Strangled Prose Page 4
Guiltily, I realized that the store was filling up with guests. I waved at Britton, who had been snagged and was now awaiting his opportunity to buy an autographed copy of the book. Most of the people were indeed Farber faculty, friends, or at least acquaintances.
I did spot one of my regular customers, an aged hippie who existed in a science-fiction mist. He must have wandered by and noticed that the store was open, I decided uneasily. At the moment, he was reading the back cover of Azalea’s book with a very puzzled expression. His long hair swished across his back like a braided pendulum, and his headband restrained the beads of sweat that popped up on his forehead like tiny, glistening prairie dogs. Perhaps Professor of Passion would ease him into the 1980s.
When Britton finally received his treasure, we met at the bar. We both stocked up on the hard stuff, then moved to the back of the store to stand in front of the self-improvement paperbacks.
“Douglas grabbed me at the door,” he growled.
“Just drink three dollars and seventy-nine cents worth of their liquor,” I advised sweetly. “Then eat an equal amount of those divine crabmeat things. You’ll come out ahead.”
“I suppose I can use the book for kindling during the cold winter months … unless I find a wench to warm my bed. Any ideas about that?”
“I use an electric blanket.”
Britton struck his favorite pose and intoned, “‘In bed we laugh, in bed we cry; and born in bed, in bed we die.’ Isaac de Benserade, 1612–1691.”
“What a charming sentiment, Britton. Shall we move on to another topic, such as end tables or armoires?”
“Whatever you wish, Claire. I understand Azalea has discovered a way to do it in or on every piece of furniture known to mankind. I can personally vouch for the feasibility of tables and chairs, but I have yet to figure out how to—ah, indulge my carnal desires in a hot tub without a great deal of sputtering.”
“It’s probably covered in his one,” I said, tapping Derek’s aquiline nose. “By the way, I didn’t know that you were being considered for the chairmanship of the English department. Quite a compliment.”
Britton’s beard bristled and his fingers dug into Stephanie’s swanlike neck. “I am the most obvious candidate. Because of the Thurber Farber nonsense, Twiller assumes that he’ll sneak in ahead of me. But I’ve published three more books than he has, and twice as many articles, and—” He stopped himself, took a minute to uncurl his fingers, then shot me a wry grin. “But who’s counting?”
“Who, indeed?” I pondered the fact that, although I had bedded the man upon occasion, I had never seen this intensity of emotion before. It was a blow to my ego, among other things. I scolded myself to stop behaving like a certain child I know and said, “Come along, Britton. We must mingle.”
“I’d rather mingle with you.” He lunged, I sidestepped, and we companionably headed back to the party.
Things seemed to be going smoothly. The store was packed with chattering people, most of whom clutched the obligatory purchase. Several had discovered that it worked well as a canapé tray and later would probably arrive at the same conclusion Britton had about kindling. It would be disloyal for me to add my plans for the book, but it wouldn’t squeeze as well as Charmin.
Mildred was clearly delighted with the event. Her voice could be heard above the deafening chatter, elated and thick with Azalean superlatives. And why not? I told myself sternly. It was her moment of glory. Her other books had received national acclaim, but this was the first local reception. The Book Depot’s last, in spite of the plentiful scotch and crab thingies.
It took a few minutes to isolate the noise outside from the roar inside. Voices, strident. Anger, vocalized in unison. And not nice at all. I grabbed Britton as a shield and pushed my way to the front door to gaze at the FWO in all its glory.
The FWO turnout was better than average. Maggie had managed to produce about a dozen henchwomen. All of them were dressed in faded denim jeans, bulky jackets, and uncompromising T-shirts that did not meekly advertise anybody’s product or resort. Their signs were crude, as were the messages painted in streaky letters. I spotted Sheila at the end of the line, clearly the sergeant-at-arms in charge of stragglers.
Maggie, naturally, was at the head of the line crisscrossing my sidewalk, and her voice was by far the loudest, although somewhat distracted. She clutched a copy of Professor of Passion inches away from her Rudolphian nose. Her eyes could have charred the pages. I caught myself wondering if she was prone to motion sickness; it seemed perilous to read in such frenzied transit.
“Sexist smut! Sexist smut!” the feminist soldiers chanted. Cued by an invisible signal, they all switched to “Garbage por-no! Garbage por-no!” A reliable tempo, but less alliteration.
It was quite impressive, I decided as I observed them from the doorway. Britton was snickering into my collar. Most of the guests were beginning to hover behind him; it was only a matter of seconds before Mildred realized that she was no longer the main attraction. Cocktail chatter was rapidly transforming into rude laughter. Although I had mentally prepared myself, I felt a twinge of remorse. It was my bookstore, and the demonstrators were under my roof, so to speak. And they were distracting my guests from their mission, which was to flatter Mildred.
I spun around and shoved Britton and not a few people back into the store. I slammed the door, took a deep breath, and turned around with the warmth of a fundamentalist Sunday school teacher. “How about that shrimp dip?” I demanded in a challenging voice.
Faculty people spend a lot of time issuing orders, so they are also prone to respond to authority with ovine complacency. They all moved toward the tables, making appreciative noises about the shrimp dip.
