"May Day" (from 1 May 1937)

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Upload: 1 May 2007

"May Day"
by EOCostello
Miss Baumgartner and Inspector Stagg
join Doctor Meffit in his walled garden.
1 May 1937

"May Day"
by E.O. Costello

    In my experience, the coming of spring usually has a positive effect on the outlook of my patients. The somewhat raw, grey, wet weather that can dominate the North Pacific for weeks on end gives way to warmer breezes, with the promise of lingering twilight evenings.

    I say “usually,” because one of my longer-term patients tends to sink into saddened introspection in the springtime. Indeed, Detective Inspector Stagg, were it not for the busy nature of his profession and his duties with the Spontoon Islands Constabulary, might well be in peril of some drastic measures of, if you will excuse the expression, “self-help.”

    It is worth noting that, at least in recent months, he has been getting moral support of a kind that his subordinate, Sergeant Brush, cannot provide. Even given the rather broad-minded nature of many here in the Islands. Miss Baumgartner, the cheetah femme that has the lease of Luchow’s (a rather nice restaurant not far from my clinic), has taken it upon herself to look after the Inspector. He is to be envied in this respect. Had I known of the depths from which Miss Baumgartner could draw upon reserves of compassion and care, I would have made a serious effort to win her over myself. Alas, it is not to be. I shall have to wait until I find a lady mephit here on the Islands. I believe, unhappily, this is liable to be a rather long wait.

    In any event, I do what I can to cheer the Inspector up. I had noted, in the closing weeks of April in this year of 1937, that the Inspector was becoming increasingly distracted. On a personal level, mind you; never a professional level. As medical examiner, I see his work often, and I’m relieved that it is of a quality that makes my job rather easier. I could see, though, that it was becoming a bit of a struggle for even Miss Baumgartner to handle it on her own, with her own set of paws.

    I suspect a pending event was casting its shadow. Reginald Buckhorn, like the Inspector a whitetail buck, had for nearly a year been cutting a wide swath through the Islands, wreaking a great deal of good-natured havoc. I have it on the authority of no less than the current Chief Magistrate that Mr. Buckhorn was responsible, at single-paw, for a substantial sum of money being rendered to the Althing in the nature of assorted fines and damages. In this light, it was rather astounding that he managed to land a whitetail doe of roughly his age.

    This doe, Willow Fawnsworthy, was another patient of mine since the previous fall, when overwork had caused her to have a serious nervous collapse. Mr. Buckhorn’s scatter-brained gallantry had nearly caused even more chaos than usual, but merely resulted in a somewhat grotesque “duel” between Miss Baumgartner and himself. One that, happily, resulted in little more than Miss Baumgartner needing a few weeks of traction for her tail, and Mr. Buckhorn’s ricksha driver needing some hangover remedies.

    In any event, through circumstances that seem murky to me (I’m told they involve, among other things, the destruction of a pineapple brandy-laden barge by aerial bombing, surely an exaggeration), Mr. Buckhorn and Miss Fawnsworthy became engaged to be married. The wedding was due shortly.

    Ordinarily, it might have been held on the first Saturday of this year, which would have been May 1st. Both cervines were rather adamant that the happy occasion would not be held on that day; instead, the wedding was set for the Saturday following, and by all accounts was going to be one the hotel-keepers of Casino Island were going to remember with great glee when they did up their books at the end of the year.

    I had been at the stag party (so to speak) that Mr. Buckhorn held in the confines of the Meeting Island gaol. This was a sound and sensible policy that would have been appreciated by the forces of law and order more had Miss Fawnsworthy’s parallel party not turned out so…energetically. I blame the Duchess of Strathdern for opening her liquor cabinet so widely. In any event, at the vastly more sedate function in durance vile, Mr. Buckhorn made a magnificently bone-headed gesture, requesting that the Inspector give away the bride at the wedding.

    I was shocked that the Inspector accepted (albeit after some thinking), and I was even more shocked that Miss Baumgartner seemed to support this. There are times, however, when a doctor must keep his opinions to himself. I was not operating under any illusions that my statements on the matter were of interest to Miss Baumgartner, who is rather larger than I am and arguably more energetic.

