Ashes and Bones (4 page)

“Ah, Daniel-san, that anxious to get away from me? Give me twenty and twenty of the juiciest. You will remember next time that I am the only clock you need to worry about.”

I almost protested but instead got to my knees and began the push-ups. Next time? I wilted at the thought.

“Still doing girl push-ups, are we?” came the unimpressed observation from across the room.

“Well, I’m still a girl,” was as much of a retort as I dared.

“Ha! Never heard that one before.”

I finished the crunches, got up, shrugged out my shoulders, and waited warily for the “good stuff.”

Mr. Temple pulled out a pistol and aimed it at me.

I jumped a foot in the air. “Holy shit!”

“That’s one response. Can you think of a more effective one? It’s black rubber, by the way.” He showed me that it was only a realistic fake.

I eyed the gun nervously; it sure had looked real to me. “Uh…?”

“Not even close. Listen up. The trick with guns is this: Unless the gunman actually just puts it to your head and pulls the trigger, he’s interested in control, for the time being, at least. Let’s go over some moves that will remove his illusions and restore your sense of control.”

We went over simple moves that would get the gun away from my head from the front, the back, and the side. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t forget, once you get the gun away from the bastard, use it on him. Shoot him, hit him with it, mark him up, so he
never
forgets you. And then when the cops arrive, you bat your pretty eyes and say, ‘Officer, I was in fear for my life.’ That’ll do you.”

I nodded, sweat burning my eyes.

“Right, enough gun. Now, knife!” He laughed hugely, like a demented Cossack, and I felt my shoulders slump.

T
WO DAYS LATER,
I
LIMPED DOWNSTAIRS AFTER
my morning shower, and collapsed in a chair in my mother-in-law’s empty kitchen. “Mr. Temple, you giant bastard. I’d hate to see what would have happened if you didn’t like me.”

I got up, and tried stretching out my legs, bracing against the tabletop, but it didn’t help. I sat down again and tried to massage the pain away, but it was no good; it was always worse the second day. “Were you trying to kill me, Derek?”

“Ah, that’s something a guy can’t get too much of,” Brian announced as he came into the kitchen. “His wife, rubbing her thighs, moaning another man’s name.”

I looked up at him. “He was a maniac, I don’t know what he was teaching. It was like Krav on steroids. Do me a favor. Shoot me.”

“How about a cup of coffee instead?”

“God, I couldn’t even make it over that far.”

“He was that good, huh?” Brian poured two cups.

I looked up, all piteousness. “So good I’m practically broken. So good that if I don’t go back, I’m pretty sure he’ll come looking for me.”

“Got another class, then?”

“Yeah. And I bet you haven’t got the guts to go with me, have you?”

Brian handed me the coffee and cocked his head. “Haven’t we been married long enough for you to learn that reverse psychology doesn’t work with me?”

“I’m not sure. Doesn’t it work on you?”

He laughed. “Okay, when is the next class?”

“This afternoon, after lunch. Late-ish.”

“Can’t.” He didn’t look disappointed, though, which took points away from him, as far as I was concerned. “I’m helping Dad with a job.”

“I thought he’s retired.”

“Semiretired. He’s finding it hard to let go.”

“Well, what about me?” I pouted. “Don’t you have to help me?”

“I’ll help you at home.” He kissed the top of my head. “Later.”

I found myself actually looking forward to the lesson, and I got in a little early, the smell of the floor mats and a faint whiff of perspiration hit me as I opened the door. I was surprised to see Mr. Temple teaching a children’s karate class. As I sat among the waiting parents and wrapped my hands, I watched Temple—who, even on his knees, still towered over the six-year-olds—demonstrate a punch to a tiny girl. The rest of the class, all kneeling in their miniature
gi
s, watched in a straight line opposite them. Most were attentive; one was picking his nose.

“Once more, Paula,” Temple boomed. “First, give me a good yell!”

“Chi-yai!” Paula squeaked.

“Excellent! Now, do it again, this time with the punch, just like I showed you.”

The little girl squeaked again, then punched Temple in the chest. While her form looked surprisingly good to me, the punch had about as much power as a kitten’s. Temple rolled back as though he’d been bulldozed.

He jumped out of the backward roll and began to clap. “Let’s hear it for Miss Benson! Good job!”

The kids clapped, and Paula bowed to Mr. Temple, who bowed gravely in return. She ran back to the lineup, barely able to contain her excitement. Temple bellowed a command, and the line of kids jumped smartly to their feet and bowed to him. After he bowed again, they ran to their parents, most of whom had been trying to keep straight faces during the lesson.

