Seventeenth Straight Sheridan Spring Spaghetti Social
"There's no olive oil ... "
"Are you SERIOUS?" Field went to the cupboards (in, this, the kitchen of the Sheridan Friends Church), and sniffed about. Nose and whiskers! Wide-eyed.
"Mm ... we'll just have to get some," Adelaide reasoned. "Calm down, huh?" A giggle.
Tonight (Saturday! At 7:30!) Was the Seventeenth Straight Sheridan Spring Spaghetti Social at the little Quaker church. Attendance would be ... fifty-odd furs. Maybe. Last year, it had been 42 ... the record was 63 (three years ago).
It was 5:45. Said the battery-powered clock.
The mouse sighed, pacing (a bit). Thin tail dangling behind him like an errant fishing line. Silky, soft ... ready to be reeled in. "How'd we get wrangled into ... heading this shindig, anyway?" He stopped pacing. Looked to her. The bat. His mate.
"Cause, sometimes, darling ... " She closed the gap between them. With a silky, assured walk. Her stubby, rudder-like tail ... behind her. Her angular ears swept back. "You're too polite to say no ... when asked." A sly grin melted onto her muzzle. "Mm ... not an entirely bad," she whispered, "quality." A paw went (gleefully) ...
... grope! GROPE! On the mouse's rump.
"Eek!" Rising to the tips of foot-paws. "Adelaide ... " His eyes darted. As if paranoid. God was watching them, for sure ... was it okay to be goosed in a church?
A giggle. Eyes bright. "Mm ... Field ... " She eyed the mouse with hungry possession.
He tried to keep a serious expression ... but couldn't. And giggle-squeaked. Backing away. "I told you what happened last Sunday, right?"
... six days earlier ...
Field picked up his Bible. Gathered his things from the old, wooden pew. Filtered toward the back of the five-room church (worship area, study area, kid's room, kitchen, bathroom).
Some of the old lady mice ... filtered around the young farm mouse (if 21 was considered young anymore). The small congregation consisted mostly of mice (and the town of Sheridan itself ... mostly consisted of rodents: mice, squirrels, chipmunks. But also a good number of rabbits. Adelaide was the only bat, though. And she drew her fair share of attention. As did Field ... for being mated to her.
"Field," an old mouse asked.
"Mm?" He looked up, seeing he was ... well, going to have to hold a conversation. Damn. He had been hoping to reach the door without being drawn into one. Adelaide was already in the truck, waiting for him.
"Your mate's a bat ... "
"Yeah ... " His whiskers twitched. Nose ... sniffed!
"She, uh, has a lot of ... energy," said another lady mouse. Middle-aged. Wearing a straw hat (which her big, dishy ears ... stuck out of). And a flower-patterned dress.
The lady mice of the church ... all liked Field. He was shy, soft-spoken, polite. And of rural heritage (as they were). They thought he was cute. He didn't act like most males ...
"I guess," was Field's puzzled response.
A third lady mouse continued, "She's very ... toothy."
Field blinked.
"Is she, uh ... demanding?"
"What?"
"You know ... " A bit of a nod. A bit of a wink-y hush-hush motion. "Does she ... mm ... make 'demands' of you? Mm?"
Field's ears turned the deepest shade of rosy-pink. Oh. My. Gosh. What're they asking me ...
"Is her fur pink all ... "
"I have to go," Field stuttered, weaving around the ladies ... slipping outside, hearing giggles back inside.
Adelaide, leaning against the sink, shook with mirth. "That's ... hilarious. Oh, that's ... oh, Field," she said, eyes sparking. "Let's egg them on. Seriously. Let's ... okay, tonight, during the meal, I'll start licking my fangs ... stealing glances at you. You just do your mousey thing ... blush, twitch ... then I get up ... I'll pause a few paces from your chair. You look up. I nod. And I go into the kitchen. You follow me after a few minutes ... "
" ... no. No!" He giggled. "No way."
"It'll be funny. They'll all be watching us."
"They'll think ... " A giggle. A sigh.
"We're not really gonna ... we'll just go and ... check on the food. Or bring more out. But we tease them into thinking we're leaving to ... "
"I know what you're saying," he interrupted. "But I'm not doing it."
"Aw ... " But still grinning. Showing her fangs. Continuing, after a moment, "That IS funny, though." She tugged at the shoulder straps to her simple spring dress. A lavender-colored thing.
"Well, it was really uncomfortable." The mouse dressed in worn-in blue jeans and ... a plain-colored button-up short-sleeve shirt ... with the sleeves a bit frayed.
