I limped into the apartment with my walker, took the two Chewy.com cartons out of my shopping bag, tossed them into the living area, and hobbled into the room. Annabelle, Thatch, and Stella, sleeping on my bed jumped up at the sound of the cartons hitting the floor.
What’s in those boxes? Annabelle asked.
Treats for you three, I answered as I fell into the computer chair.
Thatch jumped off the bed to smell the cartons. What’s this? he asked.
That’s probably your shrimpy treats?
Can I see?
Nope, I told him. Treats are after dinner and that’s in another . . . three hours.
And the other?
It’s heavier so its got to be cans of food. I think it’s a carton of salmon?
Yummy! Thatch yelled as he jumped back onto the bed and went back to sleep.
Well, open them! Annabelle ordered as she jumped onto the computer table.
Later, Missy! I really hurt.
What’s wrong?
It’s my right leg. It got injured in the excursion.
What does that mean?
That damned Fed Ex driver! I need to call Fed Ex and complain. Rather than bringing all of his cartons into the building, the lazy bastard left them all – three for me, a couple for Roberta, and a big carton for another tenant – in the vestibule just inside the front door instead of bringing them up to the lobby.
Where’s your third carton?
It’s forty pounds of kitty litter and I can’t get the carton up the stairs to the lobby. So I had to fold up the walker, get down the five steps to the vestibule level, get into the vestibule on my hands and knees and drag the cartons inside.
Aw, Daddy! How did you hurt your leg.
Well, I was so pissed off –
Why?
Because our neighbor was going out, so he held the door open and watched me crawl around the floor as I dragged things into the building, but he never offered to help me! He just watched and did nothing!
Did you ask him to help?
No, I’m too proud to ask for help and I was too angry that he didn’t offer!
What neighbor was this?
The one down the hall . . oh, my knee is killing me.
So, where’s the third carton?
Sitting at the bottom of the steps. I cannot cart it up those five steps! If it had been in the lobby, I should have opened the carton and pushed it into the elevator . . . oh, God, Annabelle, I really hurt. I was able to toss the other two cartons to the top of the steps and drag myself up, but I’ve injured something. I can barely stand.
Can I bring you some aspirin? Or a roach? Let me get my nurse’s cap. Dr. Thatch, wake up! Daddy needs us. I think he’s dying!
Thatch sat up. I’ll get my stethoscope!
All I did not need were Dr. Thatch and my own Nurse Nellie Forbush to treat me. Thankfully, she would end up eating the roach, while the doctor and nurse climbed over me, squabbled over my ailments, and accomplished little.
I spent most of the next day in bed. I had pulled something in my right leg, and I was happier staying off of it. After Dr. Thatch and Nurse Nellie had checked me out, they told me I had two options: live or die. So, I let Annabelle eat the roach and decided to live. That night I loaded up on Advil PM and muscle relaxers and went to bed earlier than usual. Annabelle curled up beside me on my pillow – her new favorite bed – and Thatch and Stella took over the rest of the bed. I slept very well and much longer than usual. I awoke in good spirits and fed the cats before I went back to bed. Around noon, I moved to the computer to check my emails and attempt to crush any fresh hell arriving online.
Oh, look! I exclaimed to Annabelle, who sat on the computer table perusing her Backstage. Today is the thirty-sixth anniversary of the Pulitzer Prize! I always forget the date.
What’s that? she asked.
It’s a series of prizes awarded every year for best play, journalism, maybe news photography, and other things. It’s very prestigious.
These prizes began thirty-six years ago?
No, Annabelle, they’re much older than that,
Then what happened thirty-six years ago? Did you win one?
Sort of. I nominated a musical, and it won best drama for 1985.
That’s nice. She sat up and moved to the computer screen. I love musicals, you know. What was it?
Sunday in the Park with George.
A Sondheim show! You know Stephen Sondheim? Really?
I haven’t seen him in years, but he once did me a favor, and we were friendly. He’s a nice man.
Well, shut the door! she exclaimed.
