Strangled Prose (4 page)

“You may speak to me for a moment,” I conceded wearily. “But why don't you come to my apartment for a cup of coffee? I live in the upper half of the corner house. I'm also tired and hungry.”

“I couldn't!” she said in a shrill squeak. She began to edge back toward the shadows, her hands flapping like misshapen white moths.

“It's not the Hilton, but it's not haunted, either. If you have acrophobia, I'll close the curtains and you can stand in the middle of the room.” I tried not to sound as impatient as I felt, but I didn't have a great deal of success.

“I've been in your house, Mrs. Malloy. Well, I've been in Maggie's apartment. If she saw me going upstairs, she'd be furious. Please, can't we talk here? It's terribly important.”

“We can talk for approximately sixty seconds.” My mother trained me to be accommodating, as long as it didn't hurt my reputation or cost any money.

“My name is Sheila Belinski,” she said in a soft, urgent voice. “I'm a grad assistant in the fine arts department, and I'm also a member of the FWO. I thought you ought to know that we're planning to disrupt the reception at the Book Depot this Sunday.”

“Thank you, Sheila, but it's not a secret. Maggie has kept me informed of all the details, including the ugly chants, ugly signs, and ugly demeanor of the demonstrators. I do appreciate your concern. If that's all…?” I began to inch around her.

She grabbed my arm, terribly earnest. “But I'm afraid Maggie may become violent, Mrs. Malloy. I don't want anyone to get hurt, simply to make a political statement about sexism in literature.”

“Violent?” I laughed merrily as I disengaged my arm. “No one could possibly get violent over an Azalea Twilight book. Outraged, possibly; offended, probably. Violent, never.”

“You don't know Maggie.”

“I do know Maggie, Sheila. Despite all her political fervor, she is quite devoted to her position on the Farber faculty. Douglas Twiller is destined to become the head of the English department, probably by the end of the spring semester. Maggie is an instructor, which means she has no tenure, and she is intelligent enough not to throw tomatoes at his wife.”

“Tomatoes?” The woman snorted disdainfully, as if I'd described a sandbox squabble among the nursery school set—who cannot afford fresh produce, realistically speaking. “Maggie is very upset about this book. She won't throw tomatoes.”

“She can throw railroad ties, for all I care. Thanks for trying to warn me, Sheila. At the moment, my biggest worry is that I'll collapse on the sidewalk in front of the Kappa Omega house and be swarmed by hysterical coeds bearing herb tea. Good night,” I added optimistically as I started walking.

“I warned you.” A cold, cold voice.

“Indeed you did,” I said over my shoulder. I did pause in front of Maggie's door on the off chance I might hear the clank of howitzers or the clink of Molotov cocktails. I heard nothing, and since the lights were off, it did not strike me as unreasonable. I continued upstairs, smiling to myself.

Caron and Inez were slumped on the sofa, surrounded by a lumpy terrain of paperback books. All the covers had dewy-eyed women gazing lustily into stony-eyed men's faces; both of the characters seemed unaware that most of their clothing had been ripped away by an unseen hand. Or didn't care.

Inez gave me a wan nod, then waved a book under Caron's kinetic nostrils. “In
Ripples of Rainbow Rapture,
the heroine hides in the basement for eleven months with the hero but refuses to permit more than a mild erotic stimulation. She won't make love to him until he finds a priest to marry them. There's no way she could have known that the priest was really a house painter, so it's not her fault.”

Caron thumbed madly through a dog-eared book. With a gurgle of satisfaction, she found the desired passage. “Well, in
Tempestuous, Tortured Autumn,
she sleeps with the guy to protect her dead uncle's reputation, Inez. She's willing to make the sacrifice so that no one will find out he's in the Greek underground. That is the point, isn't it? Listen to this. ‘Angelica slowly unbuttoned her beige satin blouse as—'”

I shut the door loudly. “It is time for dinner and homework, girls. Inez's parents are undoubtedly frantic to have her join them at the family dinner table for genteel conversation. You, Caron, may begin your homework while I heat something.”

