The Accidental Keyhand (2 page)

Her father's voice interrupted the terrible thought. “Dorrie,” he called in a singsong voice.

She tossed the book aside and stood, full of hot confusion. Modern villains probably wouldn't make themselves helpfully obvious with swirling black cloaks, scars in all the right places, or fiendish laughs, either.

“Please find
The
Three
Musketeers
, will you? ” asked her father, sifting through a fresh pile of violently yellow envelopes, every square inch of them stamped “Urgent” and “Overdue” in blood-red ink.” Before Mr. Scuggans buzzes the house in a helicopter.”

“I've been looking!” said Dorrie, tossing
The Princess Bride
aside, and getting to her feet. And she had. For the last three weeks, Dorrie had suffered for the missing book, not daring to set foot in the Passaic Public Library. Whenever Mr. Scuggans caught sight of a delinquent borrower, he liked to publicly announce the size of any fines owed with a bullhorn. Amanda and Mr. Kornberger always took care to lower their voices when delivering any bad news about fines or the blocking of borrowing privileges. It was rumored that Mr. Scuggans wore a toupee.

Dorrie's mother's phone rang. “Well, praise Neptune, it still works,” her mother said, looking pleased as she threw a handful of spoons on the table and placed the phone gingerly alongside her ear, if not exactly touching it. “Hello?” Dorrie's mother listened for a moment and then fixed Dorrie with an exasperated grimace. “Oh hello, Mr. Scuggans.”

“I don't think she's so pro-Neptune anymore,” said Marcus, jamming his hand into a box of cereal.

“Yes, she…yes, I…yes, she's…uh…actively looking for it.” Dorrie's mother flailed one arm at Dorrie as though she were a chicken who needed shooing.

For the third time that week, Dorrie hurriedly lifted the sofa cushions.
The
Three
Musketeers
wasn't there. But her missing purple boot was. She held it up to her mother triumphantly. Her mother did not look impressed.

“Yes, we have the title,” Dorrie's mother continued into the phone, as Dorrie hopped on one foot, tugging on the boot. “Hmm? No, I don't think I need the bar code numbers. Well, of course I'm taking this seriously.” The doorbell clanged again in the front hall. Dorrie's mother put her hand over the phone. “Go get it,” she hissed.

Dorrie jabbed her finger at the clock. Her mother jabbed her finger toward Great-Aunt Alice's territory. After giving her mother what she hoped was a suitably put-upon look, Dorrie stomped through the separating doors, Miranda skipping along behind her.

In the black-and-white marble-tiled front hall, Dorrie heaved open the door. Her eyes traveled upward. An immense man in a dark overcoat, crisp white shirt, and shining tasseled loafers stood on the doorstep. His silvery hair seemed to absorb the sunlight. At the curb behind him idled a long, black car with tinted windows.

Dorrie blinked at the man, struck by the thought that the red bow-tie he wore did not look the least bit merry on him.

“We don't want any!” said Miranda, pushing her head out from beneath Dorrie's arm.

“Charming,” the man said in a velvety voice, as though the word didn't taste very good. At his side, the fingers of one gloved hand began to move up and down like piano hammers as he rolled two walnuts around and around each other in his palm.

Dorrie's face reddened. Now, strangers ringing Great-Aunt Alice's doorbell were hardly unusual. Great-Aunt Alice was an anthropologist who wrote long books filled with very small type about humans and the things they believed in. For as long as the Barneses had lived with Great-Aunt Alice, a steady stream of peculiar guests had come to be interviewed by her.

Dorrie felt these visitors came in two varieties: ones who would rather give up a kidney than talk to Dorrie, and those who, if allowed, would ensnare Dorrie in long, bewildering conversations about the mystical symbols buried in dollar bills or their identities as kings or queens of lost civilizations. The men tended to sport long walrus-y moustaches, and the women, fringed shawls and carpetbags. This man had none of these things. A hair-raising sort of wet growling was coming from inside his car.

Dorrie thought back to the conversation she'd overheard. The morning was getting stranger by the minute.

Miranda made her own gurgling, growling sound and, with bear claw arms, began to run in tight circles around the stranger.