"They only tease you cause they like you. It's cute, really. Old lady mouses ... all doe-eyed over you."
"Why, though? I mean ... mm ... "
"Cause you ARE sweet. And ... attractive. And nice. And young ... and in love. With me. With a bat." A gentle shrug. "To them, I'm exotic. I make them curious."
"I don't know ... "
"Well, I do," she insisted. "I'm telepathic ... "
"I know," he replied. As he always did ... when she felt the need to remind him of that. Oh, he knew ... and ... liked it. That they could brush minds, and ... more. More, even, during ...
"They're teasing us ... not to be mean. They're just ... we're different. They don't know how to react to us."
She, the pink-furred, rural bat ... born in Australia to Christian missionaries. With telepathic abilities that ... were not common knowledge. She of the dominant, playful, very strong-willed personality. She who had wings. And him ... he, the honey-tan mouse. The submissive, wispy mouse. The artistic dreamer. The innocent one. The one who'd been hurt so badly ... so many times. Who had found, in her, a healing. A hope. And she, in him ... finding a soul to nurture and care for. Proving to herself (and everyone) that she could take care of someone. After being told (by so many) that she was too flighty and brashly independent ... to ever be trusted with another's soul. Add that to: bats were rare, and ... their gender roles were flip-flopped. She was the dominant partner. He ... the submissive one.
And they made such an intricate duo. On the outside, at first glance ...
... maybe just another pair of mates.
But look closer, and the colors ... were so vibrantly different. They thrummed. Their spirits must be ... giving off radiation vibes.
Must be.
Such need. Such purpose.
Field took a breath. Released it.
"Anyway," she continued. "Anyway, you'll receive your 'demands' ... later tonight." Licking her fangs.
Blush!
"Just saying ... "
A shy smile. "Well ... thanks for the warning."
"No problem." A giggle. "Now ... olive oil? Do we really need it?"
"Yes ... to put in the water we boil the noodles in."
"What happens if we boil the noodles in ... oil-less water."
"I don't know. I don't wanna find out. I want this meal ... to be perfect."
She gave a nod. "Course ... " A smile. "Mm ... " A head-tilt. And a pause. And, then, "Well ... " She fished at her purse. Withdrew some money. She managed their finances. She was better with numbers and ... stuff ... more so than Field. Field's head was all words and images and ... " ... ten dollars. The IGA on Main Street. A bottle of olive oil and ... a couple more loaves of French bread. We have enough noodles and butter and garlic and tomato sauce and ... "
"Okay ... "
"So ... "
Field nodded. Took the money.
"Be back soon?" she whispered softly, hopping up to a sit on the counter. Paws folded delicately in her lap.
A nodded promise. And a spring in his step.
The IGA. Field wasn't sure was the "I" stood for ... was it "International" Grocers' Association? Or "Indiana" ... "Indiana" made more sense, but ... it was a small-town grocery. For a small town. (There were also IGA's in Lebanon, Thorntown, and ... a few other places.)
Field, the needed food items in tow ... reached the checkout lane (there were two, both empty). He went to the first one, which was being run by Assumpta. The snow leopard. A northern transplant to Indiana.
"Hi," Field said shyly, voice a bit wispy.
"Hello."
"Mm ... I'm, uh ... we're doing the shindig," Field explained, as Assumpta cooly eyed his groceries.
"I see."
"Mm ... "
"No Dum-Dums today?" she asked. Field often, when in town ... would stop by for a bag of Dum-Dums. Little flavored suckers.
"Mm ... I only end up chompin' 'em ... same with peppermints. I buy all this hard candy, and I chomp it. Can't be good for my teeth."
"Why would you crunch," she wondered, "a sucker?" The feline had a very crisp, elegant demeanor. Icy-blue eyes. She had the sound of ... Northern poetry ... in her voice.
"An oxymoron, I know. Crunching a sucker," Field admitted. And gave a weak glance. "Don't know. I'm odd ... like that."
"I do not think you are odd."
"No?"
"No more odd than the rest of us."
A shy giggle. "Mm ... well ... thanks. I guess."
"I am curious, though ... " She started to run his groceries over the scanner. Beep-be-beep ... beep ...
"Yeah?" His whiskers twitched.
"What is ... a shindig?"
A bright giggle. "Uh ... " Giggle. "Don't know, really. It's ... I guess it's a rural thing. It's ... a shindig. Um, like, a blow-out ... of food, of ... well ... alright, so the spaghetti supper isn't a blow-out. But it's ... it's a shindig. Don't ask me what it is. It just ... IS," the mouse explained.
