It's dark.

 

The mist of sleep clarifies and the dimness adds to my confusion.  Out of instinct, my hand searches for an invisible alarm clock and an end table that doesn't exist.  Though I really don't want to, I open my eyes.

 

Why am I in bed with Krusty the Klown?

 

The jolt is enough to bring me fully awake - in the vague moonlight, I realize it's Dante's Krusty doll on my pillow, and the elbow cutting off the circulation in my ribs belongs to my sister.

 

With care not to wake her up, I push Maggie's limp arm away and sit up.  My bare feet hang over the curved wooden top of my borrowed bed - the hotel blanket barely covers my pajama-clad knees.  A cramp races up my shin and I hiss, rocking against the pain, soothing it with my hands.

 

I look down at Maggie - her arms akimbo, snoring into her pillow.   She's in the fetal position, using the crowded quarters to her advantage, sleeping deeply and without trouble.  The sight of her reminds me of the last time we were forced to share a bed - the weekend of my Aunt Selma's wedding to Jeff Albertson.  I was sixteen and, in my hotly stated opinion, Too Old To Share A Bed With My Baby Sister.  The adults hadn't listened to me - it was cheaper the two of us to double up in one room.  I had pretended indifference, but sharing space with Maggie has and will always be a bit of an ordeal. 

 

Fully awake, I remember what led me to this fate - Laura's bachelorette party.  In planning the event, I had decided that my duplex would be the most optimal location, but Bart had decided to fly the entire family to Atlantic City over the weekend for 'One Last Wing-Ding', as he put it, using his most overstated British accent.  The details were arranged easily - I knew that Laura would want a longer party, so I scheduled the event to last late into the evening, refusing event coordinators and eschewing the pat and trite flowchart of male stripper/overabundance of alcohol/food coma.  I convinced Milhouse to schedule Bart's bachelor party for the same night, thus occupying my father, husband and brother.  The children were placed with friends for the short weekend - Dante on a sleepover with his best friend, and Antonia on a two-day school-arranged weekend to examine the wildlife of Springfield Gorge.  

 

Every detail had been accounted for - or so I had thought.  Until my mother asked what kind of dip I wanted her to bring. 

 

I woke up today with no idea what we would do for entertainment.  All of Laura's suggestions were very funny but very tasteless - and as open as my relationship with Mom has become, I couldn't bring myself to present her with something from Mitzi's Erotic Bakery of Windsor Heights.  I settled for baking a batch of cupcakes with a series of bridal cake picks jabbed into their centers.

 

Aunt Patty saved me.  She brought the wine.

 

Knowing that indulging would give me a headache, I kept sober - watching Ruth, Aunt Patty, Laura, Aunt Selma, and Maggie go deeper into their cups.  Mom wouldn't allow herself one drink for her nerves, all the while trying her best to seem hip and young.  We had decided not to go down to the casinos in deference to her gambling addiction - then she ruined my show of concern by pulling out a deck of playing cards and announced that we would play for pennies.  The games were surprisingly intense - no one wanted to leave our hotel room for fear of missing a hand.  That was the evening's entertainment.

 

My mother's invention was a blessing in disguise - over cupcakes, chip and dip we began to tell stories.  I heard again the tale of my parent's courtship, revealed to Laura for the first time.   Aunt Selma amused us by recollecting her nuptials to Troy McClure and Sideshow Bob - the latter of which I had selectively erased from my memory.  Aunt Patty remembered her near-wedding to Veronica, which predated her civil union to her wife of seventeen years, Anastasia.

 

My cell phone rang abruptly, and my husband explained that my father's Rent-A-Car was suffering from engine trouble and they were skipping their planned night on the town.  I took into consideration the amount of alchol consumed in my own apartment and decided that it might be best for us all to stay put. 

 

In persuit of generosity, I gave Laura the master suite - Patty and Selma decided, without the benefit of debate,  to share a couch in the entertainment room.  That left me, Maggie, Ruth and Mom to bunk on the floor of the master suite - and when I glance over my side of the bed, I see Ruth Powers curled up in a borrowed sleeping bag.  Maggie and I were forced to share a cot, and Mom took an extra blanket and pilow and insisted on roughing it on the floor.

 

I'm wide awake - thankfully, cynically, I'm glad the wedding's next week.  A flickering light throws green and blue tones under the door - remembering having shut the set off, I stumble through the misty darkness into the living quarters.  There, on the couch, with a bowl of room-service ice cream, sat Laura.

 

"Hey," I whisper - Laura doesn't seem alarmed by my sudden appearance.  "What happened to Aunt Patty and Aunt Selma?"

 

"They went back to their room.  They seemed sober, so I let them go."

 

I trust my aunt's judgment well enough to believe Laura.  I sit down beside her on the couch.  "Pre-wedding jitters?"

 

"No!"

 

There's a distinct warble in her voice that belies the sentiment.  "I was nervous the day I married Thelonious."

 

The TV’s light glitters in her eye.  "I can't picture you ever being nervous."

 

I chuckle.  "You've got to get to know me better, Laura."

 

"Are you the nervous type?"

 

"No, but big decisions give me pause.  I've not really had a panic attack, but I've had a stress condition.  I managed to get over it through application of meditation."

 

"Could you teach me how to meditate?"

 

"Of course."  I bend me crampy knees into the lotus position, extending my arms.  Laura isn't moving, however.

 

"How long does it take to learn this?  It won't take an hour, will it?"  She seems overanxious - a very un-Laura-like emotion.

 

"No - this is easy.  Fold your legs up the way I have mine," she does so.  "Then extend your arms and close your eyes."  She does.  "Cleanse your mind and repeat after me."  I chant several "oms" in what I hope is a low, soothing tone.

 

My mind is blank, wonderfully blank for a moment, as I chant for my own pleasure.  But as I come out of my self-induced trance, I realize Laura's not making a sound.  When I open my eyes, she's hyperventilating, rubbing her knees.

 

"Laura!  What's wrong?"  I try to touch her, but she shakes her head.  Gradually, her breathing calms as I wait anxiously nearby.  "What happened?"

 

"Stress.  I'm under such a bunch of stress I can barely think!  The moving, the wedding, my job - I'm ready to climb on the next Canyonero out of Dodge!"

 

"You'll be all right, Laura, I promise."