The stranger stared straight ahead, his gaze not so much resting on Dorrie as burning through her. In his hand, one of the walnuts cracked smartly, and bits of nuts and shells fell in a thin, dusty shower onto the doorstep.

“Sorry about her,” Dorrie said, hastily grabbing the back of Miranda's shirt as she passed and hauling her back inside. “Can I help you?”

“I'm Aldous Biggs. I've come to see Alice Laszlo. Is she in?”

“I'm Alice Laszlo,” said Great-Aunt Alice from her sitting-room doorway, where she leaned on her cane. Dorrie found it hard to meet her eyes. “How can I help you, Mr. Biggs?”

“I've come in response to your advertisement. About the book.”

“Ah,” said Great-Aunt Alice. “I haven't run one in some time.”

“Just the same.”

Great-Aunt Alice studied Mr. Biggs. “Please come in.” She opened her sitting-room door wide for him. Relieved to escape Great-Aunt Alice's gaze, Dorrie began to drag her sister back across the hall. Once firmly back in Barnes territory, Dorrie pretended not to notice when Miranda stepped with a splash into her imaginary dog's bowl full of very real water.

Dorrie's mother dropped her phone on the counter, looking exhausted. “Dorrie, you've
got
to find that book.”

“I will,” Glancing at the clock again, Dorrie slid into her seat, seized her spoon and began to shove oatmeal into her mouth double-time.

“I already did,” said Miranda primly, as her mother lifted her out of the bowl of water and set her on a stool next to Dorrie.

Dorrie and Marcus and their mother and father all stopped what they were doing and stared at Miranda.

Miranda dug her spoon into the sugar bowl. “I put it in her bag.”

“Oh, praise Nataero!” said her mother, grabbing the spoon back before Miranda could close her lips around it.

“Thank you?” said Dorrie, looking suspiciously at Miranda and not at all sure the Roman god of lost things deserved much praise in this case.

“New burning question,” said her father loudly, as he passed around a bowl of hard-boiled eggs. “Who was fooling around with my helium tank?”

“Could have been me,” said Marcus, his voice unnaturally high.

“Well, don't do it again. You left the valve open,” said her dad. “You could knock someone out leaving that on.”

“So are you ready for today's performance?” said Dorrie's mother, peeling an egg for Miranda. “Marcus says yesterday's rehearsal went pretty well.”

Marcus began to gesture furiously, his mouthful of oatmeal traveling from cheek to cheek. He finally choked it down. “I believe my exact words were, ‘It wasn't an unmitigated disaster.'”

“I wish I could watch the performance,” said Dorrie's father, “but—”

“The helium-suit field-test,” everyone else at the table intoned together.

“Assuming I can find the duct tape,” said Dorrie's father, wiping his mouth and getting up. He grabbed his goggles, distributed kisses, and disappeared through the back door.

“I wish I could see the show, but I won't be back from the conference until late tonight,” said Dorrie's mother, fishing Miranda's ribbon of treasures out of her oatmeal. Dorrie's mother taught Latin and Italian at Passaic Community College. Her classes were never full. “Miranda will be at the babysitter's, and you two are on your own for dinner.”

Dorrie threw her bowl and spoon in the dishwasher with extra force. As she slung her duffel bag over one shoulder, she turned to see Marcus making a sandwich at the counter. “We just ate!”

“Be riiiiiight with you,” said Marcus, busy interspersing slices of meat and cheese to create a teetering tower of sustenance.

Dorrie's mother pointed to Dorrie's glass of orange juice which still sat on the table. “Finish that before you go.”

“I don't have time,” said Dorrie, picking up her sword.

Miranda held the glass out to Dorrie, her small face looking its most angelic. “It's good for you,” she said. “It's got medicines.”

“Okay, okay!” said Dorrie, grabbing the juice and downing it in one long gulp. Miranda beamed at her. Dorrie lowered her glass. “Why is she looking at me like that?”

Marcus slapped a piece of bread atop a massive avalanche of mayonnaise and looked up. “I think she just poured water from the imaginary dog's bowl into your juice.”

Dorrie spat into her glass and looked at Miranda. Her little sister clutched a squat, silver bottle in her fist, its stopper dangling from a short, thin chain. “Miranda!”

