MIXED IN WITH the worldwide acclaim for the work of Chief Leopard Frog was a desperate plea from the Cayman Islands.
Dear Partner, Milton Swartzman wrote.
(Partner? I thought. Since when have Uncle Milton and I become partners?)
Help. Send me more copies of the Indian's poetry book until I can print some more down here. The demand is unlike anything I've ever seen, including the scratch-'n'-sniff fake vomit that put my kids through college. This Indian friend of yours must know what he's doing.
Yours affectionately,
Milton Swartzman
President and Publisher, Uncle Milton's Thousand Things You Thought You'd Never Find
P.S. That gourd that looked like Lindsay Lohan was okay, but I had no takers until I dressed it in a swimsuit. Didn't I always say it was about salesmanship? I enclose fifty (dollars—no, make it sixty dollars. Hope it comes in handy.
If nothing else, the sixty dollars came in handy for buying stamps and small manila envelopes for sending books to people who ordered them by check. Uncle Milton had put a fifteen-dollar price on the book, and while that seemed high to me, it didn't seem to dissuade the American public.
My mother and I had to change our routine. We went to the city twice a week now just to deposit checks. My hand grew tired from all the endorsing I had to do.
Yet it was not my name that I was writing. Each time I signed a check, I had to sign the name of Chief Leopard Frog. That I knew he was imaginary was something I figured I'd best keep to myself. No point in spilling the beans to the whole world just yet. And certainly not to the bank.
Interestingly, the chief hadn't shown his face since the day he'd lost his temper. I knew he was furious, but come on, shouldn't his curiosity have prompted him to look in on things? How long are you supposed to stay mad at somebody before it becomes an affliction?
Some of the mail was not so nice. One letter from the lawyer representing the estate of the late singer Burl Ives threatened to sue. Another, from the director of the Carl Sandburg Foundation and Museum, said he'd been in touch with the Burl Ives lawyer and was thinking of suing also—sort of a tag team. A couple of Indian tribes from Minnesota and Wyoming accused me of making the whole thing up, claiming there were no chiefs of the Sac and Fox tribe left in Kansas, but they enclosed complimentary coupons for free nights at their casino hotels, nevertheless.
I got some snapshots back from Sparkle Snapshot in St. Louis, and one of them was a real good picture of my missing toe—like a medical study. There was also a picture of Chief Leopard Frog on the front porch, hunched over and whittling an alligator talisman. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail and his nose seemed sort of like that of a gargoyle on the side of a tall granite building. Even so, he was an imposing presence, as much as someone can be in an amateur photo. I should add that it was the only picture of Chief Leopard Frog I'd ever seen.
There was also a snapshot of Maureen, her fingertips together as if in contemplation. The lighting was such that the dimple in her right cheek was quite pronounced.
Then a reporter showed up from Poetry Week magazine.
That's when the trouble started.
The opposite of boredom is excitement. And the definition of excitement is "a sustained period of anxiety."
Be careful what you wish for. Be especially careful when you choose to rearrange a quiet, peaceful life. The day may come when you will miss watching pumpkins grow.
Merilee Rowling was a stringer for a big, wealthy poetry magazine back east. It used to be a little, insignificant poetry magazine back east, but then a famous, rich, and somewhat empty-headed widow of a hamburger czar died and left the magazine her vast fortune. Now the magazine felt inclined not just to publish poetry but to investigate poetry and poets.
Holy smokes!
Investigative poetry.
How did they come up with that idea?
Now the reporter was on my doorstep.
"I've looked everywhere for somebody breathing in this godforsaken town," she said. "You're my last hope. Do you actually live here?"
"Have you checked the motel?" I asked.
"What motel?" she replied.
"Then I guess you have," I replied. "Welcome to Paisley."
"Actually," she explained, her car still running in the front yard, "I'm looking for some Indian chief—Bullfrog, Tree Frog, Hopping Frog, something like that."
"The only Indian chief around here is named Chief Leopard Frog," I said.
"That's the one!" she exclaimed. "I need to talk to him right away."
"What's the rush?" I asked. "If you want to see the chief, you'll have to learn to be patient."
Patience, apparently, was not one of Miss Merilee Rowling's virtues.