 

"I won't be all right just because you say I'll be all right," there's a level of hostility in her tone that I find disturbing.

 

"They'll be all right," I say firmly, "because you love my brother, and my brother has never loved anyone the way he loves you."

 

"What about his other wives?"

 

"His first wife was Tina Maree - a stripper he met at an out-of-town convention with Down With Buildings.   He told me she told him his tie made him look like a rugged stud and he was instantly in love," I snort.  "The marriage was annulled a few weeks later."

 

"What about his second wife?  Genda - "

 

"Genda.  She was his high school girlfriend - they were rather alike.  Everyone said too alike, and I guess they were right.  Dissimilarity can be good for a couple, I think."  There are things to Genda's and Bart's marriage, however, that are up to Bart to reveal to Laura.  "After they split up, she became a bail bondswoman in Las Vegas."

 

"And there were other girls, right?"

 

"Oh yes - but I'm sure there have been other guys for you," Laura nods her head.  "Don't you think the two of you are on an even playing field?"

 

"I hope so.  But I don't know..."  She stirred her melting ice cream with the very tip of her gold-plated spoon.  "Did you ever wonder if Thelonious was the right guy for you?"

 

My mind reels back to that long-ago time.  It's one of my favorite stories, and I know Laura's never heard it all the way through.

 

"That's a long story.  Want me to start from the beginning."

 

She nodded. 

 

"It all started the day I moved back to Springfield..."

 

***

 

Autumn, 2020

 

It had been a fair one, cool enough to need a sweater while hauling boxes into and out of a freight elevator.  I didn't want for help in this endeavor - along with my brother, my roommate Alison pitched in.

 

"A TV?" she laughed, as I opened a cardboard box in the living area of our new loft.  "Lisa Simpson owns a TV set?"

 

"I believe in cultural enrichment and supporting the NAFTE agreement," rocking back on my heels with the force of the peeling cardboard, I smile.  "And I need something to play my Best of Itchy And Scratchy Volume 1 DVDs on."

 

"We'll put them right here," Alison put her feet up on our mock-antique, mock-carved plastic end table, and points to our currently-vacant bookshelf.  "They'll go right there with my copy of Volume Two."

 

I already know-how much fun I'm going to have living with Alison.  How it was that we were once staunch academic rivals at Springfield Elementary?  We existed in the same social orbit in high school, becoming friendly as our similarities became positives.  We communicated through emails as I went to college and made my overseas sojourn - when I returned to work in Washington, she was a first chair baritone sax on the National Symphony.  We re-connected, found ourselves mutually floundering, shared laughter over the joys and hardships of having been Americans in Europe, and mutually agreed to move in together in Springfield, once the opportunity presented itself.

 

While I had no regrets about giving up life in the government, Alison had a laundry list of misgivings about having left Washington for her home town.  What had caused her to switch gears and decide to take a job with the Springfield Symphony was a promise of being conductor - though she had absolutely no experience in the field.  We spent many a night together, as I tried to pass my exams with the board of education and she came to learn how to handle a baton.  On this day we stood on the verge of our new lives, and the nervous energy that lay between us felt like a raw nerve being poked.

 

The intrusive sound of a buzzer being mashed drew my attention to the door, and I straddled a misplaced kitchen chair to answer it. 

 

"Yo, Lis!" my brother yelled before I could reach it.  Afraid of being ignored, he began to sing, “Lisa Lisa, Garbage-face girl..."

 

It was a tune he'd invented in high school to annoy me.  "Bart, I told you never to sing that again!"

 

"Ten years ago - the statue of limitations ran out on that bribe!"

 

I rolled my eyes.  "You've been to one class and you seem to think you're already a lawyer."

 

Bart's laugh was nasal and superior. 

 

"Get up here!" 

 

"Hey, don't make me hold you in contempt - ick, holding my sister - must suppress memory...oh great, now all I can remember is that time I saw Krusty the Klown being mauled by his fan club at that autograph signing."

 

I had been there, too.  They called themselves "Krustmates" and had managed to strip him to her underwear before security intervened.  "I can still see the little red hearts coming after me...ugh, just come upstairs."

 

"No problemo."

 

I sat back down.  "Brothers!"

 

Alison chortled.  "My brother's worst crime was painting white stripes on a grey cat."

 

"Do you remember Bart from high school?  That was the toned-down post-puberty version."

 

"No, I remember him from elementary school, too.  Bless you for keeping yourself sane."

 

"Bart's not a bad brother," I said defensively.  "He's...creative in his method of applying the truth."

 

"That means I like to lie," Bart said, using an exaggerated hick voice as he came into the loft.  With every eye on him, he placed the final cardboard box on the end table.  "Is that all you need, master?"

 

"Yes, you did very well, Jeeves," I joked.

 

"Now peel us some grapes.  Chop-chop!" Alison retorted in an exaggerated British accent to match Bart's.

 

"Sheesh," he went over to our refrigerator, took out a bottle of Buzz Cola and popped the top.  "You do a girl a favor and she doesn't even go to the trouble of having a big steak waiting for you."

 

"Go feed yourself, Neanderthal," I snorted.  "It was only four boxes plus the table they wouldn't deliver, and we helped with those AND the TV set.  Besides, we have water and soda, and those were housewarming presents from the neighborhood welcoming committee."

 

"Never mind a welcoming committee," Bart peered out our kitchen window and into the alley below.  "From up here, it looks like they need a 'please get the hell out of town' committee."

 

Bart's observations were remarkably on-target.  The waterfront district had definitely fallen on hard times since Mayor Quimby's ouster, and while it wasn't nearly as bad as Junkieville or Bumtown, it wasn't the ritzy high-end neighborhood that once counted Tony Hawk as a resident.  Instead, the Wharf District served an assortment of starving artists, lower-income families and elderly residents too young for the Springfield Retirement Castle. 

 

"Aww, what's the matter, Bart?" I chuckled.  "You wanna hug?  Come here and hug your sister!"

 

He recoiled playfully.  "Eww!  No way, man.  Alison might think we're from Utah."

 

"I don't think they do that in Utah.  It's against their religion." I embraced my brother against his will, then planted a kiss between his gelled locks.

 

"The only thing," Bart snickered, and I poked him in the ribs before crossing the room. 

 

"Do you really want something to eat?  I can order a vegetarian pizza."