“Go,” said her mother, pushing Dorrie toward the door. “Marcus will catch up.” She tucked a hank of hair behind Dorrie's ear, dug some money out of her pocket and handed it to Dorrie. “Go get 'em, tiger. Come tomorrow, things will be back to normal around here.”

Just then, Miranda, who had picked up an abandoned hard-boiled egg, shot the yolk into the pot of oatmeal, sending a warm spatter flying over the table. “Normal!” she squawked happily.

A FRIENDLY WAGER

At the park across the street from the library, colorful pennants flew from a scattering of tents. Above the park's entrance fluttered the familiar “Pen and Sword Festival” banner. Dorrie hurried in. A crowd had already gathered around a blacksmith's fire for a demonstration of sword forging. Nearby, a woman in checkered breeches and a rough jerkin lifted and lowered the top of an old-fashioned printing press. Fire-eaters wandered through the crowd, unnerving small children.

Mr. Kornberger's Academy students would be gathering on the other side of the park behind the big “Ye Olde Village Inne” tent. Dorrie took the path that curved around the circle of straw bales where, later in the afternoon, packs of adults dressed in medieval clothing would wield heavy Styrofoam-covered swords against each other in the barely controlled chaos known as the Melee. She couldn't wait to watch. In front of the meat-pie tent, Dorrie came to a sudden halt.

Nearby, a flock of photographers clicked and flashed as the Mayor of Passaic shook hands with a group of festival visitors gathered in a little clump around him. Every time he wrung another hand, his doughy jowls shook slightly. Dorrie felt her mouth go dry. Not because she had any particular fear of shaking jowls, but because slightly behind the Mayor, looking as mean-eyed and black-hearted as ever, stood his daughter Tiffany Tolliver, her blond ponytail rooted darkly to her scalp. The Mayor smiled a big, hammy smile for the photographers and put an arm around Tiffany, which made her face go from sullen to mutinous.

For a short time, Tiffany had been part of the Passaic Academy of Swordplay and Stage Combat, long enough to demonstrate to Dorrie and the other students that the slightly older girl either didn't understand or didn't care that they weren't actually supposed to hurt each other during staged sword fights. Dorrie rubbed her arm, remembering when Tiffany had nearly broken it.

Now, Dorrie noticed, Tiffany wore a yellow T-shirt that read “The White Hand Fencing Club.” She also had a long bag slung over her shoulder. For the sport fencing tournament, no doubt. This year, in what the Academy students viewed as the most total of noncoincidences, the Mayor had insisted that Mr. Kornberger invite modern sport-fencing teams, with their sleek new-fangled electrified outfits, to participate in the Pen and Sword Festival.

As Tiffany looked her way, Dorrie ducked her head and hurried off through the crowd. Before she'd gotten halfway to Ye Olde Village Inne, a gravelly voice called to her. Dorrie looked up to see a stooped man as white-haired as Great-Aunt Alice heading her way.

“Elder!” She threw her arms around his waist and squeezed him hard.

“Strong as a plains-hardened Mongol,” he said, giving her back a pat.

Elder had started out as one of Great-Aunt Alice's visitors months ago. Unlike her other guests, he'd stayed on in Passaic, moving into a tiny room at the Rutland Arms Hotel. Mr. Scuggans had reluctantly hired the elderly Elder to shelve books at the library. That was after the fourth person to hold the job under Mr. Scuggans was discovered having a nervous breakdown in the self-help section. So far, Elder seemed to have suffered no ill effects from having Mr. Scuggans for a boss.

Sometimes Elder ate meals with the Barnes family and Great-Aunt Alice, or sat by the fire with them to tell stories about his lifetime of travels. Elder was one of those grown-ups who never made Dorrie feel ignored or trapped.

“You looking forward to your performance?” asked Elder as a round of clapping broke out, making Dorrie and Elder look back at where the Mayor had just finished saying something. Tiffany was slipping away toward a boy and girl who stood nearby wearing the same T-shirts.

Dorrie bounced the tip of her sword against her shoe. “I guess.”

Elder leaned back and cocked his head to one side as if to get a better look at her. “You told me once that the Academy was the best part of your life.”

