Mythology 101 (13 page)

Chapter 16

Behind the protective bulk of Mary Lou, Keith bent over his plan of attack for marketing the elves’ work. Sociology class went on without disturbing his calculations. Jewelry boxes. Penny whistles. Puzzle boxes. Miniature marionettes, fully articulated, using nearly invisible dowels. Love spoons. Spice bottles with the herb leaf carved into the side or forming part of the lid. Magic lanterns. He smiled to himself. Those were undoubtedly his favorites.

Holl assured him that it would be only a few days before his samples were ready, and he could get going. There was an old sample case in the business major office, but he had been unable to convince the secretary to let him borrow it. “I’m still waiting for you to return my stapler, Keith.” Abashed, he retreated, and found an old briefcase for two dollars at the Salvation Army store. With a little waterproof shoe polish and a lot of elbow grease, it cleaned up admirably. No sense in letting anyone see what he was doing until the merchandise was on the shelves. Besides, it looked more professional.

There wasn’t time to get official business cards printed up. Keith had spent some time with the school computer and a graphics program running up a few sheets of personal cards on sixty-pound bond that had his name, address, and “Sales Manager” printed on them. The day’s homework, run off at the same time, was unusually legible. His teachers were pleased.

O O O

The presentations shouldn’t be too hard. He’d meant it when he said the pieces could sell themselves. Wooden things had a sort of charm completely absent from identical items of plastic. He composed a separate pitch for each that would dovetail with any other. Good technique for selling: be friendly, brief, and eloquent. Avoid stage fright. He rehearsed each speech to himself, muttering them quietly under his breath. Piece of cake; he should know them all by the end of class.

There was so much to do that missing a week’s worth of Elf Sociology didn’t bother him over much. And he was keeping discreet notes on all the preparations he was making, so when the time came to get his MBA, he’d have all his marketing research in the bag. The hardest part of his preparations was finding the single iron the dormitory owned to press out the dark blue suit he now wore.

O O O

Marcy found herself glancing over her shoulder at Keith. For someone who had caused as much trouble as he had, he didn’t seem too repentant. In fact, he winked at her the one time she managed to catch his eye. She was confused. There was no doubt that he had jeopardized the Little People’s safety and privacy, but she didn’t agree with Carl that it was malicious mischief that would get the Big students tossed out of the Master’s class.

All of the humans felt the same way. There were taut nerves at each class meeting since Keith had been suspended. They were afraid of sharing his punishment, though the Little People, even the Master, didn’t show any signs of ire. If anything, they seemed positively enthusiastic about something. Even Teri, whose friendship with little Maura was blooming, had no idea what was up. Lee in particular was nervous. He was in the first semester of his Master’s program, and he cursed Keith fluently whenever his name came up, yet he refused to side with Carl. Marcy continued to defend Keith, but she was clearly in the minority.

Most incredibly, Lee reported having seen Keith and one of the Little People in the dormitory cafeteria after the classroom debacle, on obviously friendly terms. He didn’t feel happy about it, being deeply superstitious on the subject of the elves, as if mentioning them would make them go away. He’d known them the longest, and he seemed to resent Keith’s easy familiarity with them. She had scoffed at Lee then, but with Keith, who could tell? Keith’s persistent good humor over the last week made her uneasy; it meant he wasn’t taking his expulsion seriously. And why was he talking to himself?

Keith was grinning at her again. She turned her back on him, but she fancied she could still feel his eyes on her.

Dr. Freleng made his way down the aisles, passing out the latest graded papers. She received her B in silence, content to be maintaining a standard with Freleng. He had a reputation for being very tough, and she acknowledged his right to it.

“Mr. Doyle,” Freleng was saying, “I am puzzled but most pleased as to your improvement in style and quality of research. Your surprising thoroughness is most gratifying, considering your earlier shoddy efforts. My congratulations.”

Keith, surprised out of his reverie, accepted his paper with a tongue-tied mumble of thanks. Marcy peeked back. There was a circled A on the title page. She started to mouth her own compliments to him, but he was already absorbed again in his clutter of papers.