 

"Ugh!  No thanks, I think I'll go to Krustyburger and get some meat!"

 

"Didn't the FDA close down Krustyburger after they found out the burgers are made of masking tape?"

 

Bart didn't seem to remember that, but I did.  "He's a congressman," I cut in. 

 

"Well, that explains everything," Alison snorted.  "I don't eat there anymore - strict vegan that I am."

 

"You're vegan?  How can you live without butter?"

 

"Soy margarine, Lisa - I'm all about soy margarine these days."

 

"I love soy and bean curd, but soy margarine is the most disgusting creation in the entire world!"

 

Bart had begun to ease his way toward the door.  "If you don't need me anymore..."

 

I gave my brother a sincere smile that, I hope, transcended our usual mode of serious versus sarcastic.  "Thank you, Bart."

 

"Thank you," Alison said, making her own tone sincere. 

 

"I would have to be nuts to turn down the attention of two chicks who say 'Bart!  I need you now!'  Even if one is my sister."

 

"Eew!"

 

I threw a sofa pillow at the door, but he had already shut it behind him, and until the elevator returned for him I could hear the howling laughter of my big brother. 

 

When I collected myself, I realized that Alison had gone to the kitchenette and was searching for her keys.  "Where are you going?"

 

"To get some soy margarine," she grinned.  "I'm going to make you a batch of oatmeal-cranberry cookies.  Then you tell me if you can taste the difference!"

 

 

***

 

After a delicious meal of curry and pita bread and two of Alison's cookies - she was right, I couldn't tell the difference - the two of us huddled by our television, laughing wildly at the antics of Itchy, Scratchy and Poochie.

 

I had nearly forgotten the first ten seconds of my father's five minutes of fame, but here it was again, complete with derogatory commentary from Roger Meyers Junior.  Dad gained some level of fame from those DVDs among Itchyphiles, and he'd even been invited to take part in the 100th Anniversary Itchy and Scratchy Convention in New York City, but the very mention of the city put him in a rage.  Mom was so concerned for his heart condition that she instructed him not to go.

 

I relax into the admittedly-plush but secondhand sofa - while Alison was gone I took the liberty of packing away my clothing and moving my minimal possessions into the bedroom.  I tended to travel light since my days in Paris - the important things in life fit over my shoulder or in the basket of a bicycle, the rest waiting for my first house in my parent's attic.  Besides the clothing, some beloved books and cds and records I could never part with, and my sax, I had brought up my old guitar and my favorite Malibu Stacy.  Her compatriots and myriad accessories waited in a trunk in the attic at Evergreen Terrace, but this one would always be special to me - it was my first, and bore the imprint of Maggie's first teeth on the mid-calf from her time in hand-me-down hell.  I had my Paris print, my Italian silk scarf which went with everything.  All of my possessions, dotted around this new home, mixed nicely in with Alison's.   I thanked her in my weary bones for heading down a day early to arrange her things and supervise the delivery people bringing the appliances and furniture. 

 

"Your dad is talented," Alison admitted as the show faded to black. 

 

"No one thought so at the time.  Everyone blamed him for ruining Itchy and Scratchy."

 

Alison shrugged.  "Whenever shows take a dip in quality, I blame the writers.  I did that back then."

 

"You did, I remember," Alison had been one of the few kids in our class to say she though Poochy was a fun addition to the show.  Her strong ascertation had earned her a mouthful of mud on the playground. 

 

Recalling elementary school with Alison so close by made me say, "How did we live through that?"

 

"Springfield Elementary?  We kept our heads down.  By fifth grade, I figured out the monkey bars were a safe haven.  People were too busy fighting for the swings."  She fiddled with the picture quality on the TV set, and then set down the remote.  She studied my demeanor and asked, "You’re nervous about tomorrow?"

 

"Well, no more than is to be expected," I giggled in a way that sounded high-pitched and creepy even to my consciousness. 

 

She remembered the sound from our old debate days.  "Do you need a paper bag?" I shook my head.  She clapped my shoulders with both hands.  "Your job is important and you'll be good at it.  That's what you need to remember."

 

"I know I'll be a good teacher - it's that I'll be up in front of a hundred or more children!"

 

"Big crowds have never scared you!  I remember a little girl in a red dress who spelled onomatopoeia in front of a nationwide audience without even a misplaced e."

 

"I have the lives of these children in my hands.  I could be the difference between an impressionable young girl becoming an oboe player or deciding that Justin Timberlake invented rock and roll."

 

"He didn't?"  I must have gone pale.  "It'll be okay, Lisa.  It's past eleven, and we ought to go to bed."

 

Alison's patience made me feel listened to.  But it didn't calm down the butterflies in my stomach.

 

 

***

 

The day did not have a promising start.

 

A power outage overnight rendered my alarm clock useless - when Alison shook me awake I was five minutes behind schedule.  I rushed through a shower and tore through two pairs of pantyhose before hopping onto my bike and peddling like an overenthusiastic exercise nut to Springfield High, my teaching material over the handlebars and my sax strapped to the back.

 

I chained my bike to a rack that houses several other student-owned contraptions.  Some of the early hover bikes for the rich kids - regular Schwinns of varying durability and wear for the others.  I pushed into the school, alarmed to find the hallways already deserted.  The large clocks at either end of the hallway read 8:01.  I jogged up two flights of stairs, clutching my reading material to my chest, finally finding the musical theatre amphitheatre, remodeled on a court order by the omnipresent Krusty The Klown.  I burst through the main doorway with all of the elegance of an elephant in a crystal shop. 

 

No one noticed, but every seat was filled. 

 

Fifty faces danced before me - some seated, some not, wearing clothing that agreed with the dress code, in some cases barely.  I saw hair of tropical hues and pierced noses and navels shining out under the dim light. 

 

"Hello?"  My voice came out in a timid whisper.  That wouldn't do at all.  "Hello!" I said, more assertively.  No one stirred.  I remembered, reluctantly, what Mister Largo taught me about relaxing my diaphragm.  "HEY EVERYONE!" Came out in a ringing shout.  Fifty heads turned around to face me, expressions showing various degrees of amusement, annoyance, and complacency.  "Sit down, everyone.  No assigned seats," I added, trying to come off as a kindly sort. 

