Octavius the 1st

Chapter 15

143 Gaylord Brewer Chapter 15 The spirit cannot endure the body when overfed, but, if underfed, the body cannot endure the spirit. —St. Francis de Sales Outside the front door, newly delivered or unnoticed earlier behind the surrendered spikes of last year’s forsythia, Octavius discovered, discreetly and almost gently out of the way, a small reed basket of mottled oranges and grapefruits. He immediately intuited, while resisting a silent crow, the crux of the matter, and snagged the balanced envelope, inscribed, in the Mountebank’s shaky hand, “More Sweets for the Sweets”—he hoped the interior text tried harder—as the Marauder dragged him again into the light of this peculiar day. As they proceeded, at the beast’s sniffing, circling, leg-raising pace, Octavius tore the envelope with his finger, an uncharacteristic gesture that left an unseemly and jagged scar of paper. He couldn’t recall ever committing such an untidy offense before, or for that matter ever opening a letter clearly intended—he hoped 144 Octavius the 1st like hell—for other parties (this violation unrelated, by the by, to any occasional and unfortunate but harmless petty video larceny and so forth), but there was something in the air today, something up his sleeve and in his stride. He could feel it, too, this unaccountable and unearned “somethingness,” in his anxious but undoubtedly jaunty expression as he unfolded the white-flag note of his certain victory: Lovely Ladies, Sorry if my trash in your yard is an eyesore. These eyes ain’t what they used to be! Well, “if thy trash can offend thee, pluck it out,” I say! Won’t happen again! Anyhoo, when’re you two coming to church with me like you promised? Guess what?? They’re showing my Florida paintings in the sanctuary starting next Sunday! Can you believe it? “Painter Of Light”[ ™] my heinie! (whoops!) Thomas Kinkade[ ™?] watch out! Any body (or two? yikes!) want to be my date?!! (I promise to keep my hands to myself . . . at least during the service!! Ha!!) —PJ P.S. C’mon, it’ll be “fun!” P.P.S. Or is that, “Pee-pee S.”? (whoops again!) 145 Gaylord Brewer Well, mused Octavius, at least the purple ink was appropriate. A qualified victory, perhaps—about the best one could expect considering the foe—but a definite holding of ground and maybe better than that. Which is more, by the way, than he could currently say for the Marauder, who, further stymied by a breakfast surfeit of diced hot dogs and a torn slice of (that oxymoronic wonder ) “American” cheese, not to mention the QM’s ever-escalating histrionic threats of medical attention or, worse, an improvised home “prompting,” seemed resigned to defeat, not even making a decent, straining show of it. Hopeless. Miracles, however, as this odd morning continued to remind its doubting but mindful “Thomas,” sometimes beget miracles. As the two approached the house, the Marauder’s normal agitation noticeably increased. The animal began to rotate in a tightening , feverish spiral of ever-smaller, ever-faster circles, its eyes wet and bulging, the tiny anus tense with doubt, hope, fear, and who-knows-what-the-hell-else. Octavius could feel the palpable (yikes! whoops!) tension. At the bay window, adding to the climate of possibly continued failure, he saw the QM’s tight face, behind her a wave of the GD’s smoky wand. And then, so suddenly, so surely as to seem the stuff of dream or myth, the Marauder, having eschewed the tickling grasses, “stopped dead” on the patio sidewalk, twisted its trunk into a 146 Octavius the 1st contracted and abnormally (even for it) grotesque position, and, having accepted fully and at last and without choice the fickle, flowing forgiveness of its Gods, expunged bead after hard bead, an exploded defecatory rosary. Blessing followed blessing, and they seemed as if they would never cease. Thus, on the fifth day, the Marauder pooped. The door flung wide as the vanquishers approached. “WE SAW IT! WE SAW IT ALL!” exclaimed the QM, on her knees, her canine progeny shivering and transformed in her arms. “HE SHIT ON THE PORCH! HAW!! HRWAGH!” added the GD thoughtfully. As if on cue, or as if overcome with the renewed bounty and possibility of life, the Marauder was off, free of encumbrance and embrace, clawing the carpeting in some mad, mercurial blur of celebration, between the...