Damsels in Distress (4 page)

“And here you are,” I said flatly. Flatly, because I had only minimal control of my face. I couldn’t tell if I was grinning or grimacing; I hoped I wasn’t drooling. My feet had turned to concrete. I was sure my organs had shut down, including my lungs, heart, and brain.

“And here I am,” he agreed.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t really know. I just wanted to share it, and you seem like the most obvious person.”

“Me?” I clamped down on my lower lip until I could trust myself not to start babbling or bawling. I stared at his face, searching for some resemblance to Carlton. None of Edward’s standard features brought back any memories, but I was too distraught to be sure. His eyes were blue, granted, and his mouth was slightly wider than average. His teeth were not perfectly aligned, but this might be because of the expense of braces. There was a slightly smug arrogance that had been one of Carlton’s less admirable characteristics, but such traits were more apt to be the product of nurture than of genetics. Carlton had boasted of previous relationships, but I had not asked for details. I would never have married him if I thought him capable of deserting a pregnant woman. Then again, I had never thought him capable of carrying on sleazy affairs with his own students—and I’d certainly gotten that one wrong. I felt a sudden urge to walk over to the cemetery, dig him up, and demand an explanation.

I finally took a deep breath and said, “What’s your father’s name?”

Edward shook the wrinkles out of his cap and put it back on his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything about it. I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s kind of scary. Looking for his name on the Internet was a game with obscure clues to be followed. Lots of false leads and dead ends.”

“You haven’t made any effort to contact him since you arrived?” I didn’t add that it might require a shovel or a séance.

“I guess I’m afraid to try. He doesn’t even know I’m alive. Maybe he won’t care, and just shrug or deny it. He’s probably married with kids and a nice, respectable life. He’ll see me as a threat and assume I want money from him to make up for all those years.” Edward turned his back and pretended to study the covers of the paperbacks on the rack. “Even worse, he could be a nasty, alcoholic failure who’ll expect me to help him out. Then again, he could be dead. That would mean I’d have to decide whether or not to approach his family.”

“I might be able to help if you tell me his name,” I said, aware that both of us might be on separate paths that converged in an emotional crisis.

“Thanks, Mrs. Malloy, but not yet. I’m going to stay low, check out the situation, and then decide what to do. I haven’t had any experience in this situation.”

“Very few of us have.” Guilt kicked in with the severity of a thunderstorm, as if I in some obscure way was responsible for Carlton’s…irresponsibility. Edward was only a few years older than Caron. My eyes began to sting. “I want you to know that you can always talk to me, Edward. I may not have any advice, but I’ll listen.”

He looked over his shoulder at me, his expression indecipherable, then disappeared behind the rack. I heard snuffling, and then a suggestion that he was blowing his nose. I waited silently, not at all sure what to expect. I was about to say something, although I had no idea what, when he said, “I’m surprised you’ve never heard of ARSE. The fiefdom’s been around for ten years.”

“I’m not into organizations.”

He reappeared. “Forget about all that stuff I told you, okay? I’m just waiting for Julius. I told him I’d help with the sound system, even though about all I know how to do is mumble ‘testing, testing,’ into a microphone.”

“Exactly what’s planned for today?” I asked. “Should I be worried that some sort of anachronistic Renaissance rock band will be belting out the greatest hits from the fourteen hundreds? Christopher Columbus on lead guitar, with Niña, Pinta, and Santa Maria playing backup.”

“I’m going to juggle and do hokey tricks, then there’ll be a sword fight with steel weapons. Fiona will show up in garb to pass out fliers and sell admission and banquet tickets. We need to get enough cash to put deposits on the tents, chairs, tables, and whatever. “

“There won’t be any bloodshed, will there? I’ve never been good with stains.”

“Just bruises and scratches. ARSE members aren’t allowed to fight until they’ve completed a supervised training program. Off the battlefield, they’re all friends, but they’re competitive once they’ve put on helmets and mail armor.”

“Made from soda can pop tops, I presume.”

