to come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you real soon.”
Oscar had been working all afternoon on the voice he was going to use. A mixture of paternal warmth and serious illness. “Patricia, my dear,” he began, getting the quaver just about perfect, “this is your dad. Something quite serious has come up and I’d like very much to speak to you, my only child, in the hope that—”
“Holy Jesus,” observed his daughter, coming onto the line. “What was that old television show you used to tell me about when I was little? Where they gave the contestants the gong for a rotten perf—”
“
“Consider yourself gonged. Pop.”
“Okay, all right, I overdid it a mite,” he admitted. “Yet I do have a serious problem.”
“My time is sort of limited, Dad. I’m getting ready for a date. You should’ve phoned me earlier.”
“I assumed you were taping
She sighed. “Didn’t you tell me you watched my soap faithfully?”
“I do, kid. It’s on my must-see list every day.”
“I’ve been in a coma for two weeks. So I don’t have to show up at—”
“Sorry to hear that. Anything serious?”
“Near-fatal car crash. We killed that asshole, Walt Truett, thank God.”
“But you’ll survive?”
“Sure, with only a touch of amnesia.”
Oscar asked, “When are you due to come out of your stupor?”
“Next Thursday.”
“I’ll start watching, I swear,” he promised his daughter. “Now, as to the purpose of this call.”
“It’s Mom, isn’t it?”
“Well, not exactly, kid.” He filled her in about the offer from the talent agency and the upcoming appearance on
“You think so? A couple of early morning minutes with a pack of over-the-hill doofers?”
“It’s a shot. The only snag is—well, kid, they insist that I bring Screwy along.”
“Obviously. You guys are a team.”
“And your dear mother has custody of him.”
Tish said, “She’s not going to loan him to you.”
“She might, if you were to—”
“Nope, she won’t. A few months ago, when I noticed him up on a shelf in the mud room, I suggested that —”
“She keeps the most beloved dummy in America in the mud room?”
“In a shoe box,” she answered. “And, Dad, Screwy Santa hasn’t been beloved for a couple of decades now.”
“I know, neither have I,” he said ruefully. “But, damn it, he helped pay for that mansion.”
“Her romantic novels are paying for things now. Did you notice that
“I extract the book section from the Sunday paper with surgical gloves and toss it immediately into the trash unopened. To make certain I never see so much as a mention of that slop she cranks out or, worse, a publicity photo of her mottled countenance.”
“Let’s get back to the point. I suggested to her back then that she return Screwy Santa to you.”
“And?”
“You don’t want to hear what she said,” his daughter assured him. “It had, among other things, to do with Hell freezing over. But can’t you dig up another dummy by Friday?”
“Impossible, that’s the only one extant. We lost the backup copy during that ill-fated nostalgia tour through the Midwest years ago.”
“Couldn’t you carve another, since you built the others?”
“Kid, I may’ve fudged the truth a bit when I used to recount Screwy’s history to you.” he said. “In reality, the dummies were built by a prop man at the old WWAG-TV studios. And he, alas, is long in his grave.”
“This is very disillusioning,” Tish complained. “One of the few things I still admired about you, Dad, was your woodcarving ability.”
“Listen, couldn’t you call Mitzi and tell her that I’m expiring, that I want to be reunited with my dummy for one last time before I go on to glory?”
“She’d burst out laughing if I told her you were about to kick off. Dad. And probably dance a little jig.”
“Okay, suppose we make a business deal with her? Offer the old shrew, say, fifteen percent of the take.”
“What take?
“You looked terrific on that broadcast.”
“You didn’t even see it.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No, and you admitted as much at the time.”
“Well, back to my immediate problem.”
“Why don’t you use one of the old Screwy Santa dolls? They look a lot like the dummy.”
“Except they don’t have movable mouths.”
“It’d be better than nothing. I can loan you mine,” she offered. “It’s stuffed away in a closet.”
“No. kid, I really have to have the real dummy.”
“Afraid there’s nothing I can do. I mean, if I so much as mention that you need Screwy Santa, Mom’s liable to take an axe to him.”
“Well, thanks anyway for listening to an old man’s woes and—”
“Here comes the gong again,” his daughter said. “Anyhow. I have to go put on some clothes. Bye.”
After hanging up, he stayed on the sofa and brooded. After about ten minutes he said aloud, “I’ll have to outwit Mitzi.”
The snow improved the next morning, giving a Christmas-card gloss to the usually dismal view from his small living room window.
At ten a.m. he put the first phase of his latest plan into operation. He phoned his former wife’s mansion over in Westport.
“Residence of Mitzi Sunsett Sayler,” answered a crisp female voice.
“Yes, how are you?” inquired Oscar in a drawling, slightly British accent. “Ogden Brokenshire here.”
“Yes?”
“Ogden Brokenshire of the Broadcasting Hall of Fame. Have I the honor of addressing the esteemed novelist Mitzi Sunsett Sayler herself?”
“Of course not, Mr. Brokenshire. I’m Clarissa Dempster, Mrs. Sayler’s secretary.”
“I see, my dear. Well, perhaps I can explain my mission to you, child, and you can explain the situation to your employer.”
“That depends on—”
“We would like to enshrine Screwy Santa.”
“Enshrine whom?”
“The ingenious dummy that Mrs. Sayler’s one-time husband used in the days when he brought joy and gladness to the hearts of—”
“Oh, that thing,” said the secretary. “My parents, wisely, never allowed me to watch that dreadful show when I was a child.”
“Nonetheless, dear child, our board has voted, unanimously I might add, to place Screwy Santa on permanent display in the museum.”
“Hold on a moment. I’ll speak to Mrs. Sayler.” The secretary went away.
In less than two minutes Mitzi started talking. “Who is this ?”
“Good morning, I’m Ogden Brokenshire. As I was explaining to your able secretary, my dear Mrs. Sayler, I’m an executive with the Broadcasting Hall of—”
