Otis Wellington: Second Installment

So, I'm here at the Doug Fir, waiting with a gin and tonic for the A.C. Newman show to start. Dent May is opening. Should be a riot.

But anyway, here is the beginning of Chapter Two. I have not had a chance to go over it at all, so it is very incomplete and sloppy. That doesn't mean I don't want your thoughts! Tell me everything that is weak.

Chapter Two

Over the next several years, Mr. and Mrs. Wellington discovered how truly remarkable their son Otis was, and not merely because his first word was Antarctica (closely proceeded by his second, Madagascar, his third, Yugoslavia, and his forth, Saskatchewan), but on account of everything else that might have labeled their boy “extraordinary.” What is more, all these things done by Otis were done with little or no explanation given to those around him, either because he had not the ability to articulate his musings or because he simply chose not to grant his company with the pleasure of hearing them. Be certain that his parents would have been a great deal more dazzled—and may have even considered contacting the press—if they had known half of what went on between Otis’ ears. But, dear reader, this is the beauty of books. Because you were not there, and because you are reading now, there is no limit to what you can know.

So the days passed pleasantly with the Wellingtons, as days often pass with a baby who has moved beyond his sleepless, noisy nights, and Mrs. Wellington thought it would be beneficial for everyone if fresh air took a more prominent role in their lives. She finally came to this conclusion after watching her husband and son, for the tenth consecutive afternoon, waste their daylight hours in front of their collection of maps, globes, and atlases. What rubbish! she thought, standing over them, surrounded on all sides by unfolded and crinkled nautical charts. A geography lesson here and there might be healthy for a child, but just look at those two! Otis can barely walk, never mind say his own name! It is about time we make some changes around here. Thus, after a rather brief discussion (brief because, as we all know, men who marry women the likes of Mrs. Wellington are usually poor arguers), the whole Wellington family found themselves strolling about the village green.

Such a spring day as the one enjoyed by the Wellingtons rarely comes along, especially at such an opportune time. The agreeableness of the weather translated readily into the demeanor of the family, who looked quite the charming party under the blooming trees that lined the park’s dirt path. Each member had donned the appropriate headgear for the occasion: Otis, in his stroller, wore a white sailor hat given to him, of course, by his father; Mr. Wellington, the gentleman of the troupe, had put on a brown fedora; and the missus, who pushed the stroller, modeled a wide-brimmed straw hat (carrying an unnecessary feather) set at a jaunty angle upon her crown. It was this shared love for toppers that had sparked the couple’s courtship so many years ago. But this is all very irrelevant.

Presently, the two parents came to rest at a bench under a particularly sprawling tree just beside the pond, around which the dirt path had led them. The bench, gently shaded, looked out over the village green that distended beyond them like a calm, grassy sea. Mrs. Wellington sighed deeply. “This will do marvelously,” she exclaimed with the exaggeration of a lousy actress. Pulling the carriage off to the side and settling herself in, she continued addressing her husband, “Now isn’t this worlds better than frittering away your time at home? I simply cannot think of a more perfect spot!”

Mr. Wellington could not easily disagree. He also sighed, dropped himself onto the bench, and with a quick sniff replied, “You know, you just may be right,” and quietly began reading the book he had taken along, titled Courage and Adventure, with an illustrated sea monster on the cover.

Otis, having been abandoned to the bench’s side, peered curiously over the stroller’s safety bar, out to the scene of verdant activity before his eyes. Strange people stood about, some with colorful umbrellas, though it was not raining. Young boys and girls lay on blankets and sat against the trunks of trees. Some were reading books. Others were up and throwing balls. From his seat in the carriage, Otis observed an older man, sitting on a bench opposite his, tossing bits of torn bread into an open place. The birds that congregated there looked more beautiful and more graceful than anything Otis had ever seen. And the songs he now heard overhead!

What strange land is this? thought Otis, trying to recall the many foreign lands he had seen with his father and Sylvia. To where has my mother taken us? What is this place where it doesn’t rain, yet the inhabitants still wield umbrellas? In what country can the men summon the beasts of the air with mere bread? For the sake of Queen Isabella of Someplace Far, Far Away, I must organize an expedition.

By this point Mr. Wellington, softened by the day’s exercise and the warmth of the sun, had unconsciously closed his eyes and now slept soundly on the bench. He snored with much gusto, head tipped back, mouth agape, and hands still holding his open book (having just completed Chapter Six, regarding the inhospitality of islands). Mrs. Wellington, on the other hand, confident that her husband would keep watch on the baby, had taken her leave to inspect the pond and its tadpoles.





Love,
Andrew LeTellier