 

Feet clomped down the risers, filling in the empty spots.  Expectantly, a good portion of my class waited - for me to do something.  I broke into motion.  "My name is," what I wanted to say was lost in a horrendous thud, as I forgot to put down my saxophone before reaching for a piece of chalk.

 

Snickering broke out in the room - my cheeks flamed and I flashed back once more to Springfield Elementary.  I couldn't let panic defeat me, and with a strong voice I continued.  "Ms. Lisa Simpson," I signed my name across the chalkboard in florid cursive.  "You may call me Lisa," I underlined the name with a little flourish, under the sound of impressed murmuring from the student body.  They had evidently never been faced with calling a teacher by her first name.  A little thrill went through me - I had their attention now!  "Your musical instruction will be conducted in several parts over the course of your time in Springfield High School.  First, you'll learn how to read music.  Then, you'll learn how to play a simple instrument, such as a recorder or a pan pipe - some of you might remember that from elementary school."  I didn't.  Springfield Elementary, in that one way, had been more blessed than most in that students learned on orchestral instruments right away, instead of on plastic school-owned recorders.  "In your third year, you'll learn how to play a professional instrument, such as a drum, a flute, a harp, or a..."

 

"SKIN FLUTE!" Came a voice from the back of the class.  I recognized the Muntz-like tone to the voice too well - it was one of Sherri or Terri's boys.  Sarcastic laughter filled the room, but I didn't allow it to overwhelm me this time.

 

"I wouldn't know anything about that - but I presume you do, Mister Muntz."  The hulking form shrunk down, and the laughter turned against him.  I called for quiet, which was gradually achieved, then walked over to my lectern.  "And you're seniors, which mean you already have some form of instruction in musical theory.  When I call your name, you'll join me in the orchestra pit.  The janitor should have placed your instrument beside the stand with your name on it."  I ran down the roll call, smothering a grin when I called out "Muntz, Indio".  I remembered hovering over a baby name book with Terri in homeroom.  She had picked Indio out with a highlighter, and I had said I found the name awful.  Nelson had felt the same way, but stuck as he was between Sherri and Terri he knew enough not to argue. 

 

My assembled orchestras were already well-versed with their instruments, my predecessor having taught them enough in the way of handling instructions.  This would be my easy class, I knew - these children took this course as an elective, as something fun to do or as something to put on their college resume.  It would be different with children required to take this class as an arts credit.  My stomach was already knotting for the next period.  "This year, you'll be taught various songs - common holiday tunes and ones in the public domain.  Every quarter, you will be required to be proficient enough to play each song in public, such as a holiday concert or, perhaps, a mall.  Eyes widened at that - I knew that would entice them.  "Shall we begin?" The consensus seemed ready.

 

"I'll play through the song first please follow along on your sheet music.  This tune is called 'My Bonnie'.  The Beatles covered it," I tried to stay charming, but I knew they were losing interest.  My saxophone, trusty and polished, tasted sweet against my lip.  As I inhaled, I remembered going to the dedication ceremony for the room sixteen years and a lifetime ago - when it was called the Gabbo Amphitheatre.  Krusty had won the battle all right.  So could I.

 

 

***

 

"Delivery for Miss Simpson!"

 

I rose to meet a UPS man as he entered my classroom.  I had just dismissed the final class of the day and had been brooding over my performance.  I had aced all of the senior classes and early classes, but the intermediate students suffered thanks to the recorders being non-grata.  "You have my recorders?"

 

"Yes ma'am.  Sign here!"

 

I did, and he lifted the recorders from his cart to the desk.  Enthusiastically, I slashed opened each box with my pocket knife, delighted to see the carefully-packed away recorders.  The delivery man seemed more alarmed than amused to witness my hugging them, however.  "Thank you!" I enthused.

 

"No problem." He backed away as if I might be possessed. 

 

I was in the middle of hacking open the second box when a knock sounded at my door.  "Come in."

 

"Excuse me," a soothing male voice began, "I was looking for the teacher's lounge.  I arrived too late this morning and was wondering where..." I looked up and he looked down from the floor plan he had printed out.  "Oh.  Hello."

 

I felt shy, suddenly.  "Hello," I echoed.

 

He thrust out his hand robotically.  "My name's Thelonious McCardle."

 

Thelonious.  The name was evoked something fond and buried in me.  I took his hand, the pampered palms and soft skin whispering against me apologetically.  "Did you attend  Springfield Elementary?"

 

"No, but I did go to West Springfield Elementary..." He peered at me through his glasses.  "You look terribly familiar.  Did you attend, too?"

 

"I went to Springfield Elementary - I did visit West Springfield once..." I recalled my lost science project, the near-loss of my father's thumb and another blot on Bart's juvenile record as a long strange nightmare.  "That was long ago.  I was nine."

 

"It's been years since I've been nine, too," he said idly.  We stared into each other's faces in a moment of perfect companionship.  It suddenly occurred to me that I was being forward, and to him that he had been holding my hand for a protracted amount of time simultaneously - together we pulled back a bit and regarded each other. 

 

"Thelonious," I said - saying his first name out loud seemed a bit too intimate and I felt the awkwardness come between us again.  "As in Monk?"

 

He nodded his head.  "Yes.  The exocentric appeal is worth the beatings."  The dry tone made it a joke, and we chuckled together.  He tried to lounge casually against my chalkboard, with an elbow against the green slate - the pad of his elbow against the board made a loud squealing noise.  "So," he said, "what do your friends call you?"

 

Alarm bells rang in the back of my mind, but I felt too intrigued to answer.  "Ms. Simpson.  But you may call me Lisa."  It was a joke mostly for my own amusement, but he smiled at it. 

 

"Lisa Simpson - how refreshingly normal!"

 

I felt the disquieting streak of sickness that always coated my stomach whenever someone referred to me as 'normal'.  "I come from simple roots," I explained.  the simplest, I acknowledged to myself, though I was no longer ashamed for my parents.

 

"It's quite an ordinary name for a woman with your extraordinary sparkle," the words came out flirtatiously, and even he seemed alarmed by his forwardness.  "You'll have to excuse me - I don't spend much time with the opposite sex."

 

I felt stupidly jealous at the 'much'.  "So you don't have a girlfriend?"

 

He laughed.  "Between my undergraduate degrees, I believe I saw a woman at a pizza shop."

 

"Really?"

