The Cockroaches of Stay More by Donald Harington Page B

along home, where he ensconced it in a corner of his Clock among his other preserves and collectibles.

Chapter nine

    F oredawn, that lambent time when the world becomes westerly quiet and still for nocturnal as well as diurnal creatures, Squire John Ingledew, a.k.a. Jack Dingletoon, found himself belly-up atop a liquid medium. The state, condition, or position of “belly-up” is so characteristic of west that some folks seeking to avoid the unpleasant associations of the word “west” employ the euphemism “belly-up.” No insect would consciously lie on its back unless it were west…and if it were west, it would not be conscious. Any insect who accidentally gets into the belly-up position will, like a turtle on its back, kick and struggle like mad to right itself. But Jack did not kick or struggle. He was happy. He was feeling better than he could ever remember having felt, although he was vaguely troubled by an inability to remember clearly how he had reached this state, condition, or position.
    He had been amazed at the welcome he had received in the cookroom of Holy House. He had expected to be denied admission, or at least challenged, and he had been prepared to assert the authority of his lineage. He could not have known that Squire Hank himself had quietly spread word throughout Stay More that Jack Dingletoon should be treated with respect and cordiality, that if Jack actually were an Ingledew then he was due such courtesy, and if he were only deluded into thinking he was an Ingledew he ought to be “humored.”
    Jack had been prepared to barge into the cook-room lashing his sniffwhips right and left and declaring, “Outa my way, boys! I’m a Ingledew, by cracky, and I aim to get my share!” But he’d scarcely had the chance to speak before he was greeted with loud exclamations of “Hidy, Squar John!” and “Proud to see ye, Squar John!” and “Light down and set, Squar John!” and before he knew it they were leading him to a right fair-sized puddle of beer on the linoleum. Between lapping up the brew and pausing to munch a morsel of potato chip or something they thrust upon him, he never got a chance to say a word.
    Late in the night, or rather early in the morning, he had been surprised to see a female come sashaying into the cookroom, and despite his intoxication, or because of what his fellows were saying about her, Jack learned that the female was his own wife, Josie. The cookroom was an all-male preserve, with strict rules governing attendance and excluding all females, but, strangely, the male rooster-roaches had shown Josie the same courtesy and welcome they tendered to Jack, and it had gone to Josie’s head, making her giddier than the beer on which she was allowed to fill up.
    Floating belly-up, Jack wondered, idly, what had become of his wife now. The last he’d paid any notice, she was flirting with Troy Dinsmore, a Smockroach, but it was all just innocent trifling, and old Troy was too drunk to get serious anyhow. Jack turned his head to one side, extended his touchers into the liquid and brought them to his lips. It was a fresher brew than what had been on the linoleum. It still had some fizz to it. Jack wiggled his tailprongs and made it foam a bit.
    Then he noticed the other roosterroach, also floating belly-up. It wasn’t Josie. It appeared to be Jaybird Coe, a Frockroach, who, Jack realized, had within the past few hours become his best buddy.
    “Aint this the life?” Jack said to Jaybird, and demonstrated how he could paddle with his tailprongs and actually scoot around on the surface of the beer, around and around within the confines of the metal tank. Tailprongs normally are sticking up overhead, or rather overtail, but if one is lying on one’s back, belly-up in beer, then they are extending downward into the liquid. Jack hoped his example would inspire Jaybird to paddle around too, but Jaybird wouldn’t do it. He just lay there, floating on his back. Jack dipped a