Ashes and Bones

by Dana Cameron

  Temple was off the floor almost as soon as his kick missed, moving in on Anderson. He faked a round kick to the side, then whipped his foot up to the side of Anderson’s head; Anderson blocked it handily, and threw a nice sweep at him. He didn’t quite pull it off; Temple avoided it, then moved forward with it and kicked, landing a hard blow to Anderson’s stomach. Anderson went over backward, and Temple followed him down to the ground.

  They got into some grappling for a few seconds, but it was clear by now that they were just playing around, showing off for the class, and trying to impress the new kid. Finally, Temple got tired of the fooling and laid a nasty-looking armbar on Anderson, who was still fighting him.

  I would have been smothered by being pinned under just one of his legs, but apparently Anderson was made of sterner stuff.

  “Tell me you love me,” Temple bellowed good-naturedly as his second-in-command resisted him.

  “Not on your life, sir,” Anderson gasped. He was still trying to work his way out of the hold, but he didn’t have much in the way of options open to him. He was half giggling with the futility of his task, half on the rack with the pain he was in.

  “Tell me you want to go out with me,” Temple insisted. He arched his back, pulling on the arm just a bit more.

  “Take a flying f—arrghh!” He tapped out and instantly Temple released him. Both men were on their feet before you could say “Boo!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Anderson.” They slapped hands and exchanged bows. “Who can tell me what the lesson is?”

  “Mr. Anderson should have taken you up on the date?” one of the guys said.

  “Cheek and impudence, Watanabe, gets you thirty and thirty.” Temple sounded as cheery as before, but Watanabe dropped immediately and started banging out the crunches. “Anyone else care to try?”

  “Mr. Anderson anticipated trouble, even though he was with friends in a safe place,” one of the women said, after a pause. “He could have been in much worse trouble, but he wasn’t. He made you work for it.”

  “That’s my girl, Mindy, and that’s why you’ve been lucky enough to be my blushing bride, lo, these past six years. And Mr. Anderson knows I could have handed him his ass, but we’re all good friends here, aren’t we? Pay attention, all the time, especially when you feel safe: The best way to deal with trouble is to avoid it.” He glanced over at the floor where Watanabe was now doing the other “thirty,” which were push-ups. “How are you doing, Ed?”

  “Nearly…done…sir,” he got out between painful exhales. Sweat glistened on his face.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh…hell, yes…sir.”

  “Good on ya. The rest of you, I’ll see you next time.”

  They bowed out and everyone came off the floor. A few of the guys stopped to introduce themselves to me, but Temple’s stentorian voice rang out again. “Now, now, ladies, this isn’t a frigging tea party. I’ve got to knock some sense into Daniel-san over there, lucky, lucky girl.”

  Oh my God, I thought. I hadn’t made my reference to The Karate Kid out loud, had I? Or was this giant freak of nature also psychic?

  Mindy, once she’d bowed out from the floor, turned to Temple. “Derek, I’m going to pick up the kids from my mother before I come back here for you. What do you want from the market?”

  “Mindy, my love, bring me several pounds of the finest sea scallops. We shall grill them, serve them over bitter greens with a soy-sesame sauce. After dinner, I shall tuck the young ones into their wee beds, and then proceed to make you glad you were born a woman.”

  “Check. Scallops.” Mindy rolled her eyes so I could see as she turned to leave. “Have fun,” she said to me.

  “Uh, thanks.” I almost wished her luck herself, but hey, it was her life and I was already in deep dookie with her mate.

  I got my second wrap secured around my hand, and turned to face my doom. I stopped to bow before I hit the floor; Nolan never made me do that, but I wasn’t in Kansas any more, and when in Rome…

  Pull yourself together, Em. Focus.

  I reached the center of the floor and did some jumping jacks to warm up quickly, then stretched. When Mr. Temple turned back to me, I bowed to him.

  He bowed back politely. To see the broad expanse of Temple’s back past his shoulders reminded me of a whale Brian and I had seen in Hawaii, its massive body arcing into the water.

  “Where do you need work?” he said.

  “Well, right now I’m training for my green belt.”

  “That’s not what I asked you. Where do you need work?”

  “Uh…”

  Mr. Temple covered the distance between us with two gargantuan steps. Out of habit, Mr. Anderson’s example still fresh in my mind, I stepped back, needing four quick steps to maintain the distance between us.

  “Okay, good. You know not to let me dictate the pace or the space. Now stay put.”

  He moved in, and my nervousness must have shown on my face, because he stopped. “Don’t you trust me?”

  Um, frankly, no. “Nolan must think you’re okay.”

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter. I thought I could hear the windowpanes and mirrors vibrating with the noise. “Good answer. We’ll take it as read that you trust old Nolan. So stay put for a second.”

  He circled around me, and I tensed, waiting for an attack, then relaxed again. He’d wait until I wasn’t ready and then—

  I felt him stop behind me and to the right, then felt a forearm slip past my throat. Before he could get the choke hold on, I slipped down and backed out of his grasp. Stumbling a little, I regained my balance and threw a round kick at his gut. He got out of the way of course, but I kept my momentum going and threw the left leg at him, too.