Beep-be-beep ...
"Mm ... you're welcome to come. Bring Azure," he said, referring to the snow leopard's mate. Who was a squirrel. They were quite an odd couple, those two. Predator and prey. Predator/prey relationships rarely worked. Predators were steely ... operated on detachment. Prey were very needy. Very emotional. But ... those two had been together for a year, nearly. Just like Field and Adelaide. And Field guessed ... well, he and Adelaide were an odd couple, too.
"I do not get off work until 8 ... "
"Well, the supper doesn't start until, like, 7:30, so ... no one will mind if you show up late ... "
The snow leopard considered. "It is ... short notice."
"I put up flyers ALL over town ... come on," Field ribbed. "I mean ... Seventeenth Straight Sheridan Spring Spaghetti Social? I mean ... you know, I actually considered taking the alliteration to, like, eight or nine 'S' words, but ... I thought that might be straining credibility."
A sage nod on the snow leopard's part. "I agree." She pressed at the till. "Your total comes to $9.47 ... "
"Cuttin' it close," Field whispered. Only having ten dollars on him. The ten that Adelaide had given ...
The snow leopard quietly bagged the mouse's items. Her fur snowy-white. Striped with bits of gray. She was strong. Was tall. Was lithe. Was a feline. And, Field, a mouse ... was intimidated by her. Intimidated, but ... not scared. He used to be scared of her. But ... she'd become a friend.
"Bad storms, lately ... mm ... "
She looked up.
"Well, I mean ... tornado warnings, like, three weekends in a row. Three Fridays in a row, you know? During that storm last night, I ... poked my head outside. I got too curious, and I ... got hit by all this pea-sized hale."
"I like listening to the storms. They have ... character. They are humbling."
"They are humbling, yeah, but ... well ... they scare me," Field admitted weakly. He would start out pacing ... then pacing with a flashlight clutched in a paw. Then sliding into tears, burrowing into the sheets. Adelaide having to cradle him. "You've not lived here your whole life, you know?" he said quietly. "You don't know what they can do ... " The thought of the sirens sounding, and the red on the weather map, and ... the weather-furs on the static radio, or on the flickering television ... saying things like 'under the gun' and 'seek shelter immediately' ... " ... and," Field added, "you're not a mouse."
She blinked.
"But, um ... yeah ... you coming to the shindig?" He grabbed his grocery bag. Shaking thoughts of storms and being odd and ... crunching on suckers ... out of his head.
"I cannot say," was her quiet, contemplative reply. "Are you just having spaghetti and garlic bread?"
"JUST spaghetti and bread? Assumpta ... it's a shindig!" The mouse paused, frowning a bit. Shindig. It was one of those words that, if he said it a few more times ... it would make NO rational sense. Best put it on the back-burner for now ... pull it out when he REALLY needed it.
She blinked.
"No, we're having ice cream, and cookies ... everyone's bringing their own desserts. Soda and stuff. But it's ... it's more about the conversation, and ... being with other furs, you know. It's not really about the food. The food is just a means of ... getting us all together. You know?" Ironic, though ... Field thought. Me helping head a social get-together. But it was good for him ... he knew it was. And Adelaide enjoyed working with him. Enjoyed planning such things with him. Enjoyed collaborating with her mate.
Assumpta nodded quietly. It made sense.
"Anyway, it's open to you ... I mean, there's actually, though, a ten dollar fee at the door. Not a fee, but, like ... it goes to help with the church. To keep the building running, and pay for electricity. Our congregation is small. We don't have a lot of resources. That's why we hold these things ... "
"Understandable."
"There are five churches in this town ... you know ... and this is a small town. And our church is the smallest."
The feline listened with interest, but ... Field had already trailed. Was already picking up his bag and moving for the door.
"See you around?" he said.
A nod. An eye-smile that only a predator like her ... could ever do.
And Field scurried out the door.
Nearing 7:00, and the meal being prepared ... the bat and mouse having warmed the ovens. And bringing pots of water to boil on the stove.
"Alright, so ... "
" ... first furs should start showing up in about ... ten or fifteen minutes," Adelaide guessed. "You set all the tables, right?" The tables were ... simple card tables. With folding chairs. Set up in the study area.
"Yeah ... yeah, and ... silverware, napkins. Cups. Everything."
A nod. "Alright ... " The bat leaned against the kitchen counter, watching the water on the stove. Waiting for it to boil. Waiting for it to bubble with steam (and with olive oil).
"Watched pots," Field whispered. Smiling shyly.
