Strangled Prose (3 page)

Mildred tightened her grip, ignoring the rumble that came from Twilliam's throat. “Oh, thank you so much for coming, Claire. I felt a sudden urge to talk to someone, and I thought immediately of you, since you are my dearest friend.”

“Mildred, I have about twenty minutes for lunch. I'm also hungry.”

“Well, naturally. Let's go to the patio this very second. I know how hard you work all day.” She kept up a steady flow of praise for my self-sacrificing devotion, my loyalty, my integrity, and whatever else she assumed I was doing properly those days. Twilliam had a different opinion, but he couldn't wiggle free to make his point with his nasty little teeth.

The patio is shaded by enormous elm trees and surrounded by beds of massive azaleas. In the spring they are, as Caron would solemnly declare, awesome. Mildred does not permit her guests to miss the parallel, and even Douglas seems to find amusement in it. After all, Azalea Twilight does pay the gardener.

The table was set with delicate china and wineglasses. As we sat down, Camille came out the french doors with a salad bowl and a basket of croissants. I pitched in enthusiastically. Mildred hugged Twilliam and watched me in silence, which finally unsettled me enough to disrupt my momentum. I forced myself to slow down, albeit fractionally.

“So what did Mr. Pierre see as the major problem?” I said, between mouthfuls of shrimp.

“He wasn't sure that you had quite the right attitude,” Mildred said in a gently reproachful voice. “He feels that his staff will be endangered if they serve canapés from the middle of Thurber Street. All that traffic, you know.”

“Mr. Pierre suggested that we remove all the books so that the guests would be more comfortable. It is a bookstore, Mildred, and not a banquet hall.”

“I'll speak to him, Claire.” Mildred stared at the vast lawn, as though searching for the words that would pacify Mr. Pierre without incensing me. Wishing her luck, I went back to the shrimp.

Camille refilled our wineglasses, eyed my clean plate, and looked down at Mildred. All of the staff look down at Mildred, without exception. “Will there be anything else, ma'am?” It was not a question; it was a dare.

“No, thank you.” Mildred gave me a startled glance. “Unless you'd like coffee, Claire?”

“Black, with sugar,” I answered politely. Someone needed to keep the staff busy, and Azalea certainly owed me a favor or two. Camille sniffed rebelliously but silently glided into the house. I wiggled to find a comfortable position in the metal chair, enjoying the afternoon sunlight and sense of well-being that comes with money. Money buys shrimp, peeled by someone else. It buys coffee in porcelain cups, served by someone else. It probably could buy the heart of a carnivorous IRS agent—if he had one.

“Claire, what do you honestly think about sex?”

That jarred me out of the pleasant reverie. “Well,” I began cautiously, “I think it may be a bit overrated, but it is necessary for the survival of the species. It has a certain charm.”

“But what if it's simply animal lust?”

“Mildred, you are the expert in the field, not me. Surely in one of your books you covered the subject in amazingly complex detail. What's the newest book about, for God's sake? I assume that it's not a catalog for job seekers at the MLA.”

“Professor of Passion?”
She freed Twilliam and watched him scamper away to a flowerbed to do a bit of gratuitous fertilization. “Why, it's about a campus love affair, Claire. The heroine wishes to find fulfillment, to find meaning for her life.”

“Via a major in anatomy?”

“I write about love, not sex.” The Azalean personality surfaced like a trout that had spotted a dragonfly just above the water. “My heroines all seek a meaningful relationship, a commitment to their hearts. They never engage in premarital sex—unless there's a reason.”

“What are we talking about, Mildred? Are you plotting a new book or merely exploring the biological processes that produce babies that grow up to be raven-haired, buxom heroines or arrogant, anatomically blessed heroes?”

Mildred's eyes misted over, as if she had inhaled a dose of London fog. “Love is a complex web.”

While I tried to think of a worthy reply, Camille brought my coffee. It was almost white with cream. Camille and I exchanged mute promises of revenge at some later time, and she strolled inside with a smug expression.

