The Fourth Bear

30. The Punches Make Peace

Before Jack had even had a chance to recover from the blow with the rolling pin, the back door opened again and Madeleine came out, her face crimson with anger.

“You miserable, unreal piece of crap!” she screamed at the top of her voice, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I trusted you!”

Jack tried to say something, but she cut him short.

“Don’t try to explain yourself. If I were you, I’d start looking for a good divorce lawyer!” She went back inside and banged the door shut after her.

“Phew!” said Caliban as he hopped down from the trash can.

“Kind of serves you right. I mean, swapping Madeleine for Agatha Diesel? You must be nuts.”

“I didn’t.”

“What the sodding hell is going on out there?” said Mr. Punch, who had just come out of his house. “Judy and I can barely hear ourselves shout.”

“Nothing,” said Jack.

“He screwed the boss’s wife,” piped up Caliban.

“I did no such thing—and who asked you?”

“Hang on,” said Punch, “I’m coming around.”

In a couple of minutes, he had reappeared, dressed in pajamas and a nightcap and still grinning crazily with his varnished leer, which Jack thought even more galling in the present situation.

“Well,” he said, “infidelity, Mr. Sprat? That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“It’s not me. And it’s none of your business. And it’s two t’s in Spratt, not one.”

“But it is my business,” retorted Punch. “I’m your neighbor, and we PDRs have to stick together.”

“Huzzah!” said Caliban in enthusiastic agreement.

“You’re a Person of Dubious Reality?” asked Jack of the little ape. “From where?”

“The Tempest,” replied Caliban with a twinge of pride, adding,

“You know, Shakespeare?” when Jack didn’t seem to understand.

“Oh,” he said, “right.”

“Your problem is our problem,” said Punch kindly.

But Jack was still angry.

“What makes you think Punch and Judy—of all people—are qualified to give advice on marriage?” sneered Jack.

“Nothing really,” explained Punch in a calm and patient voice,

“but we’ve been married three hundred and twenty-eight years next Wednesday, and not a single day goes by without us arguing and fighting. But despite all that, we find it in our hearts to forgive, because the bottom line is that we love each other dearly, and it is that love which binds our relationship together, regardless of the violence and the quarreling.”

Jack sat on the garden wall. He ran a hand through his hair. His head was tender where Madeleine had hit him and was starting to come up in a bump. He looked at Punch and Caliban, who were staring at him with quiet concern.

“Madeleine found out I was a nursery-rhyme character,” said Jack at last, sighing deeply.

“You never told her?” asked Punch. “How can you keep that a secret from her?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to lose her. Perhaps it was because I want to be a real person.”

“I’m told it’s overrated,” replied Punch. “Think you could do what you do and help the people you help if you were real? You’d never have found out who killed Humpty Dumpty, and Bluebeard would still be killing his brides. And what about Red Riding-Hood and her gran?”

“Yeah—what about them?” Jack retorted.

“Okay,” Punch conceded, “that was a bad example. But you see what I mean. You’re good at this weird NCD shit precisely because you’re not real. Besides, what’s so great about ‘real’ these days anyway?”

“It’s all right for you,” said Jack after a pause. “At least you’ve got a long, performance-based traditional backing to your existence.”

“More of a curse than a blessing,” replied Punch with a sigh.

“We’d love to retire back home to Italy, but they keep on updating the act and dragging us out again. We bought a house in Tuscany a few years ago, when we thought political correctness would end the show, but it didn’t. The Punchinistas think they’re doing us a favor, restoring the tradition, but they’re not.”

“Tuscany,” mused Jack, who had never been out of Berkshire in his life, “that could be nice.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Punch dreamily. “Judy and I were going to spend our twilight years beating each other senseless under the the warm Mediterranean sun. We’d sip Chianti through broken teeth and grapple at one another’s throats as the orange orb of the sun set on another perfect day. Then, after a truly excellent spaghetti alle vongole, I would jam my thumb in her eye and she would kick me hard in the gonads—and we would go to bed, tired, but happy.”

They all fell wistfully silent for a while until Jack said, “Yes, but that doesn’t help me right now.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Punch, “but we can probably do something. Who was this woman you slept with?”

“I didn’t,” insisted Jack. “Briggs’s wife has had her eye on me since a fling about twenty-five years ago.”