She turned to look at him. "No?" she whispered back. "Have you ever tested it out?"
"Not really ... pot-watching isn't, you know, one of my ... spectator sports." A pause. Which reminded him ... " ... there's a race on tomorrow, right?"
"Should be," she said. She watched the races with him ... whenever they were on. Whenever they were able. They snuggled on the couch with popcorn, soda, and ... in their bare-foot-paws. Him without a shirt. Watching auto races.
"Mm ... " Adelaide was quiet. "You know what we haven't done in a while?"
"What?"
"Played Pooh sticks ... you know," she reminded. "Like Winnie the Pooh ... you know, we each get a stick. We find a stick, and we stand on a bridge above the creek or something. We drop our sticks, and ... whichever stick wins the race downstream ... you know, that fur wins."
"I remember the game," was his soft voice. Dreamy-like.
"We haven't played it in a while," she repeated. Stirring the near-boiling water in one of the pots. Not really cause it needed stirring (cause it didn't).
"Haven't had the chance. The weather, and ... "
"I'm just saying ... we should play it. Tomorrow." Tomorrow was Sunday. They both had tomorrow off. They both had, in fact, the whole weekend off ... for a change. And summer was coming. And ... it would get better. This would be the best summer. Such were their hopes ...
"Alright," Field agreed. Quietly. Warmly. Sidling up to her.
She turned her neck a bit. Fur so soft, so ... silky ... to the touch. So pink. So feminine, so vibrant. And her mind ... so strong. And her filmy, velvety wings. Wings that could sustain her body weight. Was their air in her bones ... where the marrow should be? A question he often asked ... and her answer would be ... that her lightness was due to her love. "Our love," she would say, "makes me light. It is burden-less."
Field leaned forward. Head tilting, and lips ... oh, so near. So near her own. And he whispered, "We can leave the window open tonight. No rain. No storms. We can leave the window open ... put the screen in." All the night-bugs at the creek ... they'd come back. They were back. Already. And the frogs. The frogs were, too. Not in full force, but ... the riparian symphony was warming up in nature's orchestra pit. Waiting for the curtain to fully open. And they could hear the promise of it ...
"What about the mockingbird?" she whispered, breathing out ...
... as he breathed in. Of her scent. Of her softness. Her paws had been slicing and buttering bread with the knife ... for the past half hour. She smelled like a bakery. And like flowers. And like ... country things.
"The virtuoso never swoops onto the scene ... until the show is well under way," the mouse told her.
"No mockingbird?" she asked ... with feigned sadness.
"Wait 'til May ... or June."
"What do they say about April ... " Her nose nuzzled his cheek. Brushed his whiskers. "April showers bring ... flowers?"
"Flowers ... May flowers."
"May ... flower. May our love, dear God," was her quiet, whispered ... spoken prayer. In the kitchen of this church. Half an hour before the Seventeenth Straight Sheridan Spring Spaghetti Social. Her whispered prayer to the Lord was, "May our love flower ... and grow stronger with each shower. And be purified."
Field stole her breath ... at that moment. Pressed his lips to hers ... at that moment. Kissed her.
At that moment (with eyes closed) ...
... she kissed back. Lips soft.
Soft, sweet smack-smack sounds. Surpassing seventeen straight Sheridan spring spaghetti socials ... sweeping splendidly ...
... to a record, a name, a history ... all of its own. Oh, no. No, the Seventeenth Straight Sheridan Spring Spaghetti Social ... and all the alliteration and noodles it entailed ...
... oh, it had nothing on this!
Nothing on a kiss. A kiss in a kitchen by a stove. On an April evening. With the promise of night-bugs. Of creek-sounds. The promise of cool sheets in the bed at home. The promise of little huffs for air ... of hot, warming fur. Of tangled limbs. Of her and him.
And maybe that was why Adelaide drew so much attention in this town ... and why Field was teased so much ...
... for love needed no flyer.
When it was evident, it would be found. Would be noticed.
And it was evident in them. So purely so. That even nature was jealous. Sending tornadoes to scare the love out of them (like trying to scare hiccups out of a fur) ...
The kiss broken, they breathed deeply. Hotly. Standing (oh) so closely. Arms loosely around each other's backs.
"Now," the bat whispered. "Let's give the best spaghetti social ever ... and when we get back to the farm, we'll ... open the window," she agreed. "And let the creek-bugs and the creek-frogs ... be jealous of all they hear. For, tonight, they'll listen to the music ... we," she whispered, "make."
A giggle. A shy, eyes-darting giggle.
Amen to that.