Little raindrops sprayed from little wings, but did not affect the petals the phronik tossed with abandon. Meadow Saffron was the first to pause.
“Whoo!” she said, fanning herself with one petal. “I thought for a long time we wouldn’t do it. And they would.”
“The way she was treating him like one of her girlfriends!” Bluebell spread herself out in midair on her back, waving a hand in front of her face. “I thought sure he’d see how to move in!”
Unfirom nodded. “Delaying them long enough for the rain to come was good enough.”
Blubell kicked out and did the backstroke up to look him straight in the nose. “Did you make it rain?”
“Of ot was no more than a matter of rain, the five of us would be unnecessary,” the angel noted. “Was there some reason you didn’t lure a dog or a passerby toward te bushes? That might have spoiled the mood more quickly.”
Swwt Pea was peering up the drainspout of the lodge, obviously hoping for a stream of water, but looked around quickly. “That would be cheating!”
“Anyway,” said Primrose, kicking raindrops from a leaf down to a bedraggled wildflower. “They might’ve just gone someplace else, where we couldn’t….”
“Watch,” said Bluebell.
Sweet Pea stuck both hands out to catch raindrops, but these were so fine that it took a while for the tiny palms to fill. “It was easier that time we had to make that couple do it right here. Why dn’t you bring us some more like that?”
“That was a special case.” Unfirom studied the clouds. “Those two would have met later at a party and fallen so thoroughly in lust that they would have used the hostess’s bedroom and then left in a hurry without getting each other’s phone numbers or addresses. They would have hunted for each other unsuccessfully for the rest of their lives.”
“And what about these two?” Meadow Saffron demanded, pointing at Olivia and Griffin in the distance.
The angel swept rain from his nose. “They would have decided they had to get married in about four months. Forbidden by their parents to do so, they would have eloped.”
“But that’s romantic!” cried Bluebell. “And they were so cute together! Couldn’t they have lived happily ever after anyhow?”
“Just outside of town, Olivia would cry out that she saw her father’s car. To escapem Griffin would have tried to beat a train to the crossing. Without success.”
Sweet Pea threw her arms over her head, scattering the rain she’d captured. “Oh no! What a good thing we were here!”
“So now what?” Primrose demanded, slapping away the rain Sweet Pea had splashed all over her.
Unfirom wrinkled his nose toward the sky. “The marriage will take place,” he said, “And for the same reason, but three years from now, by which time Olivia will have a job and be able to support him.”
Primrose rolled over on her back to watch the rain come down. “And they can get married in a church, with their families, and cake, and little sandwiches.”
“And presents.” Sweet Pea nodded vigorously. “Blenders.”
“And napkin rings!” shouted Meadow Saffron, throwing a fist up into the air.
“Little pillows with tassels on the corners,” sighed Bluebell.
“Matching candlesticks,” said Primrose, a faraway look in her eyes. “And crystal and china sets they won’t use and….”
“A Moby Sandwich!” squealed Sweet Pea, spotting the first of the early lunch crowd, careying the cheese-covered fish filet in a soggy bun. The phronik dove after her: Moby Sandwiches always dripped cheese and hot grease. Unfirom nodded, and moved off in the opposite direction.
The rain was no more than a drizzle which soon faded into plain humidity. The usual migration of people for whom a wet park bench took nothing away from time out of the office was beginning. Booty Burgers, Moby Sandwiches, and fries of varying size and sog perfumed the air. There were couples in the crowd, but none with pressing personal requirements, for which Unfirom was grateful. He would do his duty I any case, but the phronik were harder to gather when Triple-Thick Pizza made an alternate call.
His thumbs began to rub against his forefingers. Working with the phrtonik could be frustrating but not as much as periods of inactivity. There was always something to work on, something doing, in his pre-park days.
A quiver of the shoulders was all he allowed himself by way of a shrug. Then he picked up his pace, striding toward the familiar back of a head.