 

"No, I speak the truth!  She may have been blurry through the drive-in window, but she was definitely female!"

 

Thelonious' dry whit delighted me.  "Oh, Mister McCardle, your charm reminds me of a young Rowan Atkinson!"

 

"With the mole or without?"

 

My hand had fallen to his elbow as I laughed heartily - the touch passing between us was sharply sweet, too familiar, and I backed off again.  Seeking a bit of distance, I stood to measure my height against his - my head came up to his chest, until I bent over to retrieve my purse and materials.  "Are you still looking for a cup of coffee?"

 

"I am a bit parched."

 

"I know a wonderful place that serves Sumatran dry roast.  And they have the most divine fudge..."

 

"You like fudge?"

 

"Oh, I'm partial to sweets now and again.  It's a Simpson family trait," one you'll have to reign in before you get a heart condition like dad, I mentally scolded myself.  "I'll teach you a little trick I've learned to help me get around the building - did you miss orientation?"

 

"I did - my baby sister graduated high school and mom and dad wanted me there."

 

"That explains your difficulty.  I had to come in for orientation and I spent a little extra time roaming around to teach myself the ins and outs of the place.  First, always park in the e-wing," a tip that was useless for me now, but had been useful when I borrowed Mom and Dad's car to haul my materials to the music room.

 

"I don't need to park - I have a bike."

 

I gasped.  "You, too?"

 

He pulled open the door for me.  "Miss Simpson," he said, "I have a feeling that this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

 

***

 

"Lisa!  It's Thelonious.  AGAIN."

 

Alison didn't mask her laughter as I rushed from the bedroom with a speed far over the normal.  I had just gotten out of the shower and changed into a fresh outfit in preparation of a night of preparing winter exams.  She seemed to be aware of what I, at the time, was blind to - I was becoming rather attached to the new science teacher.  The fall semester had passed into winter, and now it was five weeks before the Christmas Break and we had seen one another every night since our meeting.  A sane person would see the romance in this, but I felt as if I had done what I longed to do - build a strong friendship with someone of my own intellect.  During our meal at the coffee shop, we discussed art, politics, and our childhood experiences, and we got on so famously that I insisted he meet me at my place the following morning, so that we might ride to school together and I could show him around.  My experiences with men had taught me to expect much but receive little.  His appearance the next morning with his bike had been such a pleasant shock that I still feel it to this day.

 

It seemed natural to start spending more time with him.  We attended local theatre together, tried new restaurants and went dancing together.  I hadn't thought to give him my phone number until I realized he didn't have it - we spent so much time together in the real world that we grew to know one another without exchanging email addresses.

 

"Thelonious?" I said into the phone.

 

"Hi!  Can you come out tonight?"

 

"Actually, I was hoping to stay in - I just washed my hair."

 

"Tsk!  Are you trying to blow me off?"

 

I giggled like a foolish goose, twisting the chord between my fingers.  Alison kept watching me, eating her cereal with the enthusiasm of a courtside spectator at Wimbledon.  "Never that!  I wouldn't mind you

coming, but l have an exam to prepare."

 

"Excelsior!  I have an exam of my own to work out.  I'll come to you with Chinese."

 

"The number nine vegetarian?"

 

"From Wong Lee's."

 

"I'll be here!"  I hung up the phone with a smile on my face, and to Alison's laughter.  "What?"

 

"Lisa has a crush on the teacher!" she sing-songed.

 

"I do not!" I gasped.

 

"Oh, Lisa, please!  You've seen this man every day of the week for the past three months!"

 

"That's what close friends do, and that's all that Thelonious and I are."

 

"I believe you.  So, what are you going to wear?"

 

"Just an old sweatshirt and jeans."

 

She eyed me in bald disbelief.  "You really don't notice the way he looks at you, do you?"

 

I felt wholly confused.  "How does he look at me?"

 

"Like you're an angel sent down from heaven, and he's a mere mortal."

 

"Oh, be serious!  Thelonious can't be attracted to me!"

 

"Why not?  You're attractive, single, in your early 30's, and absolutely not desperate.  In Springfield, that makes you the perfect woman."

 

"I'll never be the perfect woman," I said darkly, as images of my childhood flashed by.  "I'm a bit of a know-it-all, after all."

 

"I never would have guessed from arguing with you," she picked up her bowl of ceral and scraped it into the sink.  "Well, I'm off!"

 

"To where?"

 

"Singles mixer at the modern art museum," she flipped my Italian silk scarf over her shoulder.  "Do I look less provincial?"

 

"A veritable a' la mode," I kicked up my heels.  "Are you hoping to bump into Wendell?"

 

She made a sour face.  "Him?  I haven't seen Wendell in years!"

 

I gasped.  "Have you forgotten that I'm talking to one-half of Springfield's Homecoming Couple of the Class of 1999?"

 

"That was AGES ago!" She stepped into her heels, buckling them up while standing in a most impressive way.  "And Wendell's somewhere in Akron!"

 

"I never figured he'd become a CPA."

 

"He was a handball champion, not a quarterback," she said archly.  She glanced at her watch.  "Will you be home if I have an emergency?"

 

"Definitely yes," she sighed a relief and grabbed her clutch purse.  In the maroon apartment, with its Indian and Native American decorative motif, she looked like a mannequin displaced.  When she opened the door, Thelonious stood there. 

 

"Hello, lover boy," Alison said lightly.

 

He bowed.  "Madame Conductor."

 

She excused herself with a mock-bow and passed out into the hallway, leaving me entirely alone with Thelonious. 

 

"You look wonderful." 

 

I didn't quite hear the hushed awe in his voice.  "I pulled this out of the dirty laundry hamper," I said honestly.

 

"Dirty laundry should be the newest line from the Paris Couture houses," he placed the Chinese takeout automatically on the end table and sat down on my couch, then opened his briefcase.  I joined him and pulled open the satchel I had rested against the couch.

 

"Would you like some dinner music?" I stepped over to our near-fossilized record player and began to skim through my dusty pile of records.

 

"Do you have any jazz?"

 

I answered him with side one of Miles' "Bitches' Brew".