“Congratulations,” she said in an offhand voice as the class broke up.

“Huh? Oh, thanks, Marcy.” Keith was obviously off in another world. He was gathering his work together, and Marcy caught glimpses of phrases like, “one of a kind” and “quality, handmade,” before they were swept into his book bag.

“What was your paper on?” she persisted, trying to guess what he was working on.

“Rural farmers,” Keith said faintly. “I got into CompuServe on the library computer, and I collected about fifteen articles. Hashed something together. I guess he liked it.”

“He liked it,” Marcy assured him. “You weren’t really listening today, were you?”

“No,” Keith admitted. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“It is like pulling out teeth to get any information from you. Is all that stuff for an Advertising class?” She poked his book bag.

“Not exactly. I didn’t know you were talking to me.”

Marcy paused. “I’m not really. I just wanted you to know I’m still mad.”

“But I didn’t
do
anything,” Keith protested. “By the way, can I ask you a favor? Will you give this to the Maven? I’m suspended.”

“I know you’re suspended,” Marcy said with some asperity. “You’ve got a fat lot of nerve asking me to do anything for you. He probably won’t want to talk about you at all. And, besides …”

“Oh, I forgot,” Keith smacked himself in the head. “
He’s
suspended, too. Please ask Maura if she’ll take it to him? I’m beggin’ ya. It’s important.”

Marcy opened and closed her mouth, too overwhelmed by his chutzpah to say no. “How would you know that?” Keith didn’t seem to hear her. He dug deep into the bag and produced an envelope, which he tucked into her hand. “And why are you wearing a suit?”

“Thanks,” he said, giving her a quick hug before she could avoid him. “I’ve got to go. Oh,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “I never got to tell you what happened when Holl asked me to dinner, and you made me promise. Would you like to go out tonight, and hear it all?”

“Oh, you…! Why not?” Marcy said peevishly. “I’m not saying I forgive you yet for misleading me.”

“Aagh!” Keith yelped, anguished. “For the last time, I didn’t mislead anyone, especially not you. My only crime is one of bad timing. As soon as I became aware I was making trouble, I began to undo it. Ask anyone. Ask Carl. No, don’t ask Carl. Ask Rick. Ask Pat.”

“Never mind,” she sighed. “Pick me up after class.”

“To hear is to obey!” Keith shouted over the rush of traffic as he pushed open the door for her and trotted off down the street, kowtowing in the rain. She shook her head and put the envelope in her purse.

O O O

As he was finishing the seven salaams one makes upon departing the presence of royalty, Keith bumped into something, or rather, someone. “Oh, sorry,” he apologized, turning around to see whom he had inconvenienced. His feet were swept out from under him, and his books went spinning into the water-filled gutters. He hit the wet pavement with a painful splat. Scrambling on his knees to retrieve his possessions, he saw Lee Eisley hurrying away. “Wait,” he called out, but Lee paid no attention to him.

“Nobody loves me,” he grumbled, fishing his papers out of the water.

***

Chapter 17

Voordman’s Country Crafts & Gifts was at the top of his list of good prospects. It was in the middle of the shopping district in town, good sized, well lit, and it had all sorts of wicker and gingham knickknacks on display. After a few minutes of perusing the contents of the show windows, he pushed in through the glass double doors.

A little bell suspended from an arm jingled furiously, and a dark-haired woman behind the counter raised her head. “Be with you in just one moment,” she called, pointing to the telephone against her ear. Keith nodded, running his hand through his rain-drenched hair to make it lie flat, and browsed the aisles until she was through.

“What can I do for you?” she smiled, coming over to him. Then she saw the sample case. The smile dimmed and hardened. “Oh. A salesman. Did you call for an appointment?”

“I did call earlier, Mrs. Voordman,” Keith began placatingly.

“
Ms
.” Her fluffy hair stiffened into black glass filaments. So did her eyes. Keith put on a determined smile. His very first words put him at a disadvantage. She was going to be tough to sell. He wondered what Andrew Carnegie would do in a case like this.