The developer had wrinkled his suit only to the extent needed to seat himself on the plastic bag he had spread across the wet bench. A sketchpad open to a page of precisely spaced doodles sat on his knee: nothing here resembled the Pont a Methon building. This seytchpad did not involve itself with any project except in the earliest stages: he was playing hooky. He really should have been in front of the computer, reading all the updates from various government agencies, or composing more complaints against Booty Burger. But he allowed himself occasional bouts of creativity among the day’s occupations.
Unfirom had seen this sketchpad a dozen times by now; he sidled over to watch unseen. Today, as on most days, the developer was sketching quick nudes of passersby, in their passing poses. Unfirom knew he had definitely complimented the young woman walking the shih tzu, but had very much shortchanged the young man on the inline skates. The couple in the convertible, which had paused a mere ten seconds at the stop sign, was very elaborate, though it was obvious the artist was more interested in a classic Mustang than in the occupants.
The angel remembered the couple well; their attention had been diverted along a better direction when the phronik made it possible for them to realize they had patronized the same tattoo artist. Unfirom resisted the temptation to reach over the developer’s shoulder and add this detail to the developer’s sketch.
With an even tinier quiver of the shoulders, the angel turned away. A woman was marching through the wet grass, a long rolled banner trailing behind her. He could see through the folds that she had spelled it ‘MUSUEM”.
The crowd she had hoped for had not turned up, but her face brightened when she saw the back of the developer’s head. She walked faster, pulling up on the banner she hoped would rally the population to defend the park. Unfirom pulled back, waiting to see if he would be needed if and when she recognized her mortal enemy. He was not sure what she would do to the man with a weapon as wet and floppy as the misspelled banner.
“If you enjoy using the park….” She began, nearing the bench. Her right foot found the very spot where the ground leveled down toward the sidewalk.
“Ack!” She nearly regained her balance, but her left foot landed on the corner of the banner just as she swung around, jerking on the trailing fabric. Flapping forward, she landed hard on the sidewalk, presenting her southern façade to the trembling skies.
Unfirom checked around for the phronik. None of them were in sight. She had managed this landing all by herself.
“Are you all right?” There was no recognition in the developer’s eyes as he stooped forward, extending a hand across his sketchpad.
Her face was as red as the lettering on her banner. “I don’t know. Yes. No.”
“I don’t think you tore it.” Since she was ignoring his hand, he used it to catch up a fold of the banner. “The grass must be wet yet.”
“Ye-es.” She took the offered fold of banner from his hand, not very gratefully. “Thank you. That’s fine. I, er…thank you.”
Banner trailing behind her, she hurried away, limping just a little. Her face and neck were still very red. The developer watched her for a moment, and then returned to the sketchpad.
The new sketch was quick but as definite as any of his drawings. One of her legs was stretched behind her head on impact; Unfirom was mildly interested to observe that he had left her shoes on her feet. The developer nodded at the sketch, and reached inside his jacket for a red pencil, to shade the result.
Unfirom turned to watch the protestor leave the park, pausing a bit as a car whipped around the corner. Unfirom nodded. He had been sure the developer had given her higher heels than she was actually wearing.
Passing her on their way to the park were a tall man with a woman not quite so tall. Unfirom’s interest in the sketchpad evaporated, and he marched through the wet grass, searching for his co-conspirators.
Three quarters of the company were to be seen near the park lodge, Sweet Pea napping in a discarded yellow shoe, both her tongue and that of the sneaker hanging out, while Meadow Saffron and Bluebell wove a shoelace around a twig. They were singing again.
“Roller-skating Tatum had the whole thing planned
For a roller Derby comeback that would sweep the land;
She mastered every skating trick they could design—
And then some doofus went and put the wheels in line;
Percolator Coffeemaker,
Subaru and Studebaker;
All ya got is all yer gonna get;
Waddya bet?”
Unfirom gave the sneaker a nudge with one foot. “Where’s Primrose?”
“Oh, cookies,” muttered Sweet Pea, rolling over and sticking her hands under her head.
“There is work to do.” The angel pressed down on the shoelace. “Where is she?”
“He just doesn’t listen to the answers, does he?” yawned Meadow Saggron, fluffing out her hair in back.