“Agatha Diesel?” asked Punch.

“You know her?”

He didn’t answer and instead knocked on the back door. It was opened by Prometheus.

“Hello, Punchy,” said the Titan cheerfully. “How’s it cooking?”

“Madeleine needs to come out and speak to Jack.”

Prometheus looked at Jack and then back to Punch. “I don’t think she really wants to.”

“Please? It’s important.”

The door closed, and Punch winked at Jack while dialing a number on his cell phone.

“Who’s your phone provider?” he asked Jack. “I get a hundred free min—Agatha? It’s Punch…. I know your next appointment isn’t until Tuesday, but I’ve just heard about the regrettable incident with Mr. Spratt.”

There was a pause as Punch listened to a tearful babble of Agatha’s woes.

“I disagree,” he said as soon as he could get a word in. “The whole situation is a long way from irredeemable. You’re to tell your husband everything when he gets home, but for now I need you to talk to Mrs. Spratt and tell her precisely what happened—or didn’t happen—between you and Jack.”

There was another pause.

“It’s the right thing to do, Agatha. You’ll feel a lot better for it…. Here she is.”

Madeleine had appeared at the door and glared at Jack. She reluctantly took the proffered phone and went back inside.

“Now what?” asked Jack.

“Agatha will sort it out—unless you really did screw her, in which case you’re in such deep shit even I can’t help you.”

“I didn’t. How do you know Agatha?”

Judy and I run a marriage-guidance center. Mr. and Mrs. Briggs have been seeing us for several years now. It’s bad. Separate-beds bad.”

The door reopened a few minutes later, and Madeleine came out, wiped a tear from her eye, handed the phone back to Punch and hugged her husband.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He held her tightly. “And I’m sorry I never told you I wasn’t real. People don’t change just because you know more about them. I’m still the same Jack Spratt that you knew yesterday, and I’ll be the same Jack Spratt tomorrow and the day after. You can hold this against me if you want, but it doesn’t alter anything that I’ve ever said to you or taken any of the happiness out of the times we’ve spent together. I’m just an ordinary guy trying to support his family in the only way he can. I may not ever make superintendent, but I’ll always be standing beside you.”

She kissed him and said, “That was a really crap speech, sweetheart, but thank you. Did the rolling pin hurt?”

“It’s only painful when I think.”

“If you hadn’t made me love you so much, I wouldn’t have hit you so hard.”

“I had a feeling it might be my fault.”

She laughed, and they rested their heads on each other’s shoulders and rocked gently from side to side.

“That’s the way to do it,” said Punch with the air of job well done.

“Hey, shitface!” said Judy, popping her head over the garden fence and punctuating the romance of the moment in a most disagreeable fashion. “Are you going to jabber all night or give me a good ******** like you promised?”

“Hold your tongue, viper!” yelled Punch.

“You’re dead meat, you stinking heap of trash!” she screamed back. “I’ll—”

But then she suddenly noticed Jack and Madeleine embracing under the yellow glow of the outdoor light.

“What’s going on?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“A misunderstanding, sweetness—but it’s all right now.”

“Ahhhhh!” she murmured, watching them both and holding out her hand toward Mr. Punch, who took it and caressed it gently.

“I like an argument with a happy ending. Actually, I just like an argument.” Then she looked at her husband with a coquettish smile and said, “It’s still early. Why don’t you and I get all togged up and have a meal, an excellent bottle of wine and then a stand-up row and a punch-up down at the Green Parrot?”

He reached over and kissed her affectionately. “That sounds like a beautiful idea, Pookums. Can it be a really serious punch-up? Like we used to have in the good old days?”

“You’re just a sweet romantic at heart, aren’t you?” she replied tenderly. “I’ll ring up the Green Parrot for a reservation, book a couple of beds at the hospital and alert the finest emergency trauma team in Berkshire—and it’s my treat.”

Jack and Madeleine went back inside and upstairs to bed, shooing Caliban out the door when he tried to follow them. They were both fast asleep a half hour later, the best and deepest sleep for them both in many weeks. And as they slept, Mr. and Mrs. Punch donned their evening dress and knuckle-dusters, Agatha had a heart-to-heart with her husband, and below on the street outside, a single rust bubble popped up on the paintwork of the otherwise pristine Allegro.