The Chronicles of Major Peabody Page 9

  Doctor Carmichael has diagnosed this malady. He claims a peculiar strain of DNA found in some men make them susceptible to what he quaintly refers to as “Cabin Fever”. The drug companies have been unable to find an antidote for the sickness, but, fortunately, the disease and all of its symptoms disappear soon after the advent of the vernal equinox.

  From January through March, whenever I deliver the Major’s first of the month Spendthrift Trust remittances, I spend as little time with him as possible. Being with him for any period of time during the first quarter of the year is a dreary experience unless he has been able to temporarily avoid the contagion by embarking on a shotgunning expedition to some warmer climate.

  Last Winter was one in which the Major was confined to his Philadelphia apartment without any seasonal interruption. He invited me to dine with him and, in spite of my knowledge of his usual wintertime wretched attitude, I accepted. Someone, I thought, had to lift him from what I was sure was his then current mood of dark dejection. I destroyed my budget by investing in a bottle of 25 year old Macallan single malt Scotch and bravely made my way to his living quarters.

  I hung my overcoat and hat in his closet, turned and saw the lovely Stephanie approaching me. She gave me a very brief kiss on the check and said “Happy Birthday.” Yes, it was my birthday, but I had no suspicion the Major would plan a surprise party. He seated me next to the fireplace in his own favorite wing backed chair and treated me as if I were a lord.

  The lovely Stephanie brought me a goblet of Chardonnay and the Major, showing not the least sign of melancholia, kept it filled. For just a moment, I had the suspicion the Major had some hidden agenda behind all this kind treatment. I quickly dismissed the thought as being unworthy of me.

  The dinner was excellent. Peabody browned chopped onions, garlic and pieces of Ruffed Grouse dredged in flour. He added mushrooms, basil, thyme and parsley and skillet cooked them in white wine and lemon juice. Wild rice and asparagus spears covered with Béarnaise sauce completed the entrée. A brace of Pedro Domecq Fundador brandies followed and I was, indeed, quite mellow when we retired to the living room.

  The lovely Stephanie disappeared into the kitchen only to immediately re-appear with a candle decorated cake inscribed with the message “Happy Birthday, Darling”. The lovely Stephanie is not given to expressions of infatuation and the inscription on the cake convince me I was making progress with her. I made a wish and blew out the candles. No, I won’t disclose the wish I made.

  I opened the presents. The lovely Stephanie gave me a five year membership in the Greater Philadelphia Area Bird Watcher’s Society. She is on the Board of Directors and actively participates in its projects. She heads the Society’s as yet unsuccessful attempt to get the State legislature to enact a law requiring all cats to be fitted with tiny electronic devices that sounds a loud alarm whenever the animal comes within ten feet of a bird.

  Though she considers the killing of any kind of bird to be a tragedy of huge proportion, the lovely Stephanie likes Major Peabody. She finds him charming. Though she may suspect the truth, she has convinced herself Peabody enjoys walking in the woods and fields. She doesn’t mind him taking a dog with him, but would be happier if he didn’t carry a shotgun. When he is in her presence, the Major is careful to avoid any talk of hunting. He does nothing to abuse the delusion that he is merely enjoying healthy out-of-doors exercise.

  The Major gave me a box of 25 H. Upmann cigars, a duck call and a tape designed for instruction in its use. The gift of the cigars didn’t surprise me. I don’t smoke. Peabody knew he’d get the entire benefit of that present.

  I was alarmed by the gift of the duck call. l suspected it was meant to give the impression I liked to kill ducks. It looked to me like Peabody was trying to destroy any possibility of my developing relationship with the lovely Stephanie. I decided to immediately mount my defense. “Whatever might this be?” I questioned, hoping to convince the lovely Stephanie that I was not a duck hunter.

  “It’s a duck call, silly,” she responded. “The Major and I thought you should have one.”