He saw me sitting there, a big smile on my face. “A moment while I change, Daniel-san.” He straightened the obi of his gi, took two gigantic steps to the edge of the mats, and bowed out.

Children’s hour, however, was over. Class wasn’t so bad, though it was much the same as before, that is to say, demanding and scary. Actually, it was a bit worse, because I thought he was telling me to come for another individual lesson, but he asked me to stand in for the group class, first, then took me for an hour on my own.

There were moments where Mr. Temple thought I was being particularly dense; he called in Mr. Anderson to beat on me, while he shouted helpful comments like “For chrissakes, no! Hit him back! Harder than
that
! Are you going to ask him to prom, or are you going to send him home in a garbage bag? Get around his guard! Give me strength!”

Which is to say, it was all just ghastly.

But I was proud that I got through what seemed like twice the class and sixty times the personal attention, which meant there was no time to catch my breath while someone else got pummeled. Thing was, I knew I’d made some progress, if not in my moves, then at least in my thinking. Temple had been riding me for having no killer instinct, no plan in attacking him. I never did anything he didn’t expect, he complained, and I moved like I was doing Tai Chi, when he was looking for dynamite.

The lecture went on long enough for him to notice his sneakers were untied, and without thinking, as he knelt
down to tie it, I pushed him over. I regretted the action even as I was executing it, and a lot more shortly after: Temple went over, but swept my feet out from under me and was on top of me before I knew what hit me. But he helped me up and praised me to the heavens for getting out of my own head. For taking the cheap—but effective—shot.

I knew I’d be a raggedy heap when I got home, so I just focused on driving straight through the rain. I was going to have to ask for my money back. It wasn’t supposed to rain in southern California, as far as I understood, but it made for an interesting experience. We’d seen tropical downpours in Hawaii, and they were neat; the play of clouds and light over the mountains—
volcanoes
! I had to keep reminding myself then. It’s fascinating, and warm enough to sit on the lanai, drink a beer, and watch the show. Listen to the show, too—palm fronds rattling are very different from summer leaves shaking; they sound like Venetian blinds clattering softly against one another.

This was different. There is very little more pathetic than a palm tree in cool rain on a dreary afternoon, unless it was the local population’s response, which was just as though they’d been promised a lollipop that was taken away. In spite of my own disappointment, I was able to muster up a little self-righteous smugness, hardy New Englander, I. The rain was sending them into a brown study, and wasn’t doing their driving any good. I was sore, but my left index finger that had been broken four years ago, out at Penitence Point, really ached with the coming storm.

I made it home in one piece and if I hadn’t been so aware of the water usage situation, I would have taken a bath and not gotten out until there was no hot water left. Brian snickered, just out of kicking range, as I dried off but I took my revenge by demanding that he take us all to restorative cocktails and an expensive restaurant Betty had recommended.

Damned if Temple wasn’t at our restaurant as well. I felt a rush of excitement, like when I’d see my kindergarten teacher outside the classroom.

He and Mindy were dressed in civilian clothes and looked quite normal, if you ignored the fact that, like an iceberg, a good ninety percent of Temple was hidden by table, menu, and a ferny looking plant in a container on the floor: He liked having his back to a wall, apparently. And they looked troubled, in the middle of a whispered and unhappy discussion.

Whispering was something of a difficulty for Temple, however: “—yes, things have been difficult since the second mortgage, but no one’s going to take our house, I promise you—”

Mindy shushed him, before she looked up and recognized me. She waved to us, poked Derek in the side again, which jostled him enough to spill his drink.

He was drinking what looked to me suspiciously like a mango daiquiri, with full fruit garnish. His pinky, as thick as a roll of quarters, was decorously stuck out. His civilian garb was equally colorful, a maroon sports jersey with gold corporate badges, and a small horse head logo in the corner. His frown turned, as he looked up, to a slow grin spreading across his face. “Daniel-san!” he boomed.

Mindy elbowed him again.

He lowered the volume a hair. “Er, um, Emma! Do join us!”

Brian looked like he would do it, if only for the entertainment value, and his parents were staring with frank disbelief. I considered it, but it wouldn’t have been fair to my in-laws. And Mindy, while still smiling, was looking too studiously polite. “No, thank you, Mr. Temple—”

“Derek, please!” he said. “No need for formalities here!”

“Thanks, uh, Derek. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your date night. Enjoy your dinner.”

He looked vaguely disappointed, but Mindy relaxed, and I knew I’d made the right choice.

We continued on our way to our table, in the next section of the dining room.

“Holy cow, did you see the size of him?” Brian asked in wonder. “I mean, there was just…acres of him!”