    As I said, I could sense that the Inspector’s spirits were flagging somewhat (if such a term is permissible for a whitetail deer), and as a gentlefur that counts himself as one of the Inspector’s friends, I felt it behooved me to supply a distraction. And if I got the opportunity to talk some sense into the Inspector, so much the better.

    One of the benefits of my social position is that I am able to afford one of the Colonial-era houses on Meeting Island. Aside from the spaciousness of the residence, it opens up on a walled garden in the back. I do not begrudge the monies I spend on keeping up the garden; the garden boys do a first-class job of tending the flowers, and for nine months of the year, something is flowering there.

    If there is a drawback to my choice of residence, it lies in the fact that it is next door to the embassy of New Haven. As I think all in the Islands who care know, the Inspector is New Haven-born (so to speak: I think he was actually born in Europe while his parents were in the diplomatic service). When that unhappy land suffered through a revolution some five and a half years ago, Franklin Stagg, as the Chief of the State Police of the overthrown regime, was treated abominably. His fractured and gouged hoof are a souvenir of a physical sort. More to the point why the Inspector was feeling poorly, the revolutionaries executed his wife and doe-fawns in a truly ugly and vile manner, in public, yet. Judging from the memorial window at St. Anthony’s, I would say that Miss Fawnsworthy is roughly the age of the eldest doe-fawn. She even looks rather like her, though I suppose that’s merely my imagination. I imagine all mephitettes look alike to non-skunks.

    Anyway, back to the New Haven embassy. When I first moved into my residence some eleven years ago, the building seemed to be a quaint backwater. The Ambassador himself was a feline of prodigious age and quite stone-deaf. One would think this would be a handicap in his profession, but as his job mostly entailed bailing out the occasional drunken fellow-countryfur from jail, his was not a taxing post. Most of the time, he could be seen in the garden in back of the Embassy, fast asleep in a chair. Harmless chap. Poor fellow: he shot himself the night before his successor came to demand the keys.

    Since then, the Embassy has been a beehive of activity, and I’m sure not all of it legal. It certainly is deplorably noisy at times, and they +will+ hang banners –horrible eyesores they are, too, and badly spelled -- from the windows at every opportunity. I have complained to the Foreign Ministry many times about this behaviour, to no discernable effect.

    I have no desire to take matters up with the Ambassador himself, an obese fur of somewhat dubious personal hygiene. I am sure he would give a fur such as myself short-shrift.

    It remained to be seen what not-innocent fun they would be up to on May Day. I have long suspected that the Embassy spies on me from their windows. I make it a point to have my housefur polish the silver and wood to a positive glow. One must set an example, even for one’s social inferiors.

    Saturday, May 1st came. It was, as I had hoped, a quite pleasant day, with warm but not oppressively hot sunshine. I never like to see the Inspector in hot weather, as he takes it rather poorly. As Luchow’s does a much slower business on the weekends, when the bureaucrats are home, I had invited the Inspector and his companion for a suitable brunch. The housefur had brought one of the mahogany tables into the garden, and had brought out the china, silverware and damask tablecloth and napkins. It is very difficult to get help that knows how to set the table in “Euro” fashion, but P’ina, my housefur, was a very quick study.

    Miss Baumgartner and the Inspector arrived on the dot of 10.30. It filled me with a mixture of pleasure and some regret to see the Inspector’s lady friend in a proper garden hat and dress. That sort of thing is very much to my taste, you see. Judging from the way the Inspector was allowing himself to be gently led about, I’m sure he took pleasure in the way she was dressed as well. Such a pity his health makes it difficult to…well, I shan’t speak of that. I know it makes him very sad that he apparently cannot, as he says, “reciprocate” Miss Baumgartner’s efforts.

    The Inspector himself was in a suit that had obviously seen a very hot iron in the very recent past. Other than a battered hat (one that I see him wear nearly all the time), he would have passed muster even at L’Etoile d’Argent. I’m sure that bothersome nuisance of maitre d’hotel would have raised Cain over the hat. I would not, of course.