  I was thunderstruck. The lovely Stephanie and the Major thought I should have a duck call? Was she serious? Was she underwriting the hunting of ducks? Had Peabody somehow convinced her it was alright for me to become a duck hunter? Peabody saw my confusion and provided an explanation for her curious behavior.

  He explained duck calls were tools that should be carried and used by all serious bird watchers. As soon as I became expert in its use, he said, members of the Greater Philadelphia Bird Watcher’s Society, including the lovely Stephanie, and I could visit lakes and wetlands where I could call in ducks and others could count them, take pictures and ooh and ahh as, in beautiful formation, they gracefully sailed over our heads.

  The lovely Stephanie’s enthusiasm was almost unlimited. “Major Peabody makes such marvelous suggestions,” she purred, smiling at him. I tumbled to what Peabody must have had up his sleeve. The dear old fellow had become a match-maker. He cleverly arranged a way to give me opportunities to be close to the object of my affection. Perhaps the lovely Stephanie and I could plan weekend trips to distant marshes.

  Thus motivated, I eagerly dedicated myself to the business of becoming an expert in the art of duck calling. It was not an easy task. After a full day at the office, I’d return to my apartment and spend a few hours listening to the tapes and blowing on the duck call. There was some unpleasantness when neighbors called the police. I was forced to cease and desist or face the consequences of a citation for Disturbing the Peace.

  Major Peabody came to my rescue. He allowed me to practice in his apartment and hinted that an occasional bottle of single malt Scotch might be an appropriate recognition of his assistance. The Major’s neighbors had become accustomed to strange noises coming from his apartment. At various times in the past, they lodged complaints against him, but his abilities to fend off the authorities, together with the subtle revenges he was able to exact, conditioned them to grin and bear it - or, at least, to bear it.

  During practice sessions with Peabody and Doctor Carmichael, I soon realized my duck calling was much better than the doctor’s. In reality, the doctor’s calling did nothing more than frighten ducks away. Over the ensuing summer months, I became an even more expert in the art and you can imagine my satisfaction when the Major told me I was ready to move from practice session to real tests in the field.

  Peabody and Doctor Carmichael allowed me to accompany them on their opening day duck hunting expedition. I sat between them in their blind and proved my ability to convince ducks to come into gun range. Since then, I’ve traveled with them to many sloughs and waterway, honing my ability to attract ducks and bring them in for closer observation. Peabody tells me that by next spring, given continued field experience, I will be ready to call ducks for the members of the Greater Philadelphia Bird Watcher’s Society. I am sure the lovely Stephanie will be impressed.

  A Philosophic Interlude

  Major Nathaniel Peabody and I dined at Bookbinders and, as had become our usual custom, we returned to his apartment for an after-dinner libation. I paid for the dinner. That had also become one of our usual customs. We sat in his living room and the Major began the conversation.

  “When Prudhomme wrote ‘Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely,’ I suspect he hit the bull’s eye,” Major Peabody said. He lifted the cover from the humidor that contained what was left of the 25 H. Upmann cigars he had given me when we celebrated my birthday. He took one of them and returned the humidor to the drawer in the end table next to his wing back chair. The cigars had been in his humidor ever since my birthday party. He knows I don’t smoke.

  As soon as the Major quoted the Prudhomme aphorism, I knew he was up to something and I suspected it had to do with money. It was the 22nd day of the month. A few days earlier, he had returned from a five day Hungarian Partridge hunt in South Dakota. It was nearly a certainty than he had managed to spend the rest of his money
and was in his usual end-of-month penniless condition. He was not entitled to another Spendthrift Trust remittance until nine days had passed.

  It is intriguing to watch Major Peabody spin his web in an attempt to trap me into financing him during the last days of those months when he is destitute. Those webs often entrap me. I contribute dinners, cigars and single malt scotch on an all too regular basis. His moves to secure early trust fund distributions are clever, even ingenious. I’ve learned some of the signs that predict the advent of his too often successful frauds.

