Jim Qwilleran was primarily a columnist for the Moose
County Something, but he was more. Previously a crime
reporter for major dailies across the continent, he had
relocated in the north country when he inherited the vast
Klingenschoen fortune. This he immediately turned over to
a philanthropic foundation, claiming that he felt
uncomfortable with too much money. The K Fund, as it was
called, improved schools, medical facilities, and the
general quality of life in Moose County, leaving Qwilleran
free to mix with the people, listen to their stories,
write his column, and manage the care and feeding of two
Siamese cats.
The three of them lived in a converted apple barn on the
edge of Pickax City. It was there that Qwilleran was
preparing their breakfast one day in September, arranging
red salmon attractively on two plates with a garnish of
crumbled Roquefort. (They were somewhat spoiled.) They sat
on top of the bar in two identical bundles of fur,
supervising the flood preparation.
They were Koko and Yum Yum, well known to readers of
the "Qwill Pen" column. The male was lithe, muscular, and
cocky; the female smaller and softer and modest, although
she could be demanding.
Both had the fawn fur, precise brown points, and blue eyes
of the breed ... aswell as the Siamese tendency to voice
an opinion on everything; Koko with a vehement "Yow!" and
Yum Yum with a soprano "Now-ow!"
Just as Qwilleran was placing the two plates on the floor
under the kitchen table, Koko's attention jerked away to a
spot on the wall. A moment later the wall phone rang.
Before it could ring twice, Qwilleran said pleasantly into
the mouthpiece, "Good morning."
"You're quick on the trigger, Qwill!" said the well-
modulated voice of a woman he knew, Carol Lanspeak.
He explained, "I have an electronic sensor here. He tells
me when the phone is going to ring and even screens
incoming calls as acceptable or otherwise. What's on your
mind, Carol?"
"Just wanted to ask if you're going to write the program
notes for the new production."
"Actually, I have another idea I'd like to discuss with
you. Will you be in the store this morning?"
"All day! How about coffee and doughnuts at ten o'clock?"
"Not today," he said regretfully. "I've just had my annual
physical, and Dr. Diane lectured me on my diet."
The Lanspeaks were a fourth-generation family in Moose
County, dating back to pioneer days. Larry's grandmother
ran a general store, selling kerosene, calico, and penny
candy. Larry's father started the department store on Main
Street. Larry himself, having acting talent, went to New
York and had a little success, but then he married an
actress and they came back to Pickax to manage the family
business and launch a theatre club. Larry's daughter was
the medical doctor who advised Qwilleran to consume more
broccoli, less coffee-and one banana a day.
After taking leave of the cats, Qwilleran walked downtown
to Lanspeak's Department Store. From the barnyard an
unpaved road led through a dense patch of woods to the
Park Circle, where Main Street divided around a small
park. On its rim were two churches, the courthouse, the
public library, and a huge block of fieldstone that had
once been the Klingenschcoen mansion.
Now it was a theatre for stage productions, and the
headquarters of the Pickax theatre club. Northward, Main
Street was a stretch of stone buildings more than a
century old-now housing stores, offices, and the newly
refurbished Mackintosh Inn.
The Lanspeaks' department store, which had started a
century before, advertised "new-fashioned ideas with old-
fashioned service."
Arriving there, Qwilleran walked between glass cases of
jewelry, scarves, handbags, cosmetics, and blouses-to the
offices in the rear, bowing to the clerks who hailed
him: "Hi, Mr. Q. How's Koko, Mr. Q?"
He was known not only for his lively newspaper column and
his philanthropy and his Siamese cats, but also for his
magnificent pepper-and-salt moustache! It had not been
equaled since Mark Twain visited Pickax in 1895. Qwilleran
was a well-built six-feet-two, in his fifties, with a
pleasing manner and a mellifluous voice. But it was his
impressive moustache and brooding gaze that attracted
attention. His photo appeared at the top of each "Qwill
Pen" column.
Both Lanspeaks were working in the office.
Apart from their voice quality, there was nothing about
the couple to mark them as actors. There was nothing
striking about them, but onstage they could assume
different personalities with professional skill. At the
moment they were small-town storekeepers.
"Sit down, Qwill. I suppose you're well acquainted with
our play," Larry said.
"We read it in college and went around talking like Lady
Bracknell for the rest of the semester. Also, I've seen it
performed a couple of times. It's a very stylish comedy.
I'm curious to know why you scheduled it for this area-the
boondocks, if you'll pardon the expression."
"Good question!" Larry replied. "Ask her! Wives sometimes
rush in where husbands fear to tread."
Throwing a humorous smirk in his direction, Carol
explained, "The club presents one classic play every year,
and Larry and I happen to agree that Oscar Wilde is one of
the wittiest playwrights who ever lived. The Lockmaster
group did this play at the Academy of Arts two years ago.
Superb! And Alden Wade, who played Jack Worthing, has just
relocated in Pickax and joined the theatre club. He's
terrifically talented and good-looking!"
"What brought him to Moose County?" Qwilleran asked.
