Strangled Prose (2 page)

“
Professor of Passion?
Good God, the woman should be locked in a library for the next decade to discover the essential truth of literature!” Britton's normally blue eyes were now circles of slate. “Have you actually read any of her—and I use the word in the loosest sense—work?”

We went into the office. After I handed him coffee, I sat down behind the desk. “I did read a couple, since Caron has every last one of them. What amazes me is that sweet little Mildred Twiller has such unbelievable fantasies. I don't believe people can actually do some of the contortions she describes in loving detail, much less enjoy it at the same time. She knows more erogenous zones than I do time zones.”

“The underlying question is: Can you by any stretch of the imagination see Mildred and Douglas engaged in her pet erotica? Even in the name of literary research, I fail to find Mildred quite that inspirational.”

“Under Mildred's floppy hat lies one of the most creative brains in the category fiction market. She has told me that when nearing one of her ‘sensual scenes,' she opens a bottle of wine, surrounds her typewriter with candles and roses, and just lets herself flow with the sexual tide. The image boggles the mind.”

Britton gave me an innocent smile. “Why don't we try out some of Mildred's ideas, simply to prove the impossibility of having one's tongue in more than two or three places at the same time? Then, if we arrive at any conclusions, I can publish a scholarly article refuting her more descriptive passages.”

“I can see the article in
Literary Dialogue,
” I said, nodding soberly. “You could title it ‘An Exploration of the Erotic Premise of Anatomically Improbable Coitus in the Later Works of Azalea Twilight.'”

Britton glanced at his watch, then stood up and realigned the creases in his pants. “As distasteful as it seems, my graduate seminar on Elizabethan poetry requires my immediate attention. Shall we begin the research this evening? I'll stock up on aphrodisiacs, in case you find yourself unable to meet the challenge of behaving like Azalea's giddy heroines.”

“Bergman is okay, but don't buy any powdered rhinoceros horns for me. Caron is having Inez over to study, and I dare not leave them alone for more than a few hours.”

“Have they been reading Azalea Twilight's how-to manuals?”

“Manically, night and day. Between the two of them, they have two complete sets. They have memorized some of the more significant passages and sit around the living room quoting to each other. It unsettles me, at the very least.”

Britton made a few more lazy attempts to corner me, then left to take out his frustrations on the hapless graduate students waiting in the English building. I stood in the doorway and watched him walk the few blocks up the hill to the campus. When he was out of sight, I shifted my attention to the Farber students crowding the sidewalk in front of my bookstore.

I reminded myself sternly that more than fifteen years had slithered by since I was an undergraduate. Although at thirty-eight one is supposed to embrace more conservative ideals, I rather wish the current students might show some faint flicker of spirit. It is only an idle dream. We had the Vietnam war to bring us together; they have only the threat of unemployment. The nightmare of not being able to afford designer clothes and designer houses keeps them in line. Farber students protest the dearth of fall interviews with prospective employers. Nuclear bombs and third-world famine leave them cold.

Enough of the soapbox. Of the six thousand students at Farber, maybe one will turn out to be a leader of the underprivileged, a spokesman for equality, a champion of civil rights. After all, they can't all find jobs as advertising executives and philosophy instructors. Farber is a provincial liberal arts college; the recruiters have been known to ignore it during lean years.

I spotted a familiar figure jogging down the hill, holding a steady path in the middle of the sidewalk, despite the crowd. Nary a student would dare impede the progress of Douglas Twiller, M.A., Ph.D., holder of the Thurber Farber Chair of Literature, etc., etc. Not to mention husband of Azalea Twilight, which he actually didn't mention too often. Of course, his wife's books pulled in well over a hundred grand a year, by no means literary peanuts. They paid for the Mercedes, the servants, the mansion to keep the servants busy, and Douglas Twiller's designer jogging shoes. It would be churlish to belittle the typewriter that lays the golden egg.

Douglas swung into the store without losing a beat. Bouncing from foot to foot like a child in need of a potty, he gave me a broad wink. “Hi, Claire.”

I regarded him with the same wariness I do his wife. Douglas is a virile specimen for his fifty-odd years. He has a trim beard, modestly long hair flecked with gray, a hard body, and a boyish grin. Quite a combination for an English professor, as his distaff students are inclined to giggle in the sanctity of the sorority houses. He insists on teaching at least one undergraduate course every semester, claiming that it helps him keep his teaching skills honed. Campus gossip attributes other motives.

“Hello, Douglas. Would you please stop hopping about like that? It ages me to see all that perfectly good energy being wasted.”

“I can think of other ways to expend energy, Claire.”

“I'm sure you can; please do not elaborate on the theme.” I crossed my arms and waited.

His feet came to a reluctant halt. “Did Mildred come by this morning? She was eager to speak to you.”

“Yes, she did. I think it's a truly wretched idea, but she did not agree. The Book Depot does not cater to literary voyeurs, and I have no desire to have my store filled with drooling—”

“Now, now, Claire.” Douglas waggled a manicured finger at me. “Mildred and I consider you one of our dearest friends. Mildred is determined to help you, at whatever cost to her personally. I hope you won't do something that might cause her pain.”

The man had unerring aim. I made a face and said, “I suppose not, Douglas. But this is the only time the Book Depot is going to engage in such a travesty. Make that clear to Mildred.”

“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.