“It was,” said Dorrie. “I mean, it is. It's just… I thought…” She gave Elder a sidelong look. “I've been planning to use what I've been learning. You know, to…sort of stop people from doing bad stuff.” She checked to make sure he wasn't laughing. He wasn't. Watching her steadily, he was listening in the way Dorrie appreciated, with his whole self it seemed. A powerful wave of horrified disappointment washed through her. “But what use is a sword going to be against guns and stuff?”

“Not so much, these days, I suppose,” said Elder.

“So all my practicing has been a waste of time! She kicked mightily at pebble and missed.

Elder rolled the pebble up onto the toe of his shoe and jerked his foot so that it flew upward. He snatched it out of the air. “Nothing you choose to practice long and hard is ever a waste of time.”

Dorrie stared at the pebble in Elder's hand and sighed. She supposed she might still be able to use a sword to stop a very minor villain like the man she'd once seen throw a rock at a stray dog.

Elder lifted the lime-green golf hat that perched on his thin carpet of hair and settled it down again more snugly. “I, for one, am looking forward to your performance.”

“The performance!” cried Dorrie. “I'd better go!”

“How about I try to get your Aunt Alice to come see it?”

“She can't,” said Dorrie, hitching her bag more securely on her shoulders. “She's entertaining.”

“Mustache or carpetbag?”

“Neither. Some fancy-looking man. He said he wanted to see her about an advertisement.”

Elder stiffened. “I think I will stop in on her.”

“But what about the performance?”

Dorrie's disappointment must have shown on her face because Elder gave her a quick smile and chucked her under the chin. “I won't be long.” He walked off as quickly as his rickety body would allow. Dorrie ran.

Marcus caught up with her not far from Ye Olde Village Inne. Cardboard painted to look like timbers and plaster rose up on either side of the tent's entrance. A sandwich board set outside read: “The Memorable Defense of Ye Olde Village Inne, 11 a.m.” Her brother still wore his pajamas, but he had tied a scarf around his head. He held a meat pie in each hand.

“Are you trying to embarrass Mr. Kornberger?” Dorrie asked.

Marcus shoved almost one whole meat pie into his mouth. “Mr. Kornberger spends half his life at Renaissance fairs, and the other half dressed as though he's on his way to one.”

“So what?” said Dorrie hotly, as they hurried along.

“So nothing. I like him. I'm just saying he's a hard man to embarrass.”

Dorrie had to admit, not out loud of course, that Marcus had a point. Someone tugged on the end of one of her sleeves. She glanced away from Marcus to find Rosa, the youngest of Mr. Kornberger's students, gazing up at her admiringly with her one eye not covered by a pirate's eye patch.

Rosa couldn't speak at the moment because she was busy sucking like mad on the business end of an inhaler. Her other hand was wrapped around the handle of a flimsy-looking fold-up luggage cart that held a wire cage. In it sat her constant, beloved companion, a cantankerous mongoose that had been abandoned at the animal shelter where Rosa's grandmother volunteered. Dorrie stopped walking while Marcus, having seen a friend, jogged on.

She squatted beside the cage. “Hey, you little monster.” Moe's brown eyes gleamed. He bared his teeth in his usual way and made a little chittering sound.

Rosa released her breath. “I had to bring him. Granny's trying to vacuum today, and he always tries to fight the hose. He thinks it's a snake.”

Moe's nose twitched with bad temper.

Rosa tucked away her inhaler. “He'll be good. No one will even know he's here.”

Dorrie raised a doubtful eyebrow at Rosa. “Come on,” she said, standing up.

They edged into the circle of students clustered around Mr. Kornberger in time to see Marcus happily smack his friend Justin on the head, and Justin punch Marcus hard in the arm. They both looked satisfied.

Mr. Kornberger wore a tricornered hat, a billowy white shirt, and knee-high black boots over red-and-black striped pants. Like Miranda, things dangled from him: an economy-sized pewter mug, a leather canteen emblazoned with a grinning skull, about five pounds, worth of treasure chest keys, and a sword so long it dragged on the ground. A thick, messy line of black encircled each of his eyes, making him look, despite the truly hideous earrings dangling from his earlobes, more like a linebacker than a pirate.

