Fool's Journey (2 page)

           
Her scalp smarted. Instinctively she reached for the back
of her head. She needed to rub the source of pain, but the ridiculous pink dog prevented
even that small comfort. Instead, she pushed through the surging crowd
away
from whoever had assaulted her.

"What
the hell happened?" Panda demanded as they emerged at the entrance to the
restaurant. "You’re all teary-eyed."

           
Deirdre took a moment to catch her breath. Her heart was
pounding. She looked over her shoulder at the crowd from which she had escaped.
Everyday shoppers. There was no menace she could see.

           
"It was strange," she said at last, her voice
breaking. "Someone pulled my hair back there. More than pulled. A really
hard yank. It still hurts."

           
"Must have been a kid," Panda grumbled.
"Or else you caught it on something. These booths have so many display
hooks and nails sticking out of them, it's a wonder anyone can walk through
here without putting an eye out. My God!" she groaned in annoyance.
"My mother's voice just came out of me. If my head starts spinning, call a
priest, will you?"

           
The tension loosened a little and Deirdre felt her
equilibrium creep back. It had to have been accidental
.
She could almost convince herself nothing had happened
except that her scalp still hurt, but even that was fading now.

           
She tested her fear for a moment. This
 
wasn't the same as others. It was not a
daylight nightmare, only a bad moment in time, nothing more.

After
all, her past was dead and buried.

Inside
the restaurant, the hostess politely ignored the huge pink dogs and led the way
to a window table for four. A few lunchtime customers still lingered over their
coffee, but, for the most part, she and Panda had the place to themselves.
Chez Max
was Deirdre’s favorite spot. Every
window opened on a view that cried out for a painter's brush. Often after the
noontime rush ended, she would take her time over a glass of wine as she
watched the swooping gulls and succession of ferryboats and she sorted out the
strands of her current poem.

Deirdre
settled into her chair and took a deep breath—good light, white starched
tablecloths and a red rose on each table. The pink temple dogs, now sedately
seated as if expecting some enormous neon treat, made her smile. She reached
for the wine menu and scanned the right column. She would not economize on
this.

           
"We'll have
Veuve Clicquot
,"
she told the waiter.
"
La Grande Dame
.
"

           
"Damn, Deirdre! What on earth is going on?"

           
She grinned. "I have two amazing, brilliant pieces
of news!"

           
Panda regarded her suspiciously. "You're not leaving
for a position at some hoity-toity university are you?"

           
"I am most definitely
not
leaving. This is my home now."

           
"That's
a
relief! Now tell me before I spin out of control."

           
Deirdre leaned back in her chair.
"Can't you wait for the champagne?"

"No.
I cannot. How can you sit there looking so smug?” Panda protested. “High blood-pressure
runs in my family. I feel it coming on."

           
“Oh, all right,” Deirdre said, finally capitulating.
"Last week I got a
call from my editor at Orca. She was absolutely bursting.” Deidre took a deep
breath
, as much from excitement as for dramatic effect.
 
“My book won the
Dovinger Prize. How about that?"

           
Panda's jaw dropped. "No shit?"

           
"That's almost exactly what I said."

Panda's
expression shifted from surprise to puzzlement. "But I didn't think your
book was even coming out until—"

           
"Next month, right, but the publisher sent out
review copies to the prize committee. I didn't even know about it, and they
didn't tell me because it was such a long shot."

           
"You are set! That makes you like—what? Queen of
Poetry? You are going to sail through your
third-year
review like Horatio Hornblower."

           
"Even better. That brings us to the second
part." She paused a moment. "Let's wait for the champagne."

           
"Deirdre!"

"Don't
worry —here it comes."

She
nodded at the label the waiter showed her, and while he went through the ritual
of opening the bottle, Deirdre savored the moment. Sharing her news made it
seem more real.
She’d
been afraid to believe it herself
at first. She knew
her book was good, but even so, she'd waited days for her editor to call her
back saying it was all a mistake. Now she'd seen the letter.

When
their glasses were filled, Panda held hers up. "To Deirdre and the
Dovinger! Bottoms up!"

As
Deirdre swallowed, the effervescent bubbles lit her with happiness.

"So
what’s
 
the second piece of good
news?"

Even
though Deirdre smiled, she could feel the prickle of tears behind her eyes.
This was the best part.

"I
told Michael, my department chair, and he told the dean of liberal arts, and—I
can't believe it! Panda, they've decided to put me up for tenure early."

           
Panda leaped from her chair, came around the table, and
enveloped Deirdre in a bear hug. "This is so fabulous—you've done it
all!"

           
Deirdre laughed shakily. "Another glass?"

           
"Hey, let's order another bottle and two straws!
This is the absolute best. I am so proud of you."

           
Now Deirdre
dabbed
at her eyes
with a napkin.

           
"I mean it. You have grown so much from when I first
met you. I never would have believed shy little Miss Mousy was going to turn
the academic world on its head. I always knew you were gifted, but that's
usually the kind they chew up and spit out at universities. You've won,
Deirdre, and you've done it in three years."