“He will have only himself to blame if we never see her again,” said Bluebell, tossing the twig over one shoulder. “And we shall have to sing trios.”
Unfirom closed his eyes for one second. Then he turned to the park lodge. A glance through the window showed a tiny white cloud erupting from a doorway. He turned and marched around to the glass doors of the lodge.
The unique smell of dim rooms formed by painted cinderblocks struck his nose. He followed a faint background scent of flour, striding past small empty meeting rooms and then through a dark echoing chamber suitable for shuffleboard, ping pong, or skits performed by people in foolish costumes.
“Oh, pafoots!” cried a shrill voice from the room that opened onto this.
Having a studio so unworthy of her efforts was always a frustration to Primrose. In fact, few people larger than a phron could have accomplished much in a kitchen so small.
Ingredients were tidily stacked on the counter to the left of the cracked sink. Primrose was always tidy, except for eggshells, which she always tossed on the floor to keep them out of the way.
Just beyond the mixing bowl, though, several mounds of salt showed where she had run into difficulties. As Unfirom approached, she set her little measuring cup on a clear space, and then flew back to tip up the salt canister. This was not too large to lift, but it was too big for her to control, and the flow of salt rushed across her cup, knocking it over. She thomped down the canister and ran around it to set up the measuring cup again. Then she ran around and tipped the canister up again.
Nine times as much salt as the cup would hold surrounded it. The phronik gathered in the doorway cheered and applauded.
“Kinda early for snowdrifts!” called Bluebell.
“Phoof!” Throwing her arms up back behind her ears, Primrose kicked the measuring cup into the sink, where it bounced back and forth twice before rattling to a stop in the drain.
Sweet Pea flew over to study the cup. “What were you making?”
The chef wiggled her fingers above her head and scowled at the mixing bowl. “This silly recipe calls for two cups of sugar.”
Meadow Saffron flew over to light on the canister. “But this is salt!”
Primrose kicked at one of the little piles. “I know. They were out of sugar. They never have ANYTHING around here!”
“I wonder why.” Spotting the canister lid, Unfirom picked it up and put it back on the canister. “Shall we move outside to our usual chores?”
“As long as it’s not another couple running into trouble just for something to do.” The disappointed chef ran her fingers through the hair, streaking it with white powder.
“When we get to do it our way,” said Sweet Pea, settling in the drain to peer up not the faucet. “It can be all kinds of fun.”
“You can’t debauch everyone in the park,” said the angel.
A drip was forming above Sweet Pea. “Oh, I bet we could,” she said.
“You’d be recalled.”
Sweet Pea sniffed. “Where do baby angels come from?”
Unfirom tossed his hands toward the door. As they emerged from the shadows and looked through the glass doors, Bluebell spotted the couple making their way carefully through damp grass. “Oh dear,” she said.
“They’re holding hands already,” said Sweet Pea. “That’s a good sign.”
“Not really,” the angel replied. “They’re engaged.”
Primrose flew up toward Unfirom’s right ear, salt adhering to damp calves and thighs. “What’s the problem, then?”
“This couple will also be married out of necessity.”
Eight round eyes were moving from the couple to the angel’s somber face, and back again. “You’d never guess,” said Sweet Pea.
“They have to get married because he’s decided he’s getting too old to be single, his parents want grandchildren, and she’s as suitable as any.” The angel nodded to the approaching couple. “She has to get married because she’s tired of living in a studio apartment, she has money, and he’s good-looking enough to be acceptable.”
Four mouths dropped open. “Ick!” said Primrose.
“Do we HAVE to?” Meadow Saffron demanded.
The angel inclined his head. “There will be two children,” he said, “Who will be devastated by the divorce when each finds someone more suitable. The younger of the two will take Little Hans, his plush dinosaur, and run away from home, right into traffic. The dinosaur will survive this.”
“No no no!” Sweet Pea launched herself toward the couple, hit the door, and bounced backward onto the floor.
Unfirom opened the door. “This way is quicker.”
Blogsy Babbles 