“Mother.” Caron's eyebrows formed a single line. Her lower lip could have served as a bookshelf, and her chin a hook for a litter bag. She was not reiterating the obvious familial relationship.

I held up my hand to staunch the flood of indignation. “Good night, Inez. Please allow a few minutes before you telephone. I'd appreciate a brief period of tranquillity.”

Inez cowered away. Caron arose with dignity and stalked off to her room, muttering her intention to write a letter to
Family Circle
about my lack of basic parental skills.

“Why don't you read something civilized, like
Moby Dick?
” I called through the door.

Caron opened the door and stuck her head out. “I did, years ago. There's a reason why the book wasn't written about a minnow, Mother. After all, the whale wasn't named Moby George. It's a phallic symbol—a variation on the same old thing, just disguised with a lot of boring stuff about old ships.”

“What do you know about phallic symbols?”

Caron gave me a lofty smile. “I read Freud when I was ten.”

“And where did you get the book?”

“From you, Mother.”

I went into the kitchen to read the fine print on the back of the Lean Cuisine box, praying that there would be no symbolism hidden among the nutritional percentages.

THREE

The date of the reception crept relentlessly closer, until it could no longer be assigned to the vague realm of
sometime
or even
next week.
I resigned myself to the inevitability of the event, and even undertook the distasteful chore of negotiating with the caterer. After a lengthy discussion about personal goals, Mr. Pierre and I arrived at a tentative peace.

By Sunday afternoon, several tables covered with hot and cold canapés were squeezed among the book racks. A champagne fountain gurgled from the counter where the cash register normally sat. The dreaded steam table was not to be seen.

Mildred Twiller, a.k.a. Azalea, had arrived several hours earlier to supervise the arrangements with the ubiquitous Mr. Pierre. She was wearing a silky party dress that included all the hues of the rainbow and innumerable gradations. Silk scarves swung from her neck, flowed over her shoulders, and cascaded down her matronly bosom. A harem girl who had splurged her allowance could not have achieved a more colorful effect.

Douglas was there to murmur encouragement and to open the formidable cartons under the table so that Mildred could arrange her offspring to their most salable advantage. He was quite the perfect husband, always at her elbow to nod approvingly or to remove scarf tails from her champagne glass. He looked splendid in a tweedy jacket and turtleneck sweater, the perfect image of a literary adjunct.

While Mr. Pierre and Mildred argued about procedural intricacies, Douglas and I slipped outside. The Book Depot is fronted by a portico, where passengers could unload their carriages and await the arrival of the train without getting their plumage or top hats wet. On rainy days, the pedestrians find similar use for it.

“So,” Douglas murmured, his hand on my waist, “Mildred told me that you two had lunch the other day.”

I nodded. “Yes, shrimp salad and white wine.” That wasn't the answer to his unspoken question, but I had no idea what I was—or wasn't—supposed to know. I slipped away from his touch to watch the traffic congeal at the corner stoplight.

“Your friendship means so much to her, Claire. She thinks you are the model of a perfect woman: strong, self-sufficient, resilient. I must agree with her. After Carlton's untimely demise, you were quite a pillar of strength during the ordeal.”

“I had no choice. Caron was old enough to understand what had happened, and I couldn't allow her to see me disintegrate. That's not to say I didn't have a few moments of self-pity during the first few nights.”

“It's been eight years, hasn't it?” Douglas edged toward me, unobtrusively stalking. “I hope you're not still alone in your bed feeling sorry for yourself. It could prove tragic to your physical and mental health, my dear. I would be more than willing to be your foot warmer … and lay therapist. It might do you a world of good.”

He did this about four times a year, on the average. We both knew the routine, and neither of us took it to heart. I shook my head and gave him a demure smile. “When I am alone in my bed, it is by choice, Douglas. At other times, I am discreet. A virtue you might consider taking up, if I may be blunt.”

Douglas laughed in a deep ripple. “Are you referring to that sweet little secretary in the English office? The poor girl was in need of a little extra help with her course work; she simply could not grasp the concept of iambic pentameter. I tutored her whenever I could find a moment of free time.”

