Top o’ the marnin’, Thatch said to me as I dragged myself out of bed.
Now that Thatch had decided he was Irish, I barely understood a thing he said. Still, I had to admit his dialect was better than Annabelle’s. We’d gone through every DVD I could find with an Irish setting, and Annabelle insisted she was ready for anything the Irish Rep could throw at her in an audition. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she sounded Scottish one moment and British the next, but I loved her enthusiasm when she tackled an Irish song.
Did you sleep well? Annabelle asked me.
Fer shore ye know he did, macushla!
Another hour of sleep would have been wonderful, I told them.
Shore ’tis another hour o’ sleep we granted ye!
Annabelle and Thatch had let me sleep an hour later than I usually do. They knew the daylight savings time change was coming in two weeks, and very soon the old 7:00 would be the new 6:00. I had been awake for the past hour listening to two cats mangle “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” “It’s A Great Day for the Irish,” “Whiskey in the Jar,” and “Danny Boy” for the pigeons on the fire escape.
After my morning chores, Annabelle, Thatch, and I went to the Petco site in search of nice audition apparel. Thatch wanted something green, preferably with shamrocks, and Annabelle wanted anything that said “star.” Shortly after noon, my friend John Bell called.
John! How are you? I turned to Annabelle and whispered, It’s John Bell!
I’m fine. I was wondering if there was a good day this week for you to bring Annabelle down to the Irish Rep?
My schedule’s wide open. When’s good for you?
Let me look at my schedule. Could we say, Thursday?
What time?
Is 2:00 good for you?
2:00 it is! We’ll see you then. Thanks for calling.
I hung up the phone and turned to an excited Annabelle, who was dancing about the computer table.
Well, Missy! You’ve got two more days before your audition.
Jayzus, Mary, and Joseph! Thatch exclaimed. Time’s a-wastin’! Me darlin’s got her work cut out fer shore!
The remainder of that day and the next was a rush of activity. Annabelle and Thatch sang along to CDs of my late friend Frank Patterson, The Chieftains, The Clancy Brothers, and The Irish Rovers. Between CDs they watched movies with Irish actors and settings. Amazon delivered a sparkly collar that went nicely with Annabelle’s ankle bracelet, and Thatch’s green tie went very nicely with his beautiful ginger coat.
No shamrocks? He asked in dismay?\
I’m sorry, Thatch, I’m afraid we’re not in season for St. Patrick’s Day kitsch, I said. You’re handsome enough and that shade of green says Ireland to me.
Thatch, don’t you look great! Annabelle said in something that sounded vaguely Scottish and a little Nordic. I expected her to say next, “Katrin, pass Mama duh yam and duh yelly.”
On Thursday we boarded the No. 104 bus and rode down to Columbus Circle. There, we transferred to the No. 7 bus for 23rd Street.
This is the longest ride, Annabelle complained to Thatch. Daddy, why aren’t we taking a limo? When I’m a star, we’ll have a car and driver to take us everywhere.
Because, my little star, Daddy’s poor. And look, I whispered, the passengers are all impressed by how wonderful you and Thatch look! See how they stare.
The remainder of the ride was hell. Annabelle and Thatch sang their Irish repertoire, and Annabelle ran through her monologue from The Hostage. A few passengers wanted a closer look at such pretty kitties, and a few underwhelmed people nastily asked me if they were always this noisy.
We entered the lobby of the Irish Rep, where Charlotte and John were waiting for us.
Hello, I said. Are we late? I can never guess how long the buses will take.
No, Charlotte said. John and I were having a nice chat.
Which one is Annabelle? John asked me.
This is Annabelle. The cute little fellow wearing the green tie is her brother Thatch.
Let’s go into the theatre and talk, Charlotte suggested. She and John walked ahead and I followed with Annabelle and Thatch. Thirty minutes later, Annabelle stormed out of the theatre as I ran after her. They had offered the role to Thatch.
Annabelle! I called. Annabelle! Annabelle, slow down. Wait for us.
I have never been so insulted, she said as she turned to face me. Then she started to cry.
Aw, Annabelle! I picked her up and held her. Auditions can be awful. You won’t always get the job.
I worked so hard, she cried. I was sure I had it.
Aw, baby, I said. You were typed out. They thought Thatch’s coloring would look better onstage.
You were good, Thatch told her.
Don’t speak to me, you traitor!
I don’t want to be in the play. I’m not going to do it.
You don’t?
No. I’m no actor. I never wanted to be an actor! You’re the star, Annabelle!
Thatch, what happened to your accent? I asked him.
It was fun, but if Annabelle’s not Irish, I’m not either. I’m her brother, not her competition.
I stepped into the street to hail a taxi.
I thought you were too poor for a taxi, Annabelle said to me.
All stars should go home in style, Annabelle. We’re escorting you home.
Daddy, Thatch asked, will you tell them I’m not going to be in their play?
Yes, I’ll call when we get home. Here’s our taxi. Next stop, 82nd street.
When you win your Tony Award, they’ll be sorry they didn’t cast you, Thatch told her.
You know, Thatch, you do look more Irish than me.
It was my tie, he told her.
I’m really too exotic to play an Irish house cat.
The taxi turned up the West Side Highway. Thatch started to sing “Memory,” and she soon joined in. They sang it all the way home.
©2018, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 