“My apologies,” he said, trying to look competent and penitent at the same time. “
Ms
. Voordman. Do you have a moment right now that I can talk to you?” He took a look around. The shop was empty except for the two of them.

The woman noticed his surveying glance and the raised eyebrows that followed it. She was on the defensive, but she could choose only to listen or to tell him to go away. “Very well. Come this way.”

O O O

Keith stood poised over his sample case, his prepared speeches ready, waiting for the shop-owner to make herself comfortable in the swivel chair behind the desk in her little, cluttered office. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ms. Voordman held up her hand.

“Before you start, I just want you to know that I’ve seen it all already. There’s nothing you can say I haven’t heard. This business has no surprises. That’s one of the reasons I’m in it. I’m not interested in anything you have, and I’m only giving you this time because I’m not busy. Understand?”

Keith swallowed. She was a tough cookie. “Sure,” he said. He reached into the case and drew out the items one by one. “I always say, good product will speak for itself.” Beside his own trade goods, he had a few small items the elves assured him they had in plenty. Ms. Voordman leaned forward, and began to handle the individual pieces, eyeing them critically.

“Good workmanship,” she said. “Is that adze mark hand-done or artificial?”

“They’re made by a sort of commune. No electric tools at all.”

“Um-hmmm. The cookie cutters are nice. Unusual shapes and designs. I don’t mind telling you I’m tired of the same gingerbread men, angels and Pennsylvania Hex symbols. This one’s a little deep. Shortbread mold?” She turned it over in her hands, ran a finger around the chiseled inner rim.

“Um, yes,” Keith agreed, hoping it was true. His two great scratch kitchen accomplishments were scrambled eggs and fudge. He was pleasantly surprised to see her gaining more interest the longer she looked, and began to hope for a small order.

“And what’s this?” she asked, holding up the lantern. “Wonderful screens. To think something this precise is all handmade.”

“It’s a sort of toy,” Keith explained. “But it makes a good reading lamp, too.” He blew on the wick, which ignited. By now, he was almost used to the wonder, but his prospect wasn’t. Ms. Voordman’s eyes went huge. Her hand fluttered away from the screen, but returned when the part of the frame she was clutching didn’t grow warm. “Never needs batteries. Patent pending.” He blew it out.

“That is something else. What’s it run on?”

“Can’t tell you that, but I promise it’s harmless. See?” He turned it upside down so she could see the inside of the lid. “No scorch marks. All fireproof.”

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” she said, after trying it herself a few times, more relaxed than before. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Ever. And I’ve been in this business twenty years. I’ve got customers who furnish in Early American who’d go for these in droves. They’re a little miracle. I want a few myself. They’d make a hell of a party gag.”

“Ms. Voordman,” said Keith solemnly. “We’re
serious
about our knickknacks.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “You’ve made a sale, mister. What’s your name?”

Keith felt his face burning. First law of salesmanship down the drain! “Keith Doyle,” he said, extending a hand. “With, um …” He remembered at that moment that they hadn’t picked a company name yet. Desperately casting about for inspiration, his eye fell on an eight-inch high painted porcelain statue of an elf peering out of a stump. The ceramic imp’s red hair and glasses reminded him of the Elf Master. On the tag was printed the same little face. “Hollow Tree Industries,” he finished mischievously. “Yes, you never would believe where those cookie cutters come from.” From his case he took one of his ersatz business cards and the list of prices he and Holl had worked out.

The woman shook his hand and glanced over the price list. “I’ll take a half dozen of everything here but the lantern.
That
I want a dozen of.”

“Yes, ma’am!” said Keith, seizing his notepad and scribbling.

“And when can I expect delivery?” She was watching him write.

“Uh, we’re a small, new firm, just tooling up.” Keith chewed on his pencil-end. “I’ll turn the tables on you: when would you expect delivery?”

Ms. Voordman moved everything off her desk blotter, and drew an invisible line down the calendar with a cookie cutter. “Four weeks. Absolutely no more than that. I’ve got to stock the store fully for Christmas by the second week of November.”