Edward looked appalled. “Milady underestimates the neurotic obsession of fierce ARSE knights. Some of them spend close to a thousand dollars for a helmet, mail shirt, coif, shield, sword, boots, and gauntlets—and that’s just the basic equipment. It’s heavy, too, as much as sixty or seventy pounds. Any fatalities in the summer are from heat stroke and dehydration.” He waggled his head to make the bell on his hat jingle as he gave me an impish smile. “That’s why I prefer to play the fool. I do it well, don’t you think?”

“Quite well, from what I’ve seen thus far,” I said. I tried to envision Carlton with an impish smile, but his had tended to be condescending. He’d certainly never allowed even a hint of a dimple. “I hope Färber College isn’t too conservative for your taste. It certainly lacks the ambience of Berkeley. I’ve heard rumors that the male art majors wear ties to class.”

“I’m not taking any classes until the fall semester. I moved here last week to—well, let’s just say to check things out. I was lucky enough to find a cheap apartment close to the campus so I can use my bicycle.”

“Bicycle or unicycle?”

“I’ll have to see how bad the traffic is. The unicycle is a bit tipsy. Have you ever tried one?”

“Me?” I squeaked, beginning to retreat.

Edward grabbed my wrist. “Don’t be a coward; it’s not as hard as it looks. Let’s go outside and I’ll teach you. I promise that I won’t let you fall.” He began to pull me toward the front door. “C’mon, Claire. Can’t you see yourself unicycling up the street to buy a cup of coffee?”

“I can see myself hobbling around on crutches for six months. No, thank you, Edward. I can barely ride a bicycle. I spent my formative years with scabs on my knees and elbows. When I was twelve, I collided with a parked car and nearly knocked out my front teeth. I never attempted to roller-skate. I can’t look out a third-floor window without getting queasy.”

He ignored my bleats of protest, and hung on to my wrist until we were in front of the store. A few pedestrians stopped to gawk at him, as well they should have. All I could do was hope that they were too blinded by his purple tights to notice me. The arrival of an ambulance—which seemed inevitable—would attract more attention.

He released me and fiddled with the unicycle, then leered at me for the benefit of his audience. “Come hither, Mistress Malloy.”

“No, Edward. I’m not about to get on that contraption. My upstairs apartment is not wheelchair-accessible.”

“Upon my soul, I promise I won’t alloweth thee to fall,” he said, widening his eyes as he dropped to one knee and held out his arms. “Doth thou not trust poor Pester the Jester?”

“No, but that’s not the issue.” I paused as I heard giggles from the audience, then lowered my voice to a whisper. “Why don’t you teach me how to juggle?”

“Just try this first.”

“Absolutely not!”

He stood up and thrust his hips forward to offer the audience a view of his codpiece. “Mistress Malloy, art thou afeared of my toy? It doth not sting like a bee nor bite like an adder. Wilt thou not touch it?”

“Not with a ten-foot pole!” I snapped.

“My mistress knows it well,” he countered, eliciting brays of laughter and whistles from the audience.

I was saved by the arrival of a van next to the portico. Julius climbed out and waved. “Hey, Edward, glad you’re here. I had a helluva time loading the amps by myself. The darn things weigh a ton.” He frowned at the crowd, then added, “Hello, Mrs. Malloy. How are you?”

“Just dandy,” I said as I stepped around the unicycle and hurried into the store. Through the dusty windows, I watched them carry mysterious black equipment from the van to selected vantage points. Edward seemed quite strong for a man in pointy shoes and tights, but Julius was panting and his face was streaked with sweat when he came inside with a tangle of cords and began to plug them into the sockets. Edward remained outside, standing on a wobbly aluminum ladder to hang brightly colored triangular flags and a banner between the pillars that supported the tiled roof. It made for a very odd scene, I thought, hardly evocative of the fifteenth century. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight would not have known what to make of it.

Eventually Edward was given the opportunity to intone “testing, testing” into a microphone. His voice echoed down the weedy tracks like a phantom train from earlier decades. When the clinging and clanging started, I had a feeling the cacophony would be heard at the truck stops at the edges of town. The Farberville town council had enacted a sound ordinance several years ago after complaints about the live music in the beer garden on weekend nights. Fines could run high, based on the decibel number. The roars from the football stadium are tactfully overlooked, since the local economy thrives on the generosity of hordes of fans. The bars, restaurants, and motels, anyway. I usually close the Book Depot and stay home to avoid the inebriated drivers, and spend the following morning picking up litter and broken glass in the parking lot adjacent the store.