    P’ina opened a bottle of California champagne, and poured mimosas for Miss Baumgartner and myself. The Inspector, teetotaler that he is, contented himself with a tonic and Rose’s lime juice. He looked at his glass with a wry expression.

    “I suppose this should be a glass of maibock instead.”

    “Maibock?”

    Miss Baumgartner chuckled. “Maibock? Yeah, I remember. I usta know the guy who owned the Yankees. Big-time brewer…well, before that fercachter Volstead Act, anyhow. His place in Long Island...Tons of the stuff." She looked back in happy memory, then regarded the Inspector fondly. "Legal, aber naturlich." An amused snort from the Inspector as she continued. "Those barrels NEVER ran empty. Really GOOD maibock, too. Pale, refreshing and a great kick to it..."

    The Inspector looked into his glass, and I could see his eyes drift a bit. Not a good sign.

    “Yes, I remember. Hull’s used to come out with their maibock just about the time the shad started to run. They used to have a huge shad-bake at Savin Rock, planked shad tented over open fires. They used to do a tremendous business. Furs were glad, I suppose, when the weather would finally turn in the first few weeks of April. Yellows and pinks after all those months of grey.”

    I cleared my throat to try to shift the topic. “Well, yes. That’s the whole spirit of May Day, as it should be in my view. The Earth re-awakening after its slumber, and everyfur starting to come out and enjoy themselves.”

    Miss Baumgartner nodded. “Naturally. Especially for the goyim, after all those weeks of Lent. Cut loose, have a little fun, maybe!" She grinned. "Nothing like a maypole dance.”

    The Inspector seemed lost in his thoughts, and I motioned P’ina to serve him some stuffed mushrooms. I thought this might cheer him. To keep things moving, I picked up the thread.

    “Well, it’s quite interesting how for many celebrations, the old pagan rituals survived with a dressing of the new. The Yuletide festivities transforming into Christmas, for example. And spring fertility rites…”

    This produced an amused cheetah snort. “Yes. Big tall pole. Not very subtle, that. Even if it’s surrounded by little femmefurs in white dresses…”

    There was a faint corvine sigh. “I wish I could have a photograph of when my youngest first danced around a Maypole. They had a large one set up on the Green, just outside All Saints’ Cathedral. Oftimes, they’d schedule things so that First Communion and the Maypole dance would be the same week. My other girls enjoyed it, but I think my little flower looked the best of them. Especially when Gracie, God rest her soul, wove her a little crown of daisies for her headfur.”

    This was starting to venture into waters I didn’t want traversed, and I could tell Miss Baumgartner felt the same way. Under ordinary circumstances, the “Chit-CHIT-irrrrrr!” that suddenly broke through the breeze would have been an annoyance. However, when one of those strange white squirrels skittered along the back-wall and flicked his tail insolently, it seemed a welcome diversion.

    The Inspector looked up, and made a peculiar clicking sound with his tongue. The squirrel started, looked up, bounded down into the garden, stopped to scratch itself, and then, blast its impudence, bounded right up to the table. Miss Baumgartner eyed it suspiciously. She has had some issues with these white squirrels making pests of themselves around her restaurant, and I know some of her staff hates them with a passion. I certainly wish they wouldn’t dig up my garden.

    But for this once, I forgave the intrusion. A particularly large and succulent-looking acorn was selected by the Inspector from one of the silver bowls on the table, and it was offered gently to the non-anthrop, who reached up with greedy paws to snatch the prize.

    “AND SO WE SEE THE PRIORITIES! FEEDING THE NON-ANTHROPS, AND NOT THE OPPRESSED POOR!!”

    It took a great deal of self-control on my part not to jump clean out of my seat at the thunderous roar that erupted. Miss Baumgartner was not so lucky, and spilled some of her drink on her dress. She was not best pleased, especially when, after some frantic head-turning, she located the source of the uproar, correctly, as coming from a loudspeaker attached rather clumsily to the side of the Embassy next door.