 

We didn't need words to enhance our companionship.  We ate side-by-side, marking down questions for our exams.  I watched Thelonious with interest - glancing bits of material over his shoulder.  I remembered easily the old formulas and processes - I could have well been a science teacher myself.  He didn't seem to feel me peeking, or if he did, it didn't bother him.  I finished just as side one of Mister Davis' record concluded.  I stood to switch it over, but decided against it.  I snuck into my bedroom, took my sax, and sat down beside him, playing a melody that came to mind. 

 

When I finished, he was watching in delight.  "Take the A Train."

 

I nodded.  "I'm partial to it.  Do you know "The Broken Neck Blues?"

 

"Do you happen to have a guitar?"

 

I couldn't believe it.  "I'll go get it."  When I returned with the guitar, he had finished the exam. 

Weighing the guitar in his hands, he plucked a string experimentally.  "Nice." Then he began playing, from memory, "Be Cool".

 

I couldn't resist spinning around to the song - dancing alone as only I could.  Before I knew it, he had joined me, and we were running in our circles.  Our too-familiar circles...

 

We collapsed in a laughing heap, me atop him.  When the laughter stopped, I saw him with new eyes.

 

"Lisa?"

 

"Thelonious."

 

I kissed him then.

 

When we broke apart, he smiled.  "I knew it was you..."

 

***

From that moment on, our relationship was a near-sure thing.  It flowed with a sense of nature and ration that I had never expected to feel.   There was never even an official proposal, for he knew I was gun-shy after Hugh.  We simply agreed that we would be married, and for my birthday he bought me a ring of garnets and pearls.

 

The matter of the truth coming out was simply a matter of time.  We spent a miserable Christmas break apart before reuniting joyously in the New Year to plan our wedding.

 

All was not well on every front, however.  While a great portion of my students did well to average - and I had always graded on a curve - Indio Muntz was not responding well to his elective courses.  He possessed a singular inability to meld with the harmony, always two paces two far behind or one pace too far ahead, and he seemed to take delight in his cacophonous disruptions.  In addition, I received little to no respect from him.  As January progressed into February, and then March, I realized I would be forced to hold a conference with his parents.

 

Otherwise, my life was consumed in happiness.  Between the two of us, Thelonious and I decided to break the news, simultaneously, to both of our families to avoid hard feelings.  We took up an entire table at our favorite cafe and spread the news around.

 

The scene suited not at all my father, who could barely fit into the booths.  "Come on, lousy plastic, give for daddy." and when it finally did, he released a happy "Whoo hoo!" 

 

Thelonious' father scanned the exotic decor with whimsy.  "What an...exotic...place."  The hand-painted faux tribal masks clearly clashed with his sense of what was attractive.

 

My mother gave Thelonious' father a reproachful look.  "What was the wonderful news you're planning on telling us, sweetheart?"

 

I looked around.  "We'd rather wait for Bart to get here."

 

Homer snorted.  "When has the boy made any kind of bad news easier?"

 

"It's not bad news," Thelonious cut in, taking a muffin from the basket our waitress had placed between us.

 

"I can take it, Lisa.  It's been three years since the ol' quadruple bypass!  My ticker's like brand new - oooh!  Pumpkin muffins!"

 

"Not for you!" my mother scolded, pulling the basket away to Homer's "Aww!"

 

"Hey, germs and germettes," Bart burst in on the scene, pushing Thelonious further in and sandwiching me between a window and my fiancé.  The McArdles perched precariously on their chairs, while my mother teetered on the edge of the Simpson end of the booth.  "I've got two classes between now and the night, so I'm gonna leave early.  What's shaking?"

 

"Lisa and I have wonderful news," Thelonious began again.

 

"Yes," Mister McArdle rolled his eyes.  "You've already said that.  I see the diction lessons I paid for haven't gone to waste."

 

Thelonious cleared his throat.  "Lisa and I have been seeing each other for six months, and we're very pleased to be together..."

 

"Thelonious!" his mother said sharply.  "Did you get this girl in trouble?"

 

I felt myself turn crimson.  "No, mother!  Lisa and I are to be married!"

 

The table broke into a state of jubilee.  My mother had her arms around my neck, praising the wonderful news, hugging me as if she didn't want to let go and pulling me chest-first into the muffin basket.  My father pumped his fist and used the excuse to order an extra round of onion rings.  My brother slapped Thelonious on the back and began planning the bachelor party out loud.  And the McArdles wondered why he hadn't brought me home before making such a rash decision.

 

"Are you planning the wedding?  You have to let me help plan the wedding!" Mom cried out..

 

I eyed my father.  "Is dad banned from 'helping' with this one too?"

 

"Hey!" Dad complained.

 

"If you want me to check the statutes on that court order, Dad..." Bart began.

 

"Court order?" Mister MacArdle asked.

 

"It's still effective," Mom said.  "I check every year!"

 

"I need to call Maggie and break the news to her," I smiled.  "Thelonious, could you..."

 

My fiancé was otherwise occupied.  "We don't even know this girl!  And you've only known her for a year!"

 

"I feel as though I've known Lisa for an infinite amount of time," Thelonious retorted.

 

"Thelonious, honey..."

 

"Thelonious!" my father burst out.  "Oh, Marge, how'm I gonna remember a name like that?  Do you mind if I call you specks?" He asked Thelonious.

 

"Not if I can call you 'dad'."

 

"And where did you go to school, Lisa?  What sort of breeding do you have?"

 

I was lost in the flood of happy words.  "Excuse me, I have to call my sister."

 

The Simpson/MacArdle table became joyfully noisy.  It was a joy, when it came to my in-laws at least, that would prove too brief.

 

***

 

My distaste for ceremony was included into the planning by my mother.  The engagement party was skipped, as was the bachelorette party - I still had sour memories of my Aunt Patty's misadventure, which resulted in the entire family getting lost in Tijuana on a bogus scavenger hunt for two days.  Thelonious skipped the bachelor party on my advice, though Bart told me later he had yet another one in 'his honor'.   Mom and I planned another white wedding, with touches of red and green, for July 10th, 2021.  Maggie agreed to sing again, and with her freshly-torn tendons she had no real choice but to participate more actively in this ceremony. 

 

My job became significantly harder.  Indio Muntz's record became worse and worse at school.  I made an appointment with Nelson and Terri for the afternoon of April first, a week before final exams. 