I gave the vile coffee all my attention, determined to finish it with all possible haste. In my stomach, the shrimp had commenced a civil war, using various organs as bunkers. Even the croissants had taken sides. I was afraid that the conversation was moving toward an awkward subject—her marriage. The Twillers have a superficially perfect relationship, but Douglas has quite a few other perfect relationships in the wings. Also in his office, in motels, and in the park under the bushes, for all I knew. I presumed that the gossip had finally arrived home.

“Douglas has been wonderful,” Mildred said musingly.

I goggled at her. “He has?”

“He thinks I've been working much too hard lately, and that I'm feeling the strain. He suggested that I take a little vacation after the reception, so that I'll be fresh for the lecture tour. He thought Twilliam and I might enjoy Florida. Sunshine and sand. Oranges.”

“For a lecture tour?” My mind failed me.

“For the book, Claire. My agent has lined up talk shows across the country, as well as autograph parties, receptions, and speaking engagements. You do remember that I toured for seven weeks when my last book hit the paperback bestseller list?” Mildred asked, implying delicately that I was at best a reclusive idiot.

“Oh, I see.” I didn't. “Then the vacation is designed to take your mind off the dilemma of rutting rabbits? Then you'll be refreshed enough to lecture on meaningful fornication?”

Mildred very carefully refolded her linen napkin and placed it next to her plate. “I am seriously toying with the idea of retiring from the literary world. I cannot withstand the constant demands of being a celebrity.”

“Quit writing Azalea books? I thought you adored writing, Mildred. What does Douglas think?”

“He's very supportive. He's told me numerous times that my needs come first, that if I am distressed by the necessity of dealing with the publicity, I must cease making personal sacrifices in order to please my fans. They have been more than loyal, but they will find a new author who stirs their souls as much as I have.”

“I suppose so,” I murmured. It certainly sounded like a direct quote. I swallowed a wild urge to glance at my watch, shriek in surprise at the lateness of the hour, and exit briskly before I heard anything else. Instead, I said, “Have you mentioned this to your agent?”

“Only to the two people I love the most: you and Douglas. My publishers will have to broach the tragic news to my readers in a cautious fashion, so that they will not march on the office in heartbroken protest.”

“While we're on the subject of protests, I ought to warn you that the FWO is plotting some sort of mischief in honor of the reception, Mildred. Maggie Holland was sputtering nonsense about a demonstration in front of the Book Depot.”

“Poor Maggie. I suspect she's very frustrated.” Mildred sighed.

“I suspect she's deranged and capable of causing a major disruption. The sisterhood does not approve of romance fiction. The publicity won't bother me, but I thought you should be prepared for a bit of unpleasantness.”

“Women like that are unable to feel fulfilled and, for some reason, have a compulsion to take out their resentments on the rest of us. I shall have Douglas speak to her.”

“Maggie cannot be diverted by an avuncular warning from Douglas. She and her cohort have been closeted in her apartment for the last few weeks, painting signs and rehearsing slogans to be screamed at appropriate moments. I just hope you won't have your feelings hurt.”

“I'll try to be sympathetic,” Mildred murmured. “After all, if nothing else, it will provide a bit of free publicity. Do you suppose the newspaper will cover the demonstration?”

I stared at her. The woman was not crushed by the idea of being labeled a writer of sexist garbage. Book sales and free publicity would give her strength to withstand the insults. Personally, I rather agreed with Maggie and the FWO. I could see that we would all have a charming time at the reception.

I escaped without hearing further of Mildred's career crisis. I promised her that I would negotiate graciously with Mr. Pierre and went out the gate at the side of the house. As I walked down the railroad tracks, however, I pondered the announcement. Hardly earth-shattering from my perspective, but I wondered if Douglas Twiller was truly so willing to abandon such an incredibly lucrative source of income. Or allow Mildred to cease the extended lecture tours that kept her out of town for several months at a time. Conveniently.

Mildred ought to know, I concluded as I went into the store. I did not leave the ‘Out to Lunch' sign on the door, as tempting as it was. When Mr. Pierre's secretary called to arrange an appointment, I did not snarl at the innocent pawn, although I had a few comments reserved for the man when he showed up to talk steam tables. I took the ledgers out to the front counter, perched on a stool behind the cash register, and dove into the smudgy numbers.

