Chapter One: In which our heroine begins to suspect that a viola may be more than just an instrument

Question: Why are airport security guards so afraid of someone carrying a viola case?
Answer: The viola case might contain a viola.

"Where the Hell are my pants?" I yelled across the room at my dearest darling husband. My watch had beeped twice, as it did every hour on the hour, except that my watch is three minutes fast, so technically it beeps every hour at three minutes to the hour, but since that has nothing to do with the story that follows, let's just leave it at this: I had to leave for a concert in twenty-three minutes or less, and I had no idea where my dress black pants were. "Crap!" I said softly to myself. I'd been playing around in the Royalty Thread on the Absolute Write Water Cooler (I was queen this week after all), teasing the Chihuahua and the ferret and the bunny, and I'd lost track of the time.

"Check the dryer," Frank said from his seat at the table. "Oh no! There's an elephant drowning in my milk! I must save her!"

"You must help me find my pants!" I bellowed back. "The dress rehearsal is in less than an hour, and the best I can do right now are black sweat pants. The cookies will wait until you come back, and they won't drown if you don't put them in the milk." I sighed. Frank was a wonderful husband in most respects -- he changed diapers, took his share of midnight feedings, and even worked two part-time jobs to help make ends meet. But give him a box of animal crackers, and the guy went just plain loco. Anything, anything at all that looked remotely like an animal (even a human one), was treated as a living, breathing being. He had a room with half a dozen dolls lined up in cribs. Every day, he changed their outfits and fed them from doll bottles. He even had one doll that ate "real" baby doll food, then pooped. He made the outfits himself, too, if he had the time, but if pressed, he'd use a store-bought one. Each "child" had two or three "pets" -- stuffed animals that were offered real food every single day. Fortunately, we have two real cats and a dog who manage to keep cleaning up the bowls, but I'm not certain Frank is really aware of that fact. Of course, fresh water is provided daily for all animals in the house, real or imaginary.

Oh. I forgot to tell you about the dinosaur. It's not real, but Frank thinks it is. It lives in the kitchen (though sometimes in the summer, he'll put it outside on a leash). It only eats organic bananas, one per day. (I hate to tell Frank this, but the organic bananas are usually what I eat for my midnight snack.) It's totally house-trained, and goes in the litter box in the basement, so I suppose I should be grateful. Frank cleans that up when he cleans the cat boxes.

Most women I know, after a week or two of putting up with such insanity, would probably walk out on him, kids in tow. Some of my closest friends, the ones who actually know Frank, have urged me to do just that repeatedly. But I'd never really considered that option, at least not seriously.

For one thing, I'd seen what had happened to them when they walked out of what they described as "intolerable" marriages. Within a year, they were, to a woman, whining about how hard and lonely life was as a single parent or even just as a single person. Within two years, they were hooked up with a new man, or in one case, a new woman. These new mates were universally described as "practically perfect in every way" by my enraptured friends.

But by year three, the cracks were showing, and by year five, divorce was seriously being considered because - get this! - the new mate had exactly the same faults as the previous one! One long time girlfriend has been through this nonsensical dance four times, and she still can't figure out what she's doing wrong.

Our mates are only ordinary people, and no one is "practically perfect in every way." I'll stick with Frank and his faults, thanks very much.

In the usual order of things, Frank's vices case no real problems. I mean, he feeds and cares for the real animals and children as well as he cares for his imaginary ones, and he's a fantastic cook. His little eccentricity makes him undesirable as a mate to just about everyone else, and he knows that I wouldn't care for his "children" and "pets" nearly as well as he would himself, so he's not likely to wander off and leave me with three (real) kids to raise and a mortgage to pay all on my own.

But at times like these, his pretending crosses the line between eccentric and inconvenient. I really needed my pants, what with dress rehearsal less than an hour away, and the concert two hours after that. I could not go on stage wearing sweat pants, even if they were black. I'd already emptied the contents of my closet on to the floor. I started on the drawers.

Frank came into the room. "You're certain they're not in the dryer?" he asked.

"If they are, they've turned invisible," I told him. "Are you going to help me look, or what?"

"I'll check in the kids' rooms..."

"Check Annie's room first, then Bob and Charlie's," I instructed. I felt it necessary, since otherwise he'd search the dolls' room first, and I was fairly certain the dolls hadn't stolen my new black pants.

I finished the drawer, and started on Frank's dresser, but they weren't there either. Frank returned with a bag, but no pants. "No luck," I said.

"Unfortunately, no. But I found this, and was wondering if it might help." He opened the bag, and pulled out a length of black broadcloth. "I was going to use it to make funeral clothes for the kids..."

"Why would you make funeral clothes for the kids?" I asked.

"Well, you never know when someone might die," he answered defensively. "Besides, if they decide to take music lessons, the clothes could double as concert dress."

"That make sense," I said. "But how can it help me now? You don't have time to make a skirt or pair of pants for me."

"No. Besides, that would ruin the cloth so I couldn't use it to make clothes for the kids. I've got something simpler in mind. Strip down to your underwear."

"Frank, we don't have time..."

"Mary Sue, is that all you think about? We'll play later. For now, just strip, please."

I shrugged and did as ordered. Frank took the length of cloth, and in a jiffy had wrapped it around me in sari fashion, and fastened it discreetly with a few pins. "There," he said with satisfaction. "You look totally elegant, if I do say so myself."

And so I did, if someone who's five feet four inches tall and weighs two hundred pounds could ever be called "elegant," but I really didn't like the fact that the only thing between me and the audience was a piece of cloth that hadn't been cut or sewn in any manner. Plus, my shoulders were bare, leaving me vulnerable to the chilly November air.

"Don't be silly," Frank said when I voiced my objections. "A piece of cloth is all you ever have between you and the audience, and the pins will hold it as well as a few stitches. But if you want, you can wear that long-sleeved nylon top you've got under the sari. It will look all right, and keep you warm as well. And if you get too hot, you can always strip." He waggled his eyebrows at me.

"Aren't you the one who was saying we don't have time for that nonsense?" I asked. "Let's get me into the shirt. This will do. I'll wear my sweats for rehearsal, and change for the concert. I'm sure I can put this thing on myself, now that you've shown me how."