“Ah, good, you're here” said Mr. Kornberger, catching sight of Dorrie and Rosa. “Erica Burnbridge won't be. She's come down with dropsy. Well, not really. She has a cold, but dropsy sounds so much more historically fitting. I was afraid we'd lost you too.”

He took sudden and committed hold of the hilt of his sword, pulled it out of its scabbard in a flashy, dramatic arc, and held it aloft. “Today,” he bellowed, “some of you will be heroic defenders of a village beset by evil pirates, and some of you will be those vicious reprobates!”

Heads turned in the direction of their huddle.

Mr. Kornberger half lowered the sword and his voice slightly. “I thought a little preperformance dramatic role-play might get us into the right spirit.”

He lifted his sword again and went on with his monologue, but Dorrie had stopped listening. Nearby, Tiffany Tolliver had puffed up her cheeks and stood holding a long, skinny sword aloft in a near-perfect imitation of Mr. Kornberger. Dorrie stared, unable to look away. Tiffany's friends doubled over with nasty laughter. Dorrie swallowed hard and forced herself to focus on Mr. Kornberger.

“So places in five for ‘The Memorable Defense of Ye Olde Village Inne,'” said Mr. Kornberger, bringing down his sword in a sweeping cut.

Her heart pounding with indignant anger on Mr. Kornberger's behalf, Dorrie ran to take her opening position. A large crowd had gathered for the performance. The first scene went well, despite Rosa's sword breaking in half and Justin's breeches falling down, and ended in a smattering of applause. Now Dorrie, Lavinia, and Rosa stood offstage breathing hard and watching Scene Two unfold. Dorrie watched Justin and Marcus circle each other warily, their blades up.

“When we first met,” shouted Marcus, taking an enormous leap forward, “I was the pupil. Now I am the master!”

Lavinia's eyes narrowed angrily in her wide pink face. “That's not what he's supposed to say!”

“It's a line from
Star
Wars
,” sighed Dorrie, glancing guiltily at Mr. Kornberger as he flipped through the script looking confused. “Marcus likes to slip them in whenever possible.”

Onstage, Justin's blade knocked dully against Marcus's. Dorrie watched Justin stagger and fall to the ground, his cloak billowing nicely. That was Dorrie's cue. She flew toward Marcus, yelling “Unhand him, varlet!” at the top of her lungs. She took on one, two, and three of the villainous pirates single-handedly.

The whooping and hollering in the crowd seemed to grow to a feverish pitch. It made Dorrie's heart swell and sent fresh energy to her sword-wielding arm. She reached farther, slashed harder, jumped higher. And then in a sickening moment, she realized that in the middle of the sea of sound was laughter. Not appreciative laughter, but the stinging, ridiculing sort. On cue, the pirates she had vanquished fled around one corner of the tent and Dorrie ran around the other.

There, Dorrie heard the laughter again. Nearby, Tiffany stood bent slightly over while one of her friends wrote something on the back of her T-shirt. Noticing Dorrie staring, Tiffany unbent and began to stagger toward Dorrie with the long sword she'd held up earlier. Her friends followed close behind.

“Oooo, are we pretending?” Tiffany said, eyes wide in an exaggerated expression of goggle-eyed idiotic delight. She stabbed clumsily at a garbage can, which caused her friends to dissolve into another gale of gasping laughter. “Unhand him, varlet!”

Tiffany abruptly ended her imitation and stared at Dorrie with malevolent glee. “You so wanted it to be real out there. I mean, you should have seen your face. Pathetic.”

Dorrie felt a roaring in her ears. She wanted to fly at Tiffany and pummel her with her fists. She wanted to knock her to the ground and shout, “
Take
it
back!
” into her face, to squeeze her around the neck until she
had
to take her words back. Until they disappeared back down her throat like dirty water down a drain. Instead she croaked, “So what?”

“So what?” Tiffany mocked. “You looked like an idiot out there. Totally Kornberger. And as we all know…” She did a little runway model half-spin so that Dorrie could see the back of her T-shirt, while flashing Dorrie a wide artificial smile. Crooked letters spelled out: “Mr. Kornberger is a big, fat fool.” Tiffany fluttered her eyes at Dorrie. “I'm going to wear it in the sport fencing tournament.”