Keith counted in his head. “Okay. Can I get a deposit? Terms are twenty-five percent down and net 30 days.”

“Twenty-five and net 60. I’m a small firm, too.” She looked at his card. “There’s no telephone number on this.”

“Well, we’re relocating,” he explained, jotting his room phone down for her. “This is my home number.”

“Hmm,” she said sympathetically, watching him pack up the sample case. “Moving is a real pain in winter.” She wrote out a check for him and they shook hands. “First time salesman?”

“Sort of. Does it show that badly?” Keith asked in dismay and surprise.

“You haven’t got enough of the paraphernalia. No order blanks. No receipts. Oh, don’t worry about it. You’re a refreshing change from the usual polished hustlers. See you in four weeks, Mr. Doyle.” She stood up, dismissing him.

He smiled uneasily at her as he slipped on his coat and gathered up his case. On his way out, Keith surreptitiously plucked the tag off of one of the porcelain statues.

O O O

By the end of the afternoon, Keith’s feet hurt, his back was sore, and his palm had three small blisters starting where the stitching on the sample-case’s handle rubbed, but he felt good. Inside the sample-case were three orders with checks from three gift shops, and the business cards from two others who promised to think it over. He was astounded how easy it was to convince the shop owners to buy. On the weekend, he planned to drive to a few nearby towns and pick up a few orders at the gift shops there. In the meantime, he needed to get into dry clothes and find something to eat. He was starved.

Marcy was waiting for him in the lobby of Power Hall. She got to her feet and came over to him as he walked in the door.

“Hi,” he greeted her. “Just a minute, let me run this up to my room, and I’ll be ready to go.”

“No,” she said, holding him back with a hand on his arm, “I want to know what’s going on. Now.”

“What’s the matter?” Keith asked, stripping off his wet raincoat.

“Everyone’s acting so mysterious. I gave Maura your message. And she gave me one to give you.
Sealed
.” Marcy thrust an envelope at him that was addressed to “Keith Doyle” in flawless copperplate calligraphy. “I don’t like playing carrier pigeon.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t expect … I don’t want you … Oh, well.” He hoisted the case and escorted her to the door that led to the cafeteria, wincing at the tenderness of his palm. “After you.”

O O O

It was getting late, and the cafeteria was nearly empty. Half of the lights had already been turned out, lending the room a dim, intimate character. Food service employees gathered dirty dishes and banged them into plastic trays that resounded like tom-toms. Keith and Marcy picked out an isolated corner table. He tried to slide in next to her, but she gave him an apologetic look and stayed put in her place on the bench. “I’m sorry, Keith,” she told him. “I just don’t feel like being touched today.”

“No problem,” Keith sighed, taking his place across from her. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”

“N-no,” she replied uncertainly. “At least I don’t think so. Now wait a minute. You have some explaining to do.”

“I sure do. Here goes.”

O O O

Between bites, she chewed over his recounted adventures, and he skimmed Holl’s note. It was brief, just to let Keith know that the vote to go along with his plan hadn’t succeeded, or even come close. It was a landslide for progress. He could pick up the sales samples later on outside of Gillington. They would be in a plastic sack behind the bushes. Keith felt like a bagman for a numbers runner. He looked up at Marcy. She was still digesting his story. He hadn’t told her anything about Ludmilla yet, but he remembered the old woman’s words. Why would Marcy need to know about the elves’ history? He had no doubt Ludmilla had a reason, but he couldn’t guess what it was.

Marcy spoke up at last. “I feel so bad. Why couldn’t they be left in peace?”

“At least this way, we have some warning. See, if it wasn’t me, it could easily have been a bunch of bureaucrats, and we’d never know about it until it happened. Any time the University wanted to get rid of Gillington, it could. Are you still mad at me?”

“No. I suppose I never was really mad at you. I’m just so frustrated that there’s nothing I can do to help.”