Students wandered in and out, along with a few real people. Real people buy paperbacks; students are the only ones forced to pay over twenty dollars for a book they will use for not more than four months. Farber students do not complain, however; they grasp the dollar value of an education, and none of them would be pleased by a paperback version. I made change absently, pointed out the neatly lettered signs above the various sections, and occasionally forayed into the aisles to help the dimmest find textbooks.

Business as usual, or so I presumed. In the middle of the afternoon, the door flew open. Caron and her dearest friend, Inez Brandon, skittered into the store and took possession of the area in front of the counter. They reminded me of gawky, breathless colts.

Caron has my coppery hair and dark green eyes, but her freckles were done by a heavier hand. Her body has taken on an adult dimension that alarms both of us. Her expression, on the other hand, is generally that of a thwarted four-year-old. Eyebrows horizontal, lower lip extended, nostrils flaring like a trotter—my daughter does lack charm.

Inez is quite the opposite, which is probably why the two of them are inseparable—and insufferable. Inez has limp brown hair, limp brown eyes distorted by thick glasses, and a limp, thin body that has not yet stirred in response to pubescent hormones. Her freckles are dim, half-hearted smears. Makeup fades on her face. In contrast to Caron's sulks, Inez cowers. It is effective; I find myself apologizing or being as jolly as a department store Santa Claus on commission.

“What's up?” I asked them.

Caron's nostrils quivered. “Rhonda Maguire told everyone in the girls' room that Inez was a lesbian. I naturally refuted the statement, but then everyone gave me funny looks the rest of the day.”

“Oh.” I gulped back a sob. “In what way did you refute Rhonda Maguire's statements?”

“I told her that she was a jealous bitch,” Caron said. She shoved Inez into center stage. “I think Inez should prove that she is not a lesbian, don't you, Mother?”

Inez's chin wobbled. “I haven't met the right man.”

“It doesn't matter when your reputation is at stake,” Caron stated mercilessly. Both of them looked at me.

“Are all those words a legitimate part of your vocabulary?” I asked in a stern, maternal voice. Inwardly I was appalled, but not especially shocked. In my innocence I had encouraged Caron to learn to read. She had moved beyond the Bobbsey twins, unless the little scamps had finally grown up after all those decades of perennial childhood.

“In
The Web of Secret Desire,
the heroine risks everything to prove that she has the passions of a woman. She doesn't worry one whit about the ‘right man,'” Caron said. She shot Inez one of her beadier stares.

Inez cowered. “In
Love's Sweet Poetry,
the heroine refuses to compromise herself in order to refute the gossip. She says that a pure heart cannot be soiled by innuendoes and disparaging remarks.”

We were somewhere between Peyton Place and the butterfly farm, I cautioned myself. Before I could produce the correct balance of common sense tempered with sympathy, they increased the volume of the argument and stormed out the door. I wondered what the pedestrians along the sidewalk would make of the conversation. I wondered where I had failed. I wondered if I ought to call Inez's mother so that the girl could be locked away in a convent.

I finally ran out of wonderings and went back to business. At seven o'clock, I locked the store and strolled up the hill. Britton had mentioned a cocktail party the next evening. I wanted to wash my hair, paint my toenails a scandalous scarlet, and finish a biography. Caron was supposedly fixing dinner or at least heating two of the entrées so thoughtfully prepared by others and displayed in the frozen-food case at the supermarket, for exorbitant prices.

A figure stepped out of the shrubs. Farberville lacks the criminal element of the larger cities. Here we run to burglaries, drunken driving, and an occasional brawl in front of a bar, all of which are considered acceptable behavior by the locals. We do not yet have muggers and rapists. I did not, therefore, scream and scramble to the safety of the nearest house. Instead, I smiled distantly and veered around the figure—which was female, anyway.

The woman sidled with me. “Mrs. Malloy?”

“Yes?” My stomach made a comment about Lean Cuisine, but I accepted the inevitability of choking out a courteous reply.

“Could I speak to you for a moment?” she said. Her face was long and pale, her dark hair pulled back tightly enough to give her eyes a peculiar Oriental tilt. Her thin body was disguised by an oversize bulky sweater and antique denim jeans. There was a pinched look about her, as if she were being squeezed by support hose. The composite was unmissable; I pegged her as a graduate student.