 

***

 

Characteristically, Terri arrived promptly for her conference - and Nelson was nowhere in sight.  He hadn't married either of the twins after high school, and lived a bachelor's life while sharing custody of Indio, his twin, and the two boys Sherri had given birth to. 

 

"Lisa?" Terri's voice was the same high squeak I remembered.  As I shook her hand, I realized that she had become thinner since the last time I saw her, with an edgy look that signaled nervousness.  She had been the twin most affected by Nelson's betrayal with her sister - she had actually loved Nelson, while Sherri, who had a crush on my brother that she harbored even past her dalliance with his bully, had only used Nelson as a passing fancy.  The years had been only moderately kind to her - crows’ feet blanketed the corners of her eyes.  "What's wrong with my kid?" She asked.

 

"He's a bit of a disciple problem."

 

"Where do you think he gets that from?"

 

I snickered before composing myself.  "It's a situation that needs to be addressed before it gets worse.  He refuses to play in harmony with the class, even though his previous teacher left notes that this was his forte as a student.  He cannot refrain from making rude jokes during the class.  More recently, he refused to learn the latest song for this quarter.  If he can't master it, I'm afraid I'll be forced to fail him."

 

"Fail my boy?" Nelson appeared in the doorway, straightening his violet tie over a denim vest.  All of the qualities that had once endeared him to me came rushing back, but I suppressed my fondness.  His words did the rest for me.  "You can't fail my boy!  How is he gonna get a scholarship if he doesn't graduate?"

 

"I can, Mister Muntz, and I will.  He's not learning the material and he's behaving disruptively.  I've actually been very lenient with him thus far."

 

"He's been working his can off when he's at my place!" He glared at Terri.  "You're letting him slack off again."

 

"I am not!" She protested.  "You're the one who lets him go out with girls on school nights!"

 

"Please don't squabble over this!" I snapped.  My tone made them stop their fighting - I would later find the humor in having silenced two people who had teased me as an eight-year-old.   "The two of you need to work together to find out what's wrong with Indio."

 

"Pft.  Little Lisa Science Queen thinks she can tell me how to raise my kid!" snorted Nelson.

 

"Yeah, and you don't have one, cabbage head!" retorted Terri.

 

"Have either one of you grown up since we were in elementary school?"

 

The words made them take pause.  It was Nelson who said, "we'll do what we can."

 

I knew, somehow, it wasn't enough.

 

***

 

Thelonious' parents were, to say the least, not pleased that we were holding the rehearsal dinner at my parents' house, and two months before the wedding to boot.  But between final exams and the ill-timed booking of our honeymoon, it was the last free weekend we had simultaneously until July.

 

"All right, first Maggie...then the mother of the groom with Bart...then the Mother of the Bride with...the mother of the bride....then the groomsmen..." My mother stage-directed.

 

"Excuse me," said Thelonious' mother.  "Why do I have to walk down the aisle with the mother of the bride?"

 

"We don't have any attendants," Marge explained.

 

"No attendants?" She protested.

 

"We want a simple wedding, Mom!" Thelonious cut in.

 

"You're getting married on board of a schooner by the waterfront.  There's plenty of room for attendants.  Didn't you ask you brothers if they wanted to..."

 

"Yes, mom," said Thelonious sighed.  "But we wanted everything to be intimate and quiet."

 

"Well, it will certainly be quiet!  What will your aunt think when I tell them you were married on a schooner?"

 

"I think it's a lovely idea," my mother interjected.

 

"Yes, you would."

 

"All right!" My mother's too-chipper voice cut in.  "Then we walk up to Reverend Lovejoy..."

 

"You're using him?  He's not Episcopalian!"

 

"He's known Lisa since she was a baby!"

 

"And you've known Father Jansen since you were in my womb!"

 

"It doesn't matter!  We're practicing Buddhists, mom."

 

"She's a Buddhist, too?  I thought you were more sensible than that!" glared Misses MacArdle.  "I so hoped that Thelonious would find a woman that would bring him back to the Episcopalian faith..."

 

"Dad," Thelonious beseeched, but his father was busy chatting with my own about the football season on the couch.

 

"Homer!" My mother entreated.

 

"Yeah, I'm watching, honey," he waved his hand dismissively.  On the screen, a football player spiked the ball against the turf - and then the ball knocked him out.  "Whoo Hoo!"

 

"No!" Protested Thelonious' father. 

 

"Pay up, Professor!"

 

He grumbled, but did so.

 

"We never went to church regularly.  Only on holidays and Christmas Day.  Buddhism was what helped me through the hell that was high school," Thelonious hissed through his teeth.  "I appreciate your sentiment, but I'm not changing religions because you think my faith is invalid.  So PLEASE let me live my own life, AND let Misses Simpson plan the wedding!"

 

"Thelonious, you are shattering my heart into little pieces, and you're letting this obviously tasteless woman do it!"

 

"Tasteless?" I gaped.

 

"Now, Lisa - I suppose I'm not 'hep' or 'cool' or 'rad'" My mother made finger quotes.  "But I've been getting Obsessive Brides Monthly mailed to me every day since Lisa was a teenager, and I know how to plan a good wedding!"

 

"Ah, Obsessive Brides Monthly, with their weekly column "How to make a festive reception with fifty cents worth of Tater Tots."

 

My mother looked dismayed.  "I...thought that was a nice reception."

 

At that point, the entire world went black.  I had hyperventilated myself to unconsciousness.

 

***

 

I went to school the following day in a cloud of dark thought.  Maybe I was just logy from the Tater Tots, but I couldn't solve the problem of the wedding - I wasn't about to call it off, and it couldn't be re-planned on short notice.  My future mother-in-law obviously felt that her son was marrying down the social ladder, and was ever-so-subtly pressuring him to give her the society wedding fitting of a MacArdle, but I had faith that he wouldn't buckle in to her demands.

 

When I saw Indio, I realized that my own problems were minor next to his.  He looked downtrodden, depressed, and he robotically did what was required of him.  I sadly understood that whatever Nelson and Terri had told him over the weekend; it must have drained the child's natural passion for playing.  I was compelled to corner him in the library during his free period. 

 

The library was quiet and musty-smelling, bringing back comforting memories of the way I had spent my childhood.  Indio was holed up with a computer near the media center.  "Indio, we have to talk about your problems."

 

He jumped at the sound of my voice, but quickly composed himself.  "Pst.  What do I care what some teacher thinks?" He rolled his eyes.