I sagged against Britton. “It won’t get any worse, will it?” I mumbled into his lapel.
Before he could answer, it got a lot worse. The door flew open and Maggie marched in, waving the notorious book above her head like a picket sign. “Where is Azalea Twilight?” she bellowed, too blinded with rage to see the obvious.
Mildred stood up and beamed. “Would you like me to autograph your copy of Professor of Passion, Maggie?”
Maggie turned an interesting shade of mauve. She did a few of the familiar puffs, then produced a noise that would shame the MGM lion. It cut off the last bit of chatter. The stage was hers.
When she was satisfied with the shocked silence, she snarled, “This piece of trash is libelous. To prove my point, we will have an impromptu reading of excerpts from Professor of Passion, by Mildred Twiller—or Azalea Twilight!”
She fumbled through the pages much as Caron had done earlier to prove her point with Inez. In the interim, no one breathed. Douglas moved behind the table to put his hands on Mildred’s shoulders, perhaps anticipating a collapse. I thought it a valid possibility, since her face was whiter than Stephanie’s neck.
Maggie found the passage. “This character is a professor from a small town in Missouri. He has a beard, blue eyes, and a superficially sophisticated demeanor, which means that he drinks French wine,” she announced. Then she began to read.
Blane Brittom held the key to Stephanie’s past, and he was willing to use his vile knowledge in order to satisfy the consuming hunger he felt for her slender white body and sculpted breasts. His was a vicious mind; his was a cold heart. He felt safe that Stephanie would never reveal her knowledge of his past. How could she risk her own future by admitting that her younger sister, an innocent child of fifteen, had died during a back-alley abortion, paid for by the very man who stood in the front of the classroom, devouring her with his eyes? She prayed that a similar fate might not befall her, but she realized that his power was mesmerizing, his intentions merciless.
I heard a rather burblous noise behind me, which I suspected came from Britton’s throat. It was much like the noises dogs make just before they leap at each other’s jugulars. In the name of etiquette, I kept my eyes on Maggie, who was only warming up. She flipped to another dog-eared page.
This time the interesting noise came from our reader, who had to take several deep breaths before she could continue. I risked a quick look at Mildred. She was trembling, her scarves undulating like tiny streams of colored water. Curious, I thought to myself, since she’d written the prose in question; she surely knew that her characters would not be accepted without comment. I looked back at Maggie in time to catch her eyes on me. She dove back into the book.
Martin Carlow dug his fingers into Stephanie’s thick blond hair, forcing her head back so that he could drink in the terror that welled in her eyes. “You will come with me,” he said coldly. “We’ll drive to the motel to conduct our final examination. When you’ve managed to please me, I’ll take you back to the dorm. But if my wife ever hears of our little adventure, I’ll tell Derek the truth about your sister.” He raked his eyes down her body as he forced her out the door, ignoring the freezing rain that was already beginning to cover the highway with a treacherous glaze.
I do not make rude noises in my throat. However, I was indeed less than pleased with the excerpt Maggie had chosen to read, and I knew why her eyes had been on me. For a minute I could see nothing but a black wave as the adrenaline rushed through my blood. Like the above-mentioned rain, it turned rapidly to ice. I stared at Mildred.
She met my gaze with two bright, steady eyes, but her chest was heaving in a panicky cadence and the two patches of blusher contrasted with her pallor. Douglas murmured into her ear, perhaps urging her not to have a heart attack at that moment.
The room was still. The people were now mannequins, frozen in position. Mannequins do not, however, audibly salivate at the possibility of a really good public scene. We all carefully avoided one another’s faces as the silence stretched into minutes.
Finally, when I was going to scream just to break the tension, Mildred snuffled. Not the politest sound, but enough to turn on the chatter and send most of the guests to the bar for a refill before the violence started.
Mildred snuffled some more, exchanged a few hurried words with Douglas, and darted toward the back of the store. He watched her for a second, his face taut with concern. I forced myself to unclench my fists before I turned around to see if Britton was slipping bullets into a machine gun.
He was gone. I asked a few spectators if they had seen him leave, but no one had been able to take his eyes off the center ring. Broadway plays cost forty dollars a ticket; the price of admission here was under four dollars, including refreshments. I can’t say I blamed anyone. I decided to behave with Emily Post decorum, if not Shirley Temple sweetness, and pushed through the crowd to speak to Douglas.
He was still behind the table, guarded yet anxious. “Claire, I hope you aren’t going to make any wild analogies between the characters in the book and real life,” he began in a defensive murmur, backing away on the chance I was going to punch him in the wild analogy. He wasn’t too far off base.
“I would like to have a discussion with Mildred about her book. Where is she? Reading my diary or pawing through my bank statement?” I demanded with promised E.P. decorum.
“She said she felt a migraine coming on and wanted to leave quietly through the back door.” Douglas gave me a blast of the old charm. “I know she had no idea that you—or the others—would react so emotionally to the book. There is a disclaimer in the front of the book that promises that the characters bear no resemblance…”
Maggie marched up behind me, and her presence seemed to take the wind out of him. If I believed in auras, I would have admitted there was a definite black haze surrounding her. Thunder and lightning were not far behind. The customary puffing was replaced with an equally disturbing composure.