“That is where the nimble brain of Keith E. Doyle comes into play,” he said, and explained his plans for Hollow Tree Industries. After a careful look around to make sure no one was watching them, he opened the case and slid it over to her side. Marcy’s face lit up as she poked through the wooden gifts.

“These are adorable,” she said. “And you’re terrific. Who else would think of something like that?”

“Only another deranged mind,” he assured her.

“No,” Marcy waved that away. “You’re not deranged. A little weird, yes. Can I do anything to help out?”

“Not really,” Keith said, considering. “Wait. There is one little thing. You could tell me what’s going on in class?”

Marcy giggled. “Fashion is happening in class. The Master is using the phenomenon to demonstrate his favorite principle of cultural adaptation to customs. Today, Maura showed up in a blue denim pantsuit. Catra wore a patterned skirt and a blouse made of old sheet material, and Candlepat had on a sundress and headband straight out of a Vogue magazine which Teri brought for her.” She grinned impishly. “It is sort of startling in star-spangled green, but the line is good, and it is
very
form fitting. The guys really noticed. Quite a contrast, since the rest of us are all in winter clothes. How old is she, anyway? Fifteen?”

“She’d be a lot more likely to tell you than me,” Keith said.

Marcy smiled. “It’s been very quiet this week. I think everyone misses you. The Master is being very patient with us. Now that I know we’re not going to be tossed out of the class, I can relax, and maybe the others will soon. Though I was stuttering so much today that he stopped me and promised he wouldn’t bite me even if my ideas were far-fetched. His kindliness frightens me more than his gruffness does.”

“I know what you mean. He’s a great teacher. I respect him, but I’m scared of him, too,” Keith said earnestly. “I would never deliberately want to make him mad at me.”

O O O

That evening, he met his roommate coming toward him in the hall, looking furious. Keith started to dodge past him with a pleasant word, but Pat grabbed his arm, turned him around and marched him back toward their room.

“All right, Doyle,” Pat snapped. “This is getting to be a habit.”

“What is?” Keith asked, trying to free his arm, but Pat’s long fingers had embedded themselves in his biceps.

“The room got trashed again!”

“You’re kidding!” Keith pulled free and broke into a run in spite of the weight of the sample case in his hand. He dashed through the door, and a deluge of water splashed down on him from above. The case crashed heavily to the floor. “Wa- wa- water balloon,” he gasped.

“That’s weird,” Pat said, coming in behind him. “I’ve been through that door already. Twice.” He squinted over the bridge of his long nose at the lintel, and at the empty scrap of rubber on their rug. “Why didn’t it fall on me? There’s no tape or anything on the wall.”

“I don’t know,” Keith said, dabbing at his face with a towel. “Maybe it was balanced funny. Or maybe whoever it was just planted it. Someone from this dorm, like Carl, for instance! What is it with everyone and water today?” He surveyed his half of the room. Once again, there was cola on everything, but this time he saw pieces of a book that had been slashed up and stuffed into the plughole of the sink. It was the
Field Guide to the Little People
. He ripped the soaked coverlet off his bed, and found that it had been short-sheeted. “Thorough job,” he commented.

Pat snorted. “Why would you think it was Carl? Plenty of people want to kill you. I want to kill you myself. I was planning to get to sleep early tonight!”

“I’m sorry, Pat,” Keith said, but his roommate wasn’t listening. “I’ll keep it down. This’ll probably take me all night.” Sighing, he went in search of cleaning supplies.

O O O

Two hours later, leaving a snoring Pat behind, he sneaked out of the dorm and crossed the campus to the library building. A security patrol car shone its spotlight on him but drove on, disinterested in a single student.

Keith found the plastic sack without difficulty, and pulled it out of its hiding place, brushing drops of water and wet leaves from its surface. As he was walking back toward Power Hall, a knot of drunken-sounding frat brothers turned the corner and started weaving their way toward him. A group that large, especially in their uninhibited condition, spelled trouble for a lone dormie out by himself. They’d probably stop short of beating him to a pulp, but there were other kinds of trouble they could make for him. He didn’t want to have to explain his presence or his burden to the security force.