 

"I think you do.  You took great pains to learn all of the songs, and you play everything beautifully and with great timing.  I know that you're overplaying the last notes to be heard intentionally."

 

He frowned.  "Don't do that stuff.  I get enough therapy every week."

 

"I'm sorry.  I didn't know you were seeing someone."

 

"Yeah, but when I'm eighteen I'm done," he shrugged. "Can I confide in you, teach?"

 

"Of course."

 

"It's 'cause my folks are fighting.  I had to apply for a bunch of scholarships, and she thinks it's my dad's fault 'cause he should pay for it.  She says all the time that it's his fault me and my Bro are here.  And that gets them going about my cousins, and how he screwed up my mom's relationship with Aunt Sherri and my cousins.  If I mess up enough here, I won't have to worry about going to college, and they'll finally shut up and stop picking on each other."

 

I focused on the first part.  "Your dad's a car salesman and you mom's a telemarketer.  They can't afford to send you to school.  They're both bright enough to want you to apply for scholarships, so maybe you should follow their advice and buckle down."

 

"Duh.  But they're always fighting.  That's just an excuse for them.  Later, it'll be something dumber."

 

"You shouldn't punish yourself because they're punishing themselves.  You deserve to go to college."

 

"Thanks, teach." But he didn't seem convinced.

 

"Doing your best will only help you - and you're going to have to help yourself.  As far as I know, that's the Muntz way. Will you consider playing along with everyone at the spring concert?"

 

"Maybe."

 

And at the spring concert, he played perfectly in-tune with everyone.  I even gave him a solo, which he excelled at I graded him an a+.  And he went to Springfield Arts on a full music scholarship.

 

***

 

My wedding came around with the nervous apprehension of a virgin to her first shared bed.  I was anxious enough with my in-law problems that I was nauseous the entire night before.

 

"Poor Lis," Maggie said, as she helped me gather up my suitcases and dress.  "You'd think she's going to a firing squad."

 

"You're not going to upchuck again, are you honey?"

 

I shook my head.  Mom's speedy driving kept my head out the window the entire way to the peer, however.

 

Mom helped me into my dress, the graceful, bias-cut confection we had picked up at The Bridal Barn.    Maggie, who had missed all of the bridal hoopla during her travels, found the sight of me in a wedding dress an occasion for high hilarity.  "You look like a powder puff!"

 

I suppose I did, but I was too green to care. 

 

Above deck, the grumbling of a gathering crowd could be heard.  I willed away the voices and my stomach to settle.  The ceremony was scheduled to begin just past six, and all of the guests were given candles as the boat sailed out into the setting sun.

 

"Have you seen Thel?" I asked Maggie, as I put lipstick on.

 

"Dad had him cornered in the groom's cabin."

 

"Oh no," I moaned, and a bucket was before my lips.  "I'm not throwing up.  I'm upset, Mags.  What if Dad does something stupid?"

 

"Lis!  This is dad - of course he'll do something stupid!  But Thelonious knows you and likes you, and

I don't think it’ll matter to him how dumb dad is."

 

"Calm down, honey - Maggie, get your sister a glass of water, please," she pressed the clean glass to my lips, and I swallowed heavily.  "It's almost six..."

 

My father's plodding weight announced itself on the stairs.  "Aww!  My little girls!" We both turned around to see Dad in his bright blue suit and violet cummerbund.  Mom and Maggie walked out ahead of us, and I came to stand beside my father.  For a moment, we were alone in the stairwell.  "I wish I was smarter.  Then I could think up another speech as good as the one from your last wedding," he whispered in my ear, as he looped his arm through mine. 

 

He had said everything he meant that day, and, aborted wedding and all, I wanted no speech to replace it.  "I don't need it," I whispered back.  My father grinned at me as we headed up the stairs.

 

We walked down a runner to the tune of The Wedding March, to my boyfriend, who, as the sun set completely, became my husband. 

 

The ceremony was brief and without pageantry.  I had taken my vows from Barrett-Browning, and his vows came from the Song of Solomon.  The ancient poetry gave me comfort in our future.  A wind ruffled through the sails just as Reverend Lovejoy pronounced us man and wife - I considered it a lovely sign.  My nausea disappeared.

 

We had arranged for the reception to take place below deck, a bit of dancing and a sit-down dinner for twenty.  It was there that my mother-in-law reared her ugly head.

 

"Thelonious!" She shouted abruptly between dances, "What on earth is that on your wrists?"

 

I looked down.  My father's cufflinks - they were on his wrists, and I hadn't noticed!  "They're a gift from my father-in-law," he said simply.  "And I'm wearing them to honor him."

 

"Pigs!  You're wearing pigs on your wedding day!  Well, how fitting!  you married down among them!"

 

I gasped - from the corner of my eye I could see Bart begin to rise and walk toward us.  I shook my head briskly, and he seated himself. 

 

"Mother, you've been trying to disturb this wedding for weeks.  Unfortunately, I refuse to listen to your hectoring for one second more!  The Simpsons are wonderful people!  Marge is a caring, artistic woman, Maggie is a strong, independent girl, Bart is an entertaining fellow, and Homer...tries very hard!"

 

"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me," my father whispered.

 

"And Lisa is the most enchanting, most incredible woman I've ever met," He squeezed my hand.  "I love the Simpsons, and I'm proud to become a part of their family.  And you should be proud to be a part of them, too!"

 

"Gerald!" She shrieked to her husband.  "Get up!  We're leaving!"

 

Mister MacArdle's warm, drunken slurry of a voice filled the air.  "Oh, shut up Marilee!  Where are we going to go?  We're in the middle of the ocean!"

 

She sputtered.  She quieted.  She sat down.

 

And I haven't had a problem with my mother-in-law since.

 

 

***

 

 

"Those cuff-links were a great part of who my father is," I explain.  "When Hugh rejected him, it broke his heart, and it broke mine as well.  When Thelonious accepted us both in like that, it made everything easier.  I knew he was the man I wanted to marry.  So, Laura, did I help you with your problem?"

 

I look over to Laura.

 

She's asleep.

 

I chuckle, and then tuck her in with an old blanket.  On the TV as I turn it off, Krusty The Klown hosts a retrospective infomercial.  He survived.  So have I.  So will Laura.   

The End