"The tragic loss of his wife," Carol said. "He needed a
drastic change of scene. It's definitely our gain. And
since he has sold his property-a horse farm, I believe-it
looks as if he intends to stay."
"That guy," Larry interrupted, "does the stylized upper-
crust Jack Worthing so well that the rest of the cast is
finding it contagious!"
"We had trouble casting the role of Algernon," Carol went
on, "so Alden suggested Ronnie Dickson, who played the
role in Lockmaster and was willing to help out, even
though it's a sixty-mile round-trip drive for every
rehearsal-and he hasn't missed a single one."
"Which is more than I can say for our own people," Larry
added. "Now all we need to worry about is the audience.
They'll be hearing perfectly straight-faced actors
speaking outrageous lines. How will they react? I know a
few who'll call it silly-and walk out."
Carol said, "Most people in Moose County like a laugh, but
will they get the point? I'm wondering, Qwill, if you
could write the program notes with that in mind."
"Precisely why I am here! I've noticed that our audiences
never read the program notes before the show; they're too
busy chatting with people they know in the surrounding
seats. What they should know-in order to enjoy the play to
the fullest-is not read until they get home. So here's my
idea: Tuesday, to be exact, I'll devote the Qwill column
to an explanation of the Oscar Wilde style."
"I like the idea!" Carol cried. "Everyone reads the 'Qwill
Pen,' and you have a way of educating people without their
knowledge."
"True!" Larry said. "The locals have a sense of humor;
it's simply a matter of getting them tuned in. Give him a
script of the play, Carol."
With the conference ended, Carol walked with Qwilleran to
the front door, and Larry plunged into a stack of
paperwork.
She asked, "Is Polly Duncan excited about changing jobs?"
"She's saddened to be leaving the library after twenty-odd
years as director, but challenged by the prospect of
managing a bookstore. Do you have anything to suggest as a
graduation present? She has enough jewelry."
"We're expecting a shipment of lovely cashmere robes,
including a heavenly shade of blue that Polly would love."
Qwilleran's footsteps never led him directly home. There
was always a need to buy toothpaste at the drugstore or
look at neckties in the men's shop. Today his curiosity
led him to Walnut Street to view the new bookstore being
bankrolled by the Klingenschoen Fund.
Across the street, a vacant lot that had long been the
eyesore of Pickax City had been purchased by the K Fund.
Its tall weeds and slum of abandoned buildings had been
replaced by a park, and beyond that, a complex of studio
apartments at rents affordable to young singles employed
in stores and offices downtown. It was called Winston
Park. With the coming of the bookstore, the entire
commercial neighborhood was getting a face-lift.
Qwilleran wrote his Tuesday column in the style his
readers liked.
Expect the unexpected, friends, when you go to see the new
play. The Importance of Being Earnest is said to be the
masterpiece of the nineteenth-century playwright and wit
Oscar Wilde.
It's a comedy of manners-a spoof on the snobbish upper-
crust society in London. According to director Carol
Lanspeak, it calls for stylized acting, not realism. Their
self-important posturing goes with their lofty opinions.
Example:
"To lose one parent, Mr. Worthing, may be regarded as a
misfortune. To lose both looks like carelessness."
The plot is wacky, if not totally insane. One young
bachelor has invented a wicked brother named Ernest,
another has invented an invalid relative named Bunbury.
Why? You'll have to see the play.
Figuring prominently in the plot is a handbag-not a
woman's purse, but a small piece of luggage, just large
enough to carry.... You'll have to wait and see!
Then there's the matter of cucumber sandwiches! A young
gentleman sends out invitations to an afternoon tea and
orders cucumber sandwiches as refreshments. They are so
good that he eats the whole plateful before the guests
arrive.
I asked food writer Mildred Riker what is so special about
cucumber sandwiches. She said, "To make the classic
sandwich, cut a round of bread, spread it with softened
butter, layer it with crisp cucumbers sliced paper-thin,
and top it with another round of buttered bread. They're
delicious! You can't stop eating them!"
Some of the playwright's witticisms are still being used
today:
"Thirty-five is a very attractive age. London is full of
women of the highest society who have remained thirty-five
for years."
Every evening at eleven o'clock, Qwilleran put a cap on
the day by phoning Polly Duncan, the chief woman in his
life. On this night she sounded weary.
"You've been working long hours again!" he chided her.
"There's so much to do!" she cried. "I spend mornings at
the library and then seven or eight hours at the
bookstore."
"You must shake loose and come to the opening night of the
new play. I know you like Wilde."
"Oh dear! That's the night of the library board's farewell
banquet for me!"
"Well, that's important. We'll catch it later. They're
doing the play for three weekends. But I'll miss you on
opening night. Everyone will ask about you."
There followed scraps of the unimportant news exchanged by
persons who have known each other for a long time.
"You should drink a cup of cocoa and go to bed," he
finally advised. "Is there anything I can do for you
tomorrow?"
"Yes," she said promptly. "You could pick up Dundee!"