“Where is Mildred?” she said. Or spat, to be precise.
Douglas ran through the migraine explanation for Maggie’s benefit. He then ran his hands through his hair and looked as though he were considering the possibility of running through the door.
“I’m consulting my lawyer immediately,” Maggie said. “This is libel of the worst kind, Douglas. Although I never realized that your wife was quite so vindictive, I must say I’m not surprised.” She shoved the book at Douglas, who took it meekly and put it behind his back.
“I am!” I said, bearing down on Douglas. “I think all the lawyers in Farberville are going to make a lot of money before this mess is settled. How could she do such a thing, Douglas? All this drivel about how I’m such a valued friend is a bunch of—of drivel!”
I realized I still had the book in my hand. I restrained myself from beating him with it, since he was not the guilty party. But Mildred Twiller was, I reminded myself with surprising virulence, and she deserved whatever she got from her petty little trick. Poor Britton and Maggie would have to fight for their careers. Carlton was unavailable to defend himself, but I carried his name. I realized I could have cheerfully murdered Mildred at that time. To my regret, I later discovered that I was not the only one with that idea.
FOUR
Douglas and I were busy staring at each other when my aged hippie tapped me on the shoulder.
“Where do I get this autographed, Claire? I think I’d like to buy it,” he said apologetically. It was his normal raspy voice, but his eyes were as opaque as jelly beans. He was the only person present who had missed Maggie’s performance, which indicated the extensiveness of his befogged condition. The man was an ambulatory vegetable.
“It’s hardly your genre!” I snapped. “Go drink a big glass of champagne and reconsider.” I glared until he shuffled away, then swung back to Douglas. “There’d better be a good explanation for this.”
“I’m sure there is. Mildred would never do anything to hurt you; she thinks the world of you. Why, just this morning she was telling me how much she admires—”
“Can it, Douglas.” I was not in the mood for hearing how divine I was, especially when half of the Farber faculty was poring over the lesser known but nevertheless fascinating details of Carlton’s death. I anticipated a titter of amusement at any moment.
Maggie muscled me aside. “I am going home now to call my lawyer. Tell that nasty, foulmouthed bitch that she’s going to hear from him in about fifteen minutes.” She thudded out, and seconds later I heard her screeching orders to the FWO demonstrators.
“Claire,” Douglas began plaintively, “you’ve got to be—”
“I do not.” I didn’t.
Douglas was clever enough to read the signals. He coughed and murmured, “Perhaps I ought to call Mildred and make sure she arrived home safely. She was so upset that I’m afraid she might have driven off the railroad overpass.”
I took a deep breath. “In that you are a guest in the Book Depot, I will refrain from further comments. You may use my office to call, but then the reception will be over. Understand?”
He gave me a weak smile and disappeared down the aisle to hide in my office. I went back to the bar for a hefty slug of scotch, then plastered a bright look on my face and commenced to mingle with determined gaiety. If I were lucky, only a small percentage of the people would make the connection. Those who did would not be given a free show—from me, anyway. There were plenty of other juicy bits to amuse them. Mildred had not been overly coy with her characters’ names. Margaret Hollburn, Blane Brittom, Martin Carlow—for God’s sake!
I had misjudged the acumen of those present. After being given at least fifty om
niscient smirks, I could no longer stand it. I told Mr. Pierre that it was all his, slipped on a sweater, and went out to see what had happened to the FWO. If there had been an extra sign, I would have snatched it up and let out a few chants myself.
Leaderless, they had dispersed. The street and sidewalk were relatively unpopulated for a Sunday afternoon. A few couples strolled down the hill from the campus, contented with clear sky and shop windows filled with the latest preppie fashions. I snorted to myself and took off down the railroad tracks, my heels leaving crescents in the dirt between the ties.
Eight years ago, when the highway patrolman had knocked on the door, his hat in his hands and his expression tactfully sympathetic, I had heard all the details. The girl in question, although by no means the next Aristotle, had had enough sense to wear a seat belt. Carlton had flown through the windshield; she had at least kept her seat. She was mangled but not terminally so. Her father arranged to keep her existence out of the newspaper and even hushed up her name in the police report. I did not ask. The vision of bloodied chicken feathers had more than dampened my curiosity.
So I had naïvely presumed that no one knew about her presence in the car. I had seen no reason to offer the information to anyone and had donned my mourning clothes like the brave little widow that I was. But now …
“How could you do it?” I bawled at the embankment. “Azalea Twilight, I hope you—I hope you—” I sputtered to a halt, embarrassed by my ferocity.
Well, I hoped she was prepared to take the consequences. I was not the only one with a grievance in the community, for that matter. I had never asked Britton questions about his past, preferring not to be bored with lost love, disillusioned irony, or even cherished sexual conquests. I caught myself speculating about the reference in the sordid book and gave myself a pinch. If only the entire population of Farberville would behave with equal self-restraint, we might all survive the scandal. And Peter Pan would appear on my windowsill to search for his shadow.