“How kind of you.” I tried for a disinterested expression, edged with disbelief and scorn. A complicated maneuver, that. “The campus is perpetually amazed by your willingness to tutor the undergraduate women, Douglas. It's none of my business; I do worry about your wife, though.”

He waggled a finger at me. “It is indeed none of your business, dear Claire. Mildred is very understanding about my concern for my students. Anyway, the girl in question has transferred to another department and I, too, am worried about Mildred. Did she tell you that she is serious about retiring from the romance field?”

“At lunch,” I said. “She seemed as if she had already made the decision and said that you were tremendously supportive. I was rather stunned; I assumed that Azalea was in her bloodstream.”

Douglas's boyish face sagged, exposing wrinkles I had never seen before. “Mildred is extremely upset about the current trend in romance literature. Her editors are demanding what amounts to softcore pornography, with lurid detail and extensive foreplay. Mildred feels uncomfortable with such prose. She is embarrassed when she must discuss such things in public or in front of a television camera. The publicity tours drain her. Although I should be saddened by her retirement, I can only sympathize.”

“Then you don't mind losing those juicy advances and royalties?” I asked, trying not to sound suspicious.

“Mildred comes first,” he said with a sigh. “I couldn't press her to do something unpleasant; she's too vulnerable.” His eyes drifted to a distant focal point. “I suppose that's why I married her. Thirty years ago when I first saw her, she was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, stranded by her innate indecision. I've been her buoy ever since, her life jacket in the cold ocean of life.”

“The Azalean role has helped her, hasn't it? In the last few years she's finally learned to tread water,” I commented. If he preferred aquatic analogies, I was willing to play.

Douglas glanced at me. “Whatever she decides about retirement will be of her own choice. The money is less important than my wife's health and inner well-being. I'll support her.”

“I know you will,” I said quietly, impressed by the sincerity in his voice. Despite Douglas's propensity for midnight tutorials, he is basically a nice man who is willing to go along with anyone's suggestion—if it's not distasteful. Those sweet young things in his covert escapades are by no means befuddled virgins seduced by a charming, sophisticated professor. They have at least one eye on the grade book and the other might stray to the checkbook.

I don't know why I was delving into all this, since, as Douglas had agreed so readily, it was none of my business. I lectured myself on the indulgence while I searched for an innocuous topic.

“Are you looking forward to the chairmanship of the department?” I asked idly.

Douglas's mouth tightened. “It hasn't been decided yet. There are other candidates for the position.”

“Sorry. I thought it was … well, assured.”

“Ask your dear friend Britton Blake if he feels it is assured. He may tend to offer other scenarios, such as his own name on the ballot alongside my own. The idea is preposterous, but it seems to be out of my hands—for the moment.”

“Britton is in contention? He hasn't said a thing about the possibility, but I suppose that doesn't mean anything.” I was not doing well on my selection of innocuous topics. Despite my aversion to champagne, I moved toward the door. “Perhaps we ought to join Mildred?”

“How thoughtful of you, my dear.” Douglas caught my elbow and pulled me into the store. “Look, Mildred, I've snagged a customer who's desperate to own the first autographed copy of
Professor of Passion.
”

I would have described it differently; the word
desperate
would not have been included. I nodded obediently. “Oh, yes. The very first copy.”

Giggling, Mildred scribbled her pen name in purple ink across the title page and pushed the book across the table. “How absolutely darling of you, Claire! Cash, check, or major credit card?”

“Cash.” I dug out four dollars from my purse, then took a handful of change and the book. I retreated to the bar in front of the paperback mysteries. Once I had a scotch to steady me, I retreated even further and glanced at the cover of my latest purchase.

The Professor of Passion had black hair, gray eyes, and a dimple in his chin. From the arrogant curl of his mouth, I could see he had the hots for the blond temptress in his arms. She had rosy cheeks and sultry hazel eyes. She did not have a blouse, unless one counted the wisp of lace covering her nipples in a slipshod fashion.