Reminding myself that I could simply unplug all the equipment should the tiles on the roof begin to rattle, I went to the rack of literary works read only under duress. I collected an armload of trade paperbacks, although I wasn’t sure I could concoct a window display that would have the same appeal as the current collection of thrillers, celebrity memoirs, and romance novels. Recreational reading rarely includes such classics as Sir Thomas More’s
Utopia
or Spenser’s
Faerie Queene.
It was worth a shot, however, and if Peter didn’t call, I could spend the evening twisting aluminum foil to make figurines of knights. Dressing dolls as duchesses and damsels would challenge my artistic capabilities, since I had not yet mastered the skill of threading a needle. Anything to avoid thinking about Edward’s paternity issue.

The door banged open. I turned around, expecting to find Julius frantically fiddling with more miles of wires. Instead, I found myself gaping at a very large man clad in what appeared to be authentic armor, a helmet tucked under one arm. Very large, as in well over six feet tall. His wavy, dark hair was combed back, accenting his broad forehead and retreating hairline. He had a trimmed beard and mustache, and glittering eyes.

He looked less menacing as he grinned at me. “Milady.”

“I gather you’re one of the combatants?”

“The Duke of Glenbarrens, at your service.” His sword clinked in its scabbard as he clumped into the bookstore.

“The squire of the shire?”

His grin widened. “Also known as Anderson Peru. In the mundane world, I’m a computer geek at a wholesale distributor in Wa- verly. With a mere keyboard stroke, I can create a shortage of toilet paper in Portland or send a truckload of snowblowers to Pensacola. You, Mrs. Malloy, are not what I expected. I’ve always assumed booksellers would resemble the ninety-year-old librarian at my high school. She was formidable, to put it nicely. You, on the other hand, are tall and willowy, with lovely skin, gossamer curls, and a mischievous glint in your emerald-green eyes. I would fall to my knees and confess undying adoration, but then you’d have to help me up and the mood would be shattered. One of the drawbacks to wearing armor.”

“I suppose so,” I said, nearly dropping the books. I sternly reminded myself I was well beyond the age of adolescent swoons, although I wouldn’t have put it past Caron and Inez. He’d probably left his black stallion at home and driven up in a rusty Volkswagen Bug cluttered with fast food wrappers and crumpled beer cans, the glove compartment jammed with unpaid parking tickets. Picturing this was not enough to keep me from blushing, however, and my knees were decidedly unsteady. Before I further embarrassed myself, I cleared my throat and added, “I was told the Renaissance Fair is going to take place at your farm.”

“I trust we’ll have the pleasure of your winsome company. After the banquet, you and I can take a stroll and I’ll show you the apiary. The scent of honey, the glittering stars, the moonlight catching sparkles of gold in your hair…”

Before I could come up with a response, a second knight stumbled into the bookstore, roaring incoherently and thrashing his arms. He crashed into Anderson, sending him flailing into a rack of fiction. It was hard to tell much about him, since he was wearing a helmet that covered his head and face. The two began to roll around, kicking and pummeling each other. The noise was worse than hail on a tin roof. Some of the invectives they hurled at each other were of a crude Anglo-Saxon nature, others more contemporary and concerned with lineage and procreative prowess. Both of them were guffawing like donkeys—or in this case, asses. All the while, books were being flung everywhere and other racks were increasingly imperiled. Edward came to the doorway and stared, but made no effort to intervene. I could not fault him when he went back outside.

“Stop it!” I shouted, doubting they could hear me over the escalating din. “Get out of here!” Kicking one of them would be gratifying, but a broken toe would be a nuisance. I finally settled for banging on them with the ledger and contributing some of my favorite Anglo-Saxon expletives.

Anderson pushed his assailant off him and looked up at me. “Oh, dear, we’ve upset you. Benny, cut it out or she’ll come after you with a can opener.”

The second knight, now identified as Benny, sat up and pulled off his helmet. His beard was wild and bushy, and his mustache hung down over his lips. His thick reddish orange hair stuck up in tufts. His face, like Anderson’s, was red. “My apologies, milady,” he said between gasps. “I haven’t seen this smarmy bastard in three months.”