What? What happened? Thatch yelled as he ran to the table. Stella galloped after him.
Daddy knows Stephen Sondheim!
Maybe he’ll write a show for you, Annabelle! Will he, Daddy?
Sorry, Thatch. I haven’t spoken to Steve in years. The last time I saw him, he just said hello in passing.
Did you fight? Annabelle asked.
No . . . we just lost touch, but he was very kind and generous when I was trying to get a foot in the door.
Annabelle stared at me for a long moment. A foot in the door? Sometimes you make no sense at all, she said.
I was working as the arranger for the Gay Men’s Chorus, and I met him when I arranged a medley of several of his songs.
Did he like it? Thatch asked.
I think he was pleased, and we had a nice time at the party after the concert. Then, when I saw Merrily We Roll Along –
I love it! Annabelle exclaimed.
When I saw the show – I saw it twice – I thought “Our Time” would be a good number for the Men’s Chorus, and Steve came to a dress rehearsal for the concert to hear the arrangement. He told me he liked it, and he recommended it to his publisher. That’s how I got my first published choral arrangement.
What a nice man! Thatch said. He jumped onto my lap.
He is, I added, but I needed to thank him, and I didn’t know what to do. I was working at a book store on Sixth Avenue and I wasn’t making much money, and Steve Sondheim could pretty much afford anything he wanted, but I had a secret weapon.
What? Annabelle asked.
A wonderful lady, Patricia Sinnott, who was Sondheim’s office manager. I had become very friendly with her, just a beautiful lady, and I called her to see if she had any ideas about something Steve could use.
Did she? Thatch asked.
No, I laughed, but we batted some ideas about, and I finally asked if he had ever been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.
Was he?
No, Annabelle, Patricia didn’t think so, and I was amazed by that, so I said, that’s what I’ll do! I’m going to nominate Sunday in the Park With George for a Pulitzer Prize! I laughed. Only . . . there was a problem.
What? What? Annabelle asked.
Neither one of us knew anything about how to do it!
We all laughed. Stella, who had been listening to this exchange with wide eyes, joined in.
That’s so funny! Annabelle said as she danced her little polka step around the table.
Just then the phone rang. I will tell you the rest of the story later, babies, I said as I reached for the receiver.
The call was a phishing irritation: this is Amazon customer service, a woman’s voice said. There has been a charge made to your account for three hundred fifty dollars . . .
As the voice droned on, I turned to the computer, logged onto Amazon, checked my orders and saw nothing out of order. I hung up the phone and turned back to the cats.
What? I asked.
Finish your story, Annabelle said.
Oh, okay. Where was I?
You didn’t know about those Pulzer prizes, Thatch added. Go on.
Well, I had a friend at the Lincoln Center Library in the music division, so I called him and asked him if he knew. He told me it was part of the Columbia School of Journalism. So, I called Columbia University and asked to speak to someone in the Pulitzer office. I asked about nominating something, and they said they would send me the information. Several days later, I got the information, and I called Patricia and told her what I needed.
What did you need? Annabelle asked.
Uh . . . I needed . . . photos of the writers, a score, the script, a recording . . . I think that’s all, and there was a form to be filled out. That was in the envelope.
That was all? Thatch asked.
That score weighed a ton, Thatch! That was plenty.
This is most interesting, Annabelle said after a pause. I need to know all this so when I nominate the musical I’m writing with Thatch . . .
You have to finish it, Missy, I said cautiously.
I will! Once Irving Berlin gets back to me. He won’t answer my letters.
Neither will Jerome Robbins, Thatch added.
I would think, Annabelle told us, these men would be dying to work on my show! It’s so vexing.
She jumped off the computer table and ran off to the linen closet. Thatch leaped down to follow her, then turned back to me. You can tell us the rest of the story later.
He ran after Annabelle into the linen closet. Stella stopped playing with the pencils next to my keyboard, sat up, and stretched. She looked around, saw Thatch disappearing into the closet, leaped onto my should and bit my earlobe before she jumped to the floor and ran after them.
©2021, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 