    The Inspector, for his part, had dropped the acorn. The squirrel, frightened by the noise, had scampered for safety, and was currently perched on the wall again, chittering angrily and glaring with his little beady red eyes at the Embassy.

    “THE TIME WILL COME WHEN YOU WILL HAVE NO MORE SOCIAL PARASITES TO HEAL OF THE GOUT AND OTHER DISEASES OF THE IDLE RICH, AND ACCESS TO MEDICINE WILL BE FREE FOR ALL, AND NOT FOR OVERWEIGHT OLD LADIES…OR CHEETAHS.”

    I thought this was getting deeply personal, and I could tell from the way Miss Baumgartner’s claws became unsheathed in an eye-blink that she felt the descent in tone not to her taste. She began to say a number of compound phrases in Yiddish that I recalled from my days of youth being used by the butcher when confronted with a particularly officious health inspector.

    “Yes, well.” I gritted my teeth, making a mental note to have it out, once and for all, with the Foreign Ministry on this matter. “I understand that the regime in Germany has co-opted the holiday as well. Rather surprising, you would think the Social Democrats would have done this before…”

    “STUFF YOUR MUZZLES NOW, WHILE YOU CAN. THE DAY WILL COME WHEN WE WILL SLAP THOSE DAINTY MORSELS FROM YOUR FAT PAWS.”

    Miss Baumgartner, rather than putting down the hors d’oeuvre that she was about to eat, was clearly calculating the aerodynamic properties of the nosh, and the probable chances of hitting the loudspeaker. These were not good, only adding to her rapidly rising fury.

    The Inspector remained quiet, his eyes closed and head pointed toward his hooves.

    I still tried my best. “I must say, the old German expression ‘Tanz in den Mai!’ expresses the proper spirit, when families go out for some fresh air and some happy…”

    At this point, the loudspeaker began to play music at ear-splitting levels.

“Arise, you prisoners of starvation!
Arise, you wretched of the earth!
For justice thunders condemnation:
A better world's in birth!
No more tradition's chains shall bind us,
Arise you slaves, no more in thrall!
The earth shall rise on new foundations:
We have been nought, we shall be…”

    Miss Baumgartner cast her hat aside, and stood up, obviously spoiling for a fight. I must say that I was involuntarily stamping my feet, which I have been taught from birth is not something skunks of proper manners do. The Inspector looked stricken, and I was fearing the consequences, when another, louder noise rent the air.

    This was a mechanical shriek, followed by a harsh buzzing noise, and then a snapping sound. The music cut off in mid-boast, replaced briefly by static, and then blessed silence. Within the minute, the faint smell of something burning could be detected. After some searching, both Miss Baumgartner and I found the source: the transformer atop the power pole outside the Embassy had, mysteriously, caught fire, and was sending out shoals of sparks. A somewhat harried fur was ineffectually attempting to aim a hose at the source of the conflagration. He was not, evidently, aware of the undesirability of introducing water to an electrical fire until it was too late, when he achieved this knowledge and a small-scale explosion by an accurate jet of water. His compatriots began to berate him, and attempt to take in the banners, which were in danger of catching fire.

    Miss Baumgartner watched all of this with a grim satisfaction, and then retrieved her hat, replacing it defiantly on her head. P’ina refilled her flute with some more champagne and orange juice. I needed some more, myself.

    The Inspector was quiet, until a few minutes later, when a shuffling noise was heard among the flowers. Another (the same?) white squirrel appeared, and trotted over to the table for a handout.

    A paw reached out for an acorn from the bowl, hesitated, and then plucked another from the same source. Both were dropped to the ground near the squirrel.

    “Please thank your brother for me.”

    The squirrel greedily stuffed the acorns into its cheeks, and scampered off.

    Its departure was watched quietly with cervine eyes, which eventually turned back to Miss Baumgartner and myself. He reached for a slice of toast, and began to spoon blueberry jam on it.

    “Amazing how Nature works to redress the balance of things.”

end

To "The Catto Comeback"
To "May Day Celebrations"