  The reference to Prudhomme was not made for the purpose of any kind of philosophic discussion. No, Peabody was up to something and the warning flags were flying. He was about to launch an attack on the assets of the Peabody Spendthrift Trust or, worse, on mine. I prepared myself to refuse to extend any requested form of financing and made a mental note to be extremely cautious in all conversation with him. I limited myself to a non-committal “mmmmmm” and an innocuous “Perhaps you are right”.

  “I am convinced,” Peabody continued, “that people’s distrust of our own government is directly proportional to the power it assumes. The country’s reaction to Congressional attempts to destroy the Constitutional right of gun ownership comes to mind. I consider the people’s fear and their distrust of their government are entirely admirable reactions, founded in solid common sense and worthy of encouragement.”

  Personally, I’ve come close to firearms only when delivering the Major’s checks to some hunting camp and on the one occasion when he insisted I buy an expensive shotgun and accompany him on a Cuban duck hunting trip. I bought the weapon. It has received precious little use. I’m afraid of it and won’t have it in my lodgings. Like the 25 cigars he gave me as a birthday present, the gun is stored in the Major’s apartment.

  That Cuba trip is not one of my favorite memories. We returned to Philadelphia via Canada. The Canadian Customs Inspector found the Cuban cigars Peabody tried to smuggle into the country by shoving them down the barrels of my shotgun. I had to pay a hefty fine.

  As any sane person knows, any legislation passed by Congress for the purpose of controlling firearms would be just as successful in stopping crime as the 18th Amendment was successful in stopping drinking. The Major, however, was developing a thesis for some purpose aimed directly at my wallet. It would be prudent to change the subject, so I interrupted him.

  “Didn’t Prudhomme also write: Comparisons are odious?” I asked.

  “Why, yes he did, my boy,” was the Major’s mildly surprised response. Peabody always showed mild surprise when anyone under 60 years of age indicated he had read something other than newspapers, trade journals, best sellers or the comics. Peabody lit the cigar and continued.

  “While I accept the validity of that first Prudhomme adage, I’m not convinced the one you quote is equally accurate. If we were to compare my ability to understand the sneaky terms you lawyers use when drafting Spendthrift Trusts with your ability to understand them, doubtlessly I would find the comparison odious. You, on the other hand, doubtlessly, would find the comparison to be pleasant.” Inwardly, I smiled.

  “But,” the Major added, “if we were to compare my ability to use a shotgun with yours, I would find the comparison delightful and you would find it odious. Your Prudhomme quote is, at best, only half right.”

  I remembered our Cuban hunting experience. Peabody was correct. I found paying the fine was odious. Peabody found my discomfort to be pleasantly humorous.

  Peabody blew a smoke ring and watched it rise and slowly dissipate before adding: “Prudhomme has another maxim I usually find to be of questionable accuracy. I refer to the one that proclaims: Property is theft. It is favored by the liberals who love to quote it in defense of what they call ‘income re-distribution’.

  “Earning the money to buy property requires a lot of time. Once purchase money is earned, there are additional costs involved in property ownership. There are real estate taxes, insurance premiums, property improvement costs and a myriad of other expenses involved in owning something. Even something as basic as owning a dog involves expenditures for flea powder, collars, dog food and veterinarian expenses.

  “Taking all allied expenditures into consideration, property is not theft. It is a representation of a lot of time spent working to get the money to buy it and take care of it. My initial reaction is: Prudhomme was wrong. Property is not theft. Property is a lot of work.”

  The Major thought for a second and then said: “On the other hand, perhaps Prudhomme had something else in mind. Among the reasons Walt Whitman gave to explain why he thought he could turn and live with animals was the fact that they were not infected with the mania for owning things.

  “If a man owns neither lawn mower nor home, he need not paint the house or mow the lawn. With no color TV, he need not spend his Sundays watching football when he could be hunting pheasants or ducks. I can see how property can be considered as a thief - a thief of a man’s time that can never be recovered. What do you think?” he asked as he leaned back in his wing back chair and blew another smoke ring.

