Strangled Prose Read online

  “To Mildred, yes. To Azalea Twilight, who knows?” He started the sneakers pounding, gave me a quick wink, and jogged out the door. A huddle of students leaped out of his way as he started back up the hill toward the campus. The Douglas Twillers of the world teach classes in sweat suits, drink jug wine at student parties, and generally break every written and unwritten rule of conduct. But, as their deans know very well, they do publish often in prestigious journals. And that’s what matters.

  The students came into the store, and I forgot about the reception as I helped them find the books on their starchy, crisp reading lists. Douglas, Britton, and several other of the English faculty feel some misguided obligation to take care of their departed colleague’s widow, even after eight years. I would object—if I had a more reliable source of income. But you can’t buy wine with food stamps, so I accept the business as graciously as possible.

  I dealt with the students, even managing to sell one of them a book that was not on his reading list. A triumph, I crowed silently as I returned to the ledger.

  At seven o’clock, I closed the store and walked up the hill. Caron and I have the top floor of an old house that sits across the street from Farber College’s most famous landmark, Farber Hall. Although the health inspector condemns it on a semiannual basis, it still houses the English department and two floors of damp, cold classrooms. Carlton’s office was on the fourth floor, and he used to joke about the building collapsing under his feet. He should have worried a little more about chicken trucks and icy pavement.

  I checked the mail and eased open the front door. The ground floor was inhabited by yet another member of the English faculty. I had had enough contact with the group for the day, but apparently the gods were having a dull time on Olympus.

  “Claire!”

  I stopped, one foot dangling above the step, and turned around reluctantly to meet two militant eyes under a cap of black, cropped hair. She wore a khaki army jacket, baggy pants, and a T-shirt with a message about the role of men in today’s society. It was obscene.

  “What’s up, Maggie?” I asked.

  “Is it true?” If words had physical substance, hers would have splintered into a thousand shards.

  “Is what true, Maggie?”

  “Is it true that the Book Depot is sponsoring a reception for Azalea Twilight’s newest bit of sexist garbage?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. Mildred didn’t phrase it quite like that, however.”

  Maggie’s nose turned red and she began to huff. When it became clear that she was incapable of verbalizing her displeasure, I added, “If you’re planning to ultimately blow the house down, I’d appreciate a chance to move out a few of my cherished possessions, and perhaps my daughter.”

  Maggie Holland is the president of the Farber Women’s Organization, which periodically issues statements condemning whatever offends them. They picket once in a while, their beety faces shining with indignation and their arms locked in sisterhood. I approve of their sentiments, although they have been known to be a shade tedious in their demands. I don’t want to play football, nor do I feel equality extends to urinals in the ladies’ room.

  At last Maggie found her voice. “I must say that I am appalled at you, Claire Malloy! You are aware that romance fiction proliferates the sexist tenet that a woman’s single goal in life is to attach herself like a leech to some arrogant bastard who—”

  “I’m doing a favor for Mildred,” I said firmly. “If you don’t approve of the book, make your statement clear by not attending the reception. Stay home and sulk. Read a pamphlet. Refuse to wash the dishes for the next month.”

  Maggie’s mouth tightened, and her fingers dug into the doorjamb until I could almost feel them. “As leader of the FWO, I cannot overlook this, Claire. We have a moral obligation to eradicate this vile literature.”

  “I’m not sure the FWO has that kind of impact on the New York publishing houses, Maggie,” I said. I started back up the stairs, tired of the whole thing.

  “We’re going to demonstrate!” Maggie yelped.

  “So demonstrate!” I yelped back, without stopping. I went upstairs, unlocked the door, then slammed it several times and stomped across the living room. Maybe Maggie’s light fixture will fall on her head, I hissed to myself. I barely stopped myself from slamming the refrigerator door closed.

  Caron’s head popped up from behind it. Waving a half-eaten carrot at me, she said, “Mother, if you engage in coitus interruptus, are you still technically a virgin?”

  And that was only the beginning.

  TWO

  October passed in a flutter of dried leaves and staggering football fans. I was still trying to force a glimmer of hope from the accounts. My accountant, a perfect model for Poe’s raven, was amusing himself by hissing threats over the telephone. He refuses to come by the shop, swearing that his sports car would be endangered if he parked anywhere on the street. He has a valid point.

  When the telephone shrilled at me, I presumed the dear man was calling once more to reiterate the IRS position on delinquent quarterly statements. I held the receiver several inches from my ear and muttered a faint, “Hello?”

  “Claire, I need you for lunch today.” Mildred, or Azalea. I couldn’t be sure.

  “What’s the matter—out of frozen quiche?”

  Clearly it was Mildred who said, “I thought we might have a nice shrimp salad, but if you’d prefer…?” Pure bewilderment is always Mildred.

  “Shrimp salad would be fine if I had the time, Mildred, but I don’t. I’m going to schedule a bankruptcy hearing at two and then hit every bar on the street. I won’t be sober until Friday at the earliest,” I said, glaring at the ledger. Not funny, I lectured myself.

  Mildred agreed with my silent assessment. “Now, Claire, everyone has to eat lunch. Hang a cute little ‘Out to Lunch’ sign on the door and come over at noon. We need to discuss the reception.”

  “The caterer tattled, right?”

  “Mr. Pierre was a tiny bit confused about where to set up the steam table for the hot canapés, Claire.” The tacit accusation seemed to give her courage. “Noon, or whenever you can get away. It’s such a perfect day; I’ll have Camille set a table on the patio. Byee…”

  For all my vices, I am prompt. Shortly before noon, I hung the noticeably uncute, fly-splattered sign as bidden, locked the door, and walked down the railroad tracks.

  The Twiller house—more accurately, antebellum mansion—is only a few blocks away, if one takes the obvious shortcut under two bridges and along the gully. It’s a pleasant walk. In the spring, wildflowers line the embankment in a lush quilt of colors, and in the summer even the weeds have an unruly charm. Now things were a bit muted, but it was preferable to exhaust fumes and surly joggers who have an irritating possessiveness about the sidewalk.

  I scrambled up the path on the embankment and crossed the street. When Azalea’s checks started rolling in, the Twillers opted for the staid, dignified side of town. Not that they lost any prestige, of course. The whitewashed brick house was encircled by an ancient iron fence. The sidewalk was original brick. The pillars soared skyward. The ceiling of the porch was painted an appropriate shade of blue. The only thing missing was a quaint statuette of a livery boy holding out his hand. However, it is a truly beautiful house, and I covet it with a pure green envy. The day I write my first lurid romance, I’ll put a down payment on a house exactly like it. Caron would fall into the role of Scarlett O’Hara without missing a flutter of her eyelashes.

  I rang the bell and waited to be admitted to the temple. Mildred appeared, breathless and dithery. She clutched her toy poodle to her breast in what appeared to be a death grip. Twilliam didn’t seem to object; he glared at me with malevolent, black marble eyes, clearly wishing he were free to deal with me in his doggy way.

  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 sal
es 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.