  “Okay, not bad, not bad. Not good, but not bad, either. Good instincts, even if the moves and commitment aren’t there. You need aggression, girl! Next time, tuck your chin more before you slither out of the hold; you might not escape and you don’t want to let me get my arm under your chin if you can help it. Work on keeping your stance balanced as you move. And don’t ever, ever turn your back on me; I know you had momentum going from your kick, but save that fancy stuff for your Boston sworrays. If you feel like you have enough distance to run, then run, but this close, don’t give me your back. Instead, if you see you’re not going to land it, just put your foot down, square up, move in, and do a side kick.

  I did the move as he described it.

  He frowned. “For chrissakes, chamber that kick! I’ve seen harder sneezes. I want explosive action!”

  “More than twenty-five years in the field, I’ve been moving as slowly and deliberately as I could,” I muttered. “Archaeologists aren’t supposed to explode.”

  “Enough talk.”

  Temple walked around me several more times, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. I fought hard to keep from tensing up while still paying attention to what I could feel and hear around me. Suddenly I felt a blow from behind catch me squarely in the back; there was nowhere for me to go but down. I broke my fall and managed to turn my head so I didn’t mash my nose and face against the mat. I rolled over and went for a kick, but Mr. Temple flicked my foot aside as if he was shooing a mosquito and, with scary speed, shot in on top of me, into the mount.

  The breath left my lungs with a whoosh. Panic set in. I tried to buck my hips to throw him off me, but he was anticipating that. He simply outweighed, out-muscled me.

  As he sat on my chest, he wrapped his hands around my throat—he could have used just one, it seemed—and I tried a pluck to remove them. Again, he out-muscled me. I tried to buck with the pluck again, and it still didn’t work. I simply couldn’t get him off me, couldn’t move his hands off my throat, which now felt like it was being crushed.

  What the hell was this maniac doing? I tapped the mat, signaling that he had me.

  The pressure remained, choking me. “There’s no tapping out on the street!” a voice said, as if from a distance.

&
nbsp; Still I struggled. I couldn’t breathe.

  “Well?” the voice boomed. “What do you do now? If you weren’t in the safest place on earth, you’d be halfway down a darkened alley with me by now.”

  I slapped at the side of his head, shoved his chin away from me. All in vain. I was starting to see spots before my eyes.

  “Do you really think you’re going to do anything by going at the hardest places on my skull? Go for the soft bits: ears, nose, eyes, throat.”

  I grabbed at one of his ears, not sure what to do. I twisted, hard. He cursed—though not because of anything I’d done to him—and leapt up. Suddenly, air rushed into my lungs. I rolled over, coughed, struggled to my knees.

  “Jesus wept! What has that dozey slacker Nolan been doing? If you tried those party tricks on someone who didn’t have your best interest at heart, you’d be in very, very bad shape indeed.”

  He loomed over me, pointing a finger like the sawed-off end of a pool cue. “Yes, you got somewhere by twisting my ear, but only after I gave you a hint. Now I’m going to teach you, so pay attention.”

  “Ears!” he bellowed, suddenly pretending to clap his huge paws over my ears. If he’d actually done it, he might have blown both my eardrums.

  “Nose!” He hunkered down into a low base, and still holding my head, pantomimed slamming my face against the crown of his skull, above the forehead. “No sense in messing up your pretty face; bash the silly bastard’s nose against your skull, and see how he likes that.”

  “Eyes!” Still not letting go of my head, he regained a tall posture and jabbed at my eyes with his thumbs. “Let’s see how sexy he’s feeling with his aqueous humor running down your thumbs.”

  “Throat!” He pulled back his arm and aimed a pretend strike at my throat, which was still sore from his choke hold. “And if the bastard’s still walking and looking for trouble at that point, then I shall be very surprised indeed.”

  He made me practice the moves several times over, faster and faster. The last time, I accidentally—I think—whacked his nose against me a little too hard.

  “Sorry,” I said. “My hands are slip—”

  A titanic roar caused traffic to slow in the street, the drivers expecting an earthquake. “Never, never say ‘sorry’ near me again!” My apology seemed to make Mr. Temple the angriest of anything I’d done—or not done—the whole rest of the session. “I am the instructor and am responsible for myself as well as you. Work on your control, yes, but don’t pause, don’t be nice, and for chrissakes, never, never apologize.”

  “Sor—okay.”

  “As if a little girly like you could mar my eternal beauty.” He did turn into the mirror, just in case I’d knocked a hair out of place, but once again was satisfied. “Once more.”

  I performed satisfactorily this time.

  “Better. Practice on your husband at home, it’ll be good for him. Show him who’s boss. Now, we get to the good stuff.”

  Exhausted already, I glanced surreptitiously at the clock. Damn, still twenty minutes left. How could an hour last so long?

  “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.

  Chapter 3

  TWO 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 gis, 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 grav
ely 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.