“Second thoughts?” Bridget asked.
“No. The sooner we have new wheels, the better. That other transport is still out there somewhere, and the weather’s making drones more likely.”
We walked down the rest of the slope and across the glen. The porch lamps seemed welcoming, as did a sign hanging above the top step—REMEMBER THE “KIND” IN HUMANKIND—and another sign above the front door—LOVE IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD—and an adage woven into the nubby material of the doormat—IMAGINE ALL THE PEOPLE LIVING LIFE IN PEACE.
I scrubbed my feet on the doormat. The doorbell push was aglow, easy to find even if the lamps had not been turned on, and I pushed it. A merriment of chimes arose in the house.
Although living in this lonely place and in a time when nowhere seemed entirely safe, Wallace Beebs came quickly in response to the bell and opened the door without giving us a lookover from one of the flanking windows.
Fiftysomething, tall and robust, stout but not excessively so, with long white hair and blue eyes and ruddy cheeks and Popeye forearms, he seemed to be the embodiment of hospitality when he spread his arms wide and smiled broadly and said, “Welcome to the Republic of Beebs!”
He wore a Tyrolean hat, a short-sleeve white shirt, a string tie, khaki shorts, white kneesocks, and saddle shoes.
“Mr. Beebs?” Bridget inquired.
“The one and only,” he declared. “President, vice president, speaker of the house, majority leader of the senate, secretary of the treasury, housekeeper, and cook. Who are you two magnificent-looking people?”
Before I could claim that we were Homer and Marge Simpson, Bridget said, “Mr. President, I’m Mary Torgenwald. And this is my husband, Bill. We hope it’s not too late for two heads of state to consult with you on a matter of great importance.”
He appeared to be a guy who was always ready for a bit of fun. “And what sovereign state might you be representing?”
“The autonomous zone known as Torgenwaldistan,” Bridget said. “It’s not as large and impressive a sovereign state as the Republic of Beebs. In fact, its territory is limited to a six-foot radius around each of us. However, we love our little country and will defend it at any cost.”
Whether Wallace Beebs merely chuckled or whether his chuckle became as gleeful as a chortle would be a matter of debate for a panel of linguists whose specialty was to interpret the nuanced meaning of such vocables, but I can say without doubt that Bridget thoroughly charmed him. He looked at me and said, “Bill, I hope you realize what a lucky man you are.”
“Sir,” I replied, “if I didn’t realize that, I’d be the biggest fool in the world, but I’ve seen enough of humanity to know that I’m probably not even in the top ten.”
His response to me was a mere chuckle, nothing as mirthful as a chortle. He stepped back and said, “Come in, come in. Join me in the library, and let’s discuss what unique bliss you’re seeking.”
The library was most likely the largest room in the house, about forty by thirty feet, entirely lined with hardcover books. A large sofa provided space for a man the size of Wallace Beebs to lie down. Four commodious armchairs, each with side rails crowned with the exquisitely detailed carved-wood heads of dogs, formed a circle with side tables.
Beebs directed Bridget to a chair that featured a pair of Great Danes and motioned me to sit under the beneficent smiles of golden retrievers, while he settled into the chair topped with two German shepherds. Surmounting the fourth chair were Irish wolfhounds.
I noticed that the legs of the sofa were carved to resemble the feet of a dog. Canines are toe-walkers, and the sofa appeared to be poised for action in case anyone threw a tennis ball.
“I see you like dogs,” Bridget said.
“I adore them, but I can’t have them anymore. Haven’t had one in years.”
“Allergic?” she asked.
“No. But Uncle Erskine is. His eyes swell, he itches all over, and in about a minute flat he goes into anaphylactic shock. As much as I like dogs, I owe more to Uncle Erskine than to all the canines who have been my boon companions, so I now lead a dogless life. It was Erskine’s idea to retreat here from the greed and narcissism that define our times.” He swept one arm in a grand 180-degree arc to suggest the world beyond the Republic of Beebs. “Uncle and I make a difference by being indifferent. We fully engage by retreating. We defend the truth by living a lie.” He made a fist of his right hand and raised it high. “We support social justice by being antisocial.” He leaned forward in his chair, lowering his voice as if imparting a secret. “We protest poverty by living well. And we champion freedom by providing folks like you with whatever you think makes you free.”