I gave Brian a look. “Did you think I was exaggerating?”

“Well,
yeah.
I mean, no one’s as huge as you were saying.”

“Except Derek.”

“Yeah, except him. Jeez, the size of him!”

Something about having seen Derek gave us something else to concentrate on. There had been a detectable pall created by my fears about the flowers and Tony Markham—
and
Brian’s steadfast refusal to believe the package had anything to do with him. The pall was lifting, especially when our wine came.

“I told you the one about the first time he was brought home by the police?” Stan’s glasses were sitting on his forehead, and his cheeks were flushed with a half glass of Chardonnay.

Stan was presenting his traditional gift to me, on this last night of our visit: another story about Brian’s childhood. Even after close to ten years, he still seemed to have an untapped supply.

“Was that the time the homecoming prank with the goat went horribly awry?” I said.

Betty shook her head. “No, the very first time was when he was twelve and decided that he could drive and took the station wagon full of kids down to the beach.”

“Right, I forgot: because he was tired of lugging his surf-board down the street. Yep, I’ve got both of those, now that you mention it.”

Brian looked at his mother and me, thought about protesting, and then gave up, hiding himself behind his menu.

Betty put her hand on mine. “What about the botanical project that I found growing in a sunny corner of the garden when he was seventeen? The one he tried to tell me was bamboo?”

“Ah, clever, trying to fool a gardener. At least he didn’t try to tell you it was a tomato plant. Yep, I heard that one, too.”

“What about the fire that wrecked most of one side of the garage? About age fourteen?” Stan put down the menu, getting to serious work again.

I cocked my head. “Ah, I’ve heard Brian’s version of that, but I would give quite a lot for a corroborative version.”

“Well, if you slide the wine bottle over this way…”

Brian, not yet resigned to his fate, tried to distract us by signaling the waitress so we could place our orders. We did, but Stan, who had just poured an inch of wine into his glass, started up again.

“It was Saturday morning and I smelled something funny coming out of the garage. Well, that was nothing unusual, because every Saturday morning something smelled bad in the garage. That was the deal: Brian got to use his chemistry stuff—I think he had about six sets put together over the years—in the garage, when we were home, so we could deal with whatever emergency might occur. Nothing too bad had happened in the past, so it was a good arrangement, and I wasn’t too worried at first. But then I noticed that the smell was getting worse and there was a…how can I say it?”

“A lot of furtive scurrying around,” Betty supplied. “With too much quiet and not enough eye contact.”

“That’ll do. There was scurrying and there was furtiveness, and suddenly I saw flames. The garage is under the house, so I draw the line at flames. We called the fire department, and I got the fire extinguisher out and got to work. Asked the boy whether there was anything explosive, anything that wouldn’t do well with the fire extinguisher. I knew the drill. And he was sweating bullets, which was strange because this wasn’t the first fire—hence the rules about when and where Dr. Frankenstein over there could play with his stuff.”

Brian was resigned now, chewing his bottom lip, letting his dad tell his version of the story.

“So I was kinda curious, and the fire department showed up, and said, Hey Stan, what’s Einstein getting into now, and
the usual. And we got the fire out pretty quick, and it was a real mess—god-awful sooty smoke everywhere, but not too bad in the house because we put the fan in; boys will be boys, so you do the best you can, right? And they did a little poking around, which got Bri even more furtive and agitated, even though the worst of it was over and he knew I wasn’t going to do anything more than yell at him for being a dope and make him help me do the repairs on the garage. Standard operating procedure, the boy knew that. So when he was getting more nervous about the firemen rummaging through the stuff, I was curious. Well, first thing we find is that there’ve been some
upgrades
to the chemistry set. A couple sets more have been added, without approval from the head office. Okay, nothing too bad, nothing dangerous. Then they get to a small metal cabinet and they find that there are some real chemicals, you know, those brown plastic bottles with the official warning labels and all that good stuff? That was a whole ’nother kettle of fish, things liberated from school science closet, apparently. But still, even the lieutenant said that the cabinet was only charred on the outside, and everything was actually stored pretty safe, not that anyone’s going to get away without a trip to the principal’s office and pay for what he used, etcetera. And still, once we found those, Brian was still doing the weasel dance, hopping from one foot to the other, like he’s got to pee or something.”

Stan took a sip of water, his chest heaving with silent laughter. Brian rolled his eyes and Betty looked disapproving.

“That’s when I look over and there’s this pair of boobs, stuck to the wall, blinking back at me.”

This was the part I hadn’t heard before. I looked at Brian, who just shrugged. He was grinning now, blushing a little, which was cute and sexy.