           
It had taken much longer than that, of course. Panda
didn't know anything about the full journey she'd been through— from the land
of specters, through the valley of death, and into the belly of the whale. She
had survived.

With
tenure nothing could hurt her. Even if her secret were discovered, she wouldn't
have to run.
Her
past was an empty house. The door was locked, and she was free to walk towards
the future that had become suddenly bright.
The place
she lived would become a home. The days that passed would be her life. And
she'd be known for the Dovinger prize —not for yesterday's nightmare. She would
never, never have to hide again.

           
"When will you know for sure about tenure?"

           
"Soon," Deirdre said. "I was scheduled for
my
three-year
review at the end of the month, so they'll base the
decision on the file I’ve already gathered. Michael will observe my classes
next week. The department will vote and that should be it. Ten days or
less."

           
"Amazing." Panda refilled their glasses.
"So what will number three be?"

           
"What do you mean?"

           
"Everyone knows big things happen in threes.
Something else is coming."

           
Deirdre
maintained her smile with an effort.

           
"Two is
enough, Panda. Besides, what more could I possibly want?"

           
"What we all want, for heaven's
sake! True love! Besides, we have a red rose, a white candle, and a bottle of
bubbly—that's a love spell in itself. All we need is a gnarly old dragon to
make his entrance and a prince to make you his quest."

           
Deirdre laughed softly. In a week
everything would be perfect. She could afford a frivolous wish, even though no
Prince Charming would ever find his way to her thorny tower. "All right.
We'll drink to true love."

           
They clinked their glasses again and
took another swallow.

III.

           
Out
in the rain again, the afterglow of champagne and celebration made Deirdre feel
as rosy and awkward as the neon dog she carried. She made her way to the
parking lot as best she could, then
helped bungee
cord the dogs to the top of Panda's purple VW bug.

As
Deirdre settled
into
the passenger
seat, she heard Panda gasp. "How
weird! Now stay calm, Deirdre."

           
Panda's tone reminded Deirdre of scenes in old Westerns
when someone spotted a rattler nearby. She found herself frozen in her seat.
Stay calm, she told herself, but panic coiled inside her, ready to strike.

           
"What is it?" she asked.

           
"I didn't see it at first . . ." Panda cocked
her head and peered at her, "but someone —it looks like someone really cut
off some of your hair. My God! It looks like they took quite a hunk."

           
Deirdre sank back, feeling like a puppet whose strings
had been dropped. Panda rummaged in the depths of her enormous purse and
finally pulled out a
full-sized
hand-mirror and passed
it to Deirdre.

           
"Here," she said. "Take a look."

           
Deirdre had to turn her head to see, but it was clear
enough: a hunk of hair had been cut off, just a few inches from the scalp. A
steely shiver coursed up her spine and with it, a wave of sickness, a palpable
sense of vulnerability. Her fingers closed over the spot and she let out a deep
breath.

           
"Who've you got after you, Deirdre? The ghost of
Papa Doc and his voodoo horde? This is really creepy."

           
The old urgency swept over her:
hide, hide, hide
.

If
only she were home with the doors locked and the shades drawn. Tears began to
form again. Who did she have after her? The dead couldn't harm her. She'd made
sure of that.

           
Deirdre ran her fingers through her hair. "What the
hell do I make of this?"

           
"I don't know. Maybe nothing. Not everything has a
meaning. There are all kinds of oddballs out there spreading their weirdness
around, and maybe you just happened to intersect some of it." Panda
gestured toward the Market. "A place like this attracts them. After all,
look at us." Her attempt at humor fell flat.

           
"Look," Panda went on quickly, "I knew
someone once with hair that went down way below her waist, longer than yours
even. It was so long she could sit on it. Well, she was at a bar one night having
a few beers. She was sitting on a barstool with her hair tucked under her bum,
and when she stood up to go, her hair didn't. I mean someone had come along
behind her and
just
cut it off. Now that I think of it, she must have had more
than a few beers or she'd have felt something, but, anyway, she was devastated.
Felt totally invaded. I know it's weird, Deirdre, but you can't let yourself
worry about it—some cult probably wanted a new recruit."

           
Deirdre shot her a grim look.

"Come
on, Deirdre," she went on. "Don't give me that 'we are not amused'
expression of yours. I know how rattled you let yourself get even over general
rudeness. It's your 'sensitive poet's nature,' I guess. But there's a lot of
craziness floating around in the cosmos and sometimes it floats our way."

           
"I know that," Deirdre snapped, her voice low
and tense. "I know that as well as I know anything. I'm the last person on
earth who needs a lecture on the craziness of the cosmos."

           
Deirdre pressed her fingertips to her eyes. She hadn't
felt like this in years. Pursued. Violated. And she'd said more than she should
have. Damn!

"What
really bothers me is that – on a whim! – someone can rattle my universe. A hand
from nowhere can reach in and, suddenly, the day I began with becomes a different
day. I am so angry, Panda. I'm all jangled. I hate feeling like that. And I
despise being scared."