He wondered what elephants had to do with his brain tumor when the anesthetic mask was clapped over his mouth and all questions were smothered by the rolling fog overtaking his mind.
When he awoke, Orville felt fine. But there was a bandage atop his shaven head.
"What's this?"
"Your brain did not take well to the operation," the Mexican doctor had informed him. "It swelled up, and so it was necessary to open a hole in the skull to release the pressure."
Horror clouded Orville's eyes. "I have a hole in my skull."
"A small one. It is called a burr hole. It will heal. As for your tumor, it is dying. By the time the bandages come off, it will be no more than a bad memory."
Every ounce of him shook with the relief of his weeping.
"I hear you pulled through with flying colors," the soft voice said over the long-distance line the next day.
"I owe it all to you and I don't even know your name."
"J. D. Tippet."
"Thank you, Mr. Tippit, from the bottom of my exceedingly grateful heart."
WHEN HE HAD HEALED, Orville Rollo Fletcher returned to Spokane feeling renewed. His hair grew back, he had actually lost some weight, despite being bedridden for nearly a month.
He quickly gained it all back. For some reason, he had developed an unquenchable craving for peanuts.
One day first-class plane tickets to Washington, D.C., came by Federal Express, along with hotel-reservation information.
That had been four days ago. Upon arrival, Orville Fletcher had found a note had been slipped under the hotel-room door.
It said simply, "Wait for my call. Tippit."
So he waited. Four days. He grew more nervous every day. He passed the time listening to Thrush Limburger's radio program and the TV show, parroting the words that sometimes escaped his own mouth before they came from the TV speaker. His florid gestures expertly emulated Limburger's own.
Standing before the dresser mirror, with the TV screen behind him, Orville Rollo Fletcher watched the double reflection-his own and the true Limburger's-and let a satisfied smile expand his otherwise glum face.
"A perfect replication, if I do say so myself," he murmured. He just hoped his public debut was not some cheesy mall opening, or worse, a sleazy bachelor party. A man had to have his dignity. Without it, he was nothing.
At four in the afternoon, a bellman showed up with a boxy package secured with stout twine.
"Thank you, my good man," said Orville, tipping as generously as his girth.
When he undid the paper and twine and opened the box, Orville Rollo Fletcher's heart sank.
He had been sent a red-and-white Santa Claus outfit. A perfect size 50, but perfect in no other way. There was even a snowy wealth of whiskers and size 18-EE orthopedic boots.
"Why on earth should I wear this? I will be unrecognizable."
But he tried the costume on anyway. Perhaps he would be in luck, and it would not fit properly.
"On reflection," Orville said, regarding himself in the dresser mirror, "this might be for the best."
The phone rang, and the soft voice he had come to know said, "It's tonight."
Orville swallowed his disappointment. After all, he awed the Ixchel Talent Agency his life. "Excellent. Where and when do I appear?"
"Eight-fifteen sharp. The White House."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Tonight is the annual Christmas-tree lighting ceremony on the White House lawn. And you're the official Santa Claus."
"I am going to the White House?"
"Present yourself at the East Gate at eight-fifteen. Don't be early and don't be late. They have security concerns over there."
"I fail to understand."
"It's the First Lady's little joke. You and the President will together throw the switch that lights the tree, then you pull off your hat and beard and do your Thrush Limburger bit."
"What shall I say?"
"It doesn't matter. Ad-lib. Just see if you can get a rise out of the President. Make him laugh."
"I don't know if I am up to this," Orville said.
"You are. It'll all be over in fifteen minutes. Just go get a good dinner and a stiff drink or two if you need it and be at the East Gate at eight-fifteen on the dot."
"I will do my best," Orville promised solemnly.
"Don't forget your asthma inhaler."
"I always carry it in case of an attack."
"When you go through the gate, take a good shot. The steroids will give you that boost that'll get you through the ceremony."
"A very good idea. I will be sure to remember it," said Orville Rollo Fletcher.
He took his meal in the hotel restaurant, happy to be out of the room, and ordered the prime rib, baked potato and kernel corn. And two helpings of peanutbutter pie.
On the way back from the restaurant he was accosted by a panhandler in a shabby coat and taped-together Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses. "Spare a dollar?" the beggar asked in a low whine of a voice.
"I am very sorry, my good man."
The beggar was obviously drunk because he lurched into Orville, then went stumbling away.
Orville patted his bulk and was relieved to find his wallet where it should be. But his patting fingers failed to find his asthma inhaler.