  During Major Peabody’s time in the service, he led a nomadic existence. He was never in one place long enough to buy a home. Now his assets consisted of the furnishings of his apartment, a few shotguns and his clothing. They were all he needed and all he wanted. I began to understand why Major Nathaniel Peabody had so few worldly goods. To him, ownership represented an unwanted cost and an unwanted responsibility.

  I thought of my associates at Smythe, Hauser, Engals & Tauchen - their homes, their horses, their automobiles, their golf clubs and their wives. They were slaves to them. They were tied down by them. Their labors at the office were required in order to keep and maintain their various properties. Property seemed to control their lives. I compared them to the Major and concluded Prudhomme was right. Comparisons can be odious. In this comparison, the odium did not reach Major Nathaniel Peabody’s side of the equation.

  I also concluded property was theft. “Yes, Major, I believe you are right. Too many people fill their lives with things. Then they must assume the responsibility of maintaining them for the rest of their lives. Yes, property robs its owner of time.”

  Peabody rose from his chair. “For a younger man,” he said, “you have a praiseworthy grasp on an important concept. Oh, the mania for owning things. It can destroy your life.”

  Later, it was time for me to go. As I put on my coat, Peabody took a paper from his pocket. He pressed it into my hand and said: “Since your unsuccessful attempt to smuggle cigars from Cuba, you have never used that Citori 12 gauge double. For you it is one of those properties that must be stored and cared for. It could lead to the destruction of your future happiness. Luckily, I recognized that danger.

  “Yesterday I retrieved that burdensome bit of property from my closet and took steps to protect you from the perils of ownership. Here is the pawn ticket. I recommend you don’t reclaim it.”

  Another Bear Story

  It was the afternoon of the last day of the month. The Major was hunting grouse. During the previous afternoon, I had arrived at the cabin where he and his friends were staying. At the stroke of midnight, I’d give Peabody his check and immediately drive my rented car back to quasi-civilization. That same afternoon my flight would take me back to Philadelphia and the safety of my own apartment.

  I suppose my troubles began when the Major talked me into going with him on what he described as a walk in the beautiful autumn woods. It would, he told me, be better than spending so much time all alone in an isolated cabin, far from medical attention. I immediately saw the logic of his argument, and quickly (perhaps too quickly) accepted his invitation.

  We walked on a narrow trail that soon disappeared. I feared the possibility that I might be separated from Peabody, become lost in the woods and find myself alone with the rattlesnakes and bears and other ravenous beasts. That fear increased when I could no longer see the cabin. It took another jump when I could no long
er see the smoke from the cabin chimney.

  Finally I could stand it no longer. The fear of being alone in the cabin with no one to help if I became injured or ill was more than counterbalanced by the fear of encountering a bear in the woods. I went back to the cabin.

  * * * * *

  Major Peabody returned from his morning hunt, leaned his 20 ga. Lefever against the building and entered the cabin. I was standing there, waiting for him. As Peabody often reminds me, I had a water glass in my hand. It was only half filled with whisky. My eyebrows, he recalls, were located halfway to my hairline and my eyes were rounded in terror. I was ghostly pale and, occasionally, demonstrated what is meant by the phrase “involuntary shudder”.

  “What’s up, young man,” Peabody inquired. “You insisted on returning to the cabin. I gave you clear directions on how to get back here. I hope you didn’t get lost. Calm down. What happened to you? You look like you’ve just seen a bear.”

  The presence of vampires, Frankenstein’s monster, a wolf man or even a United States House of Representatives Democrat does not frighten me nearly as much as an encounter with a bear. I remember setting the water glass (now three-quarters empty) on the table and responding to Peabody’s question.

  “I left you at the creek bottom and went up the ridge,” I said, “just like you told me. It takes a bend to the west and the sun hits its north side, just as you told me. I had no trouble finding that great big patch of blackberries. I started to walk around its edge to get to the top of the hill from where you told me I would be able to see smoke from the cabin.