remembered about Lady Anne, as he now called her: how she always recited the same poem on her birthday . . . how her fingers flew when she played “Flight of the Bumblebee” on the piano, and how she always wore a bracelet with dangling coins.
Now Arch Riker was back in his life, as editor-in-chief of the newspaper, and it seemed only fitting that he and Mildred and Polly should honor Lady Anne on her birthday.
At the end of the workday, the foursome gathered at the barn and drank a toast to Lady Anne. Then Polly read the Wordsworth poem—the one that began:
The “Qwill Pen” had promoted the idea that everyone should have a birthday poem. Qwilleran himself had adopted Kipling as his birthday poet: “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you . . .”
Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist, had chosen Carl Sandburg: “The fog comes on little cat feet . . .”
Mildred, who had survived more than her share of personal tragedies, quoted Lizette Woodworth Reese: “When I consider life and its few years . . . I wonder at the idleness of tears . . .”
Polly quoted Wordsworth, although she said she had to change a word here and there: “My heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky . . .”
Arch quoted Anonymous: “I know two things about a horse, and one of them is rather coarse.”
Then the host rushed his guests off to the Old Grist Mill, where two champagne buckets crowded with daffodils stood on a console table in the foyer. A card read: In memory of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran.
Mildred asked, “How did you round up so many flowers—without baby’s breath or ribbon bows or other additives?”
“The daffodils were ordered from Chicago,” Qwilleran said, “and I told the florist to send them directly to the restaurant, because they were being used in a salad.”
Riker said, “Qwill was always a master of creative fibbing.”
That said, they drank a solemn toast to the memory of “Lady Anne.”
Then they discussed the Brrr birthday party: Five hundred pages had been purchased in the souvenir book. Twenty thousand T-shirts had been ordered—with the same logo being used on the official poster: “Brrr” and “200” in red on a white background, surrounded by a blue lifesaver. John Bushland was getting married again, and they’d live in Thelma’s house. Polly quoted book-selling statistics that related sales potential to square footage, and Qwilleran said that the script of “The Great Storm” would be ready for rehearsal Sunday afternoon—even if he had to stay up all night Saturday.
The week was not over. On Saturday, Qwilleran finished part two of the “Great Storm” script, and when Thornton phoned from the Art Center, he was invited to walk up the lane and listen to a run-through.
Qwilleran, besides reading and emoting, had to press the buttons that brought in the voices of eyewitnesses, so the timing was not as crisp as it would be onstage. Even so, Thornton found the show gripping and absolutely real. Qwilleran protested modestly, but actually . . . he thought so, too.
