King Arthur's Last Knight

by D. P. Hewitt

  “Don’t take it personally,” Jill said. “He’s always shy around strangers. Once you’ve given him a few more bits of papaya, he’ll think you’re the best thing on two legs.”

  I bribed Louie with another bit of fruit. He took it as his due, and then resumed his exercise program.

  “I could use something like that,” I remarked, looking from Louie, running in his wheel, to my not-exactly-flat stomach. No point in trying to suck it in to impress the young ladies; all I’d do is turn purple from lack of oxygen.

  Jill eyed me critically. “You need more exercise. Are you in a hurry?”

  “What?” I was startled.

  “To finish this project, I mean. Do you have other things to do when you’re finished?”

  “Nothing in particular. Just smaller pieces to sell at next year’s crafts shows.”

  She nodded, satisfied. “Then after lunch we can take a walk. The fresh air and exercise will do us both good.”

  This sounded a lot like gym class in high school. “If God had intended for man to walk, he wouldn’t have invented the internal combustion engine,” I ventured.

  She smiled. “I don’t know what God intended, but I intend for man to walk.”

  ****

  Within a couple days, we’d settled into a routine like an old married couple. I’d retire to the library in the morning, and Jill would retire to her computer, in the living room for now until she got the tower room set up. She told me she was finding freelance work, but nothing comparable to writing articles for a travel magazine. She wrote advertising copy. She wrote instruction manuals. She proofread others’ work. In between she was writing a book, a murder mystery.

  “Which wood is the hardest, if you wanted to kill somebody by hitting them over the head?” she called through the pocket doors.

  “Hickory,” I shouted back. “But really, if you’re hitting somebody over the head, I think even a soft wood would do.”

  Sometime between twelve and one o’clock we’d take a break for lunch. Jill was a vegetarian, and some of the things she served were a revelation to a guy like me, who’d lived all his life in the belief that vegetables were a side dish next to a big hunk of beef, chicken, or pork. I ate chili with beans I’d never heard of, and a flavor I couldn’t identify. “Cinnamon,” she told me. And a pizza made with red onions and lemons.

  “Where’s the tomato sauce?” I asked.

  “With lemons?” she replied, incredulously.

  We also ate some cheese dish she said was called raclette that she’d enjoyed while traveling around Switzerland. Jill told me I was a good sport about trying all these dishes foreign to my meat-and-potatoes lifestyle, and I thought I was doing pretty well impressing her with my cosmopolitan insouciance, until the day I remarked I’d never eaten dandelions in a salad before. She put her head on the table, laughing, and finally stopped long enough to gasp, “They’re not dandelions, it’s arugula.”

  Well, they looked like dandelions to me.

  After lunch I helped her load the dishwasher. “You can learn to do this, it’s not hard,” she insisted. “No, not there, plastic goes on the top.”

  While the dishwasher was running, we took a walk. Every day, rain, shine, fog, or whatever else the weather decided to throw our way. We started off with just a couple blocks—I was embarrassed and a bit alarmed at how out of breath I got—and gradually walked farther and farther, until one day Jill informed me, green eyes sparkling like sunlight reflecting off waves, that we’d just walked two miles.

  “Feel good?” she asked.

  “You’re trying to kill me,” I complained. But I did feel good.

  I attributed it less to the walk than the company. We talked about everything, and eventually I told her about my dream to take a King Arthur tour.

  “Oh, you must!” Jill exclaimed. “Believe it or not, I actually wrote an article about that very thing! Glastonbury! And Tintagel! You did want to visit Tintagel, right? It’s spectacular, standing there, you can believe the legends are real.”

  “Abby doesn’t want to go.”

  Jill waved a hand dismissively. “She doesn’t want to do all King Arthur because she’s not interested in him. But you can do one day King Arthur, and one day something she wants to do, and then you’ll both be happy.”

  I shrugged. I still wasn’t sure Abby would go for it, and I wasn’t all that interested in spending half of my once-in-a-lifetime vacation doing something I didn’t want to do.

  “Or a tour,” Jill suggested. Seeing my disbelieving look, she continued, “Okay, I know most of them are appalling, but if you found a group dedicated to visiting King Arthur sites, then you’d have something in common to talk about.”

  I considered this for a moment. “I visualize a tour bus full of plastic raincoat-wearing fanatics with Coke bottle glasses who spend their evenings discussing topics like ‘Merlin—Homosexual or Merely Misogynistic’?”

  Jill chortled. “Okay, I’ve seen those types, too. But you could always go alone. It’s not like they don’t speak English there. You’d get along just fine.”

  I shrugged. I really didn’t want to go alone; increasingly, I felt that what I wanted was to go with Jill. Not that I expected that to happen. Even if she’d shown any interest in me other than as the guy who was giving her the longed-for library, I was married, to a woman who’d given me two wonderful sons, and with whom I shared grandparenting duties to two little boys and two little girls. Maybe we’d grown apart over the decades, but who hadn’t?

  I guess I was just old-fashioned, like my fascination with King Arthur. But I believed that if you promised to love and to cherish till death did you part, you should keep your promise.

  Unaware of my internal monologue, Jill scuffed through a small windrow of fallen leaves. “Okay, I can’t make you,” she conceded. “But remember, the only person stopping you from what you want to do is you.”

  ****

  Jill’s house was over one hundred years old; therefore, it had something falling apart on it every week. As a divorced freelance writer who’d just lost her job, she had no extra money to spend, so she tried to fix things herself. When I arrived at her house one morning to find her trying to unscrew the hinges on a cupboard door using a nail file, I stepped in.

  “I know, it’s pathetic.” She laughed, sitting back on her heels and pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Half the cupboards in the kitchen don’t close right, and it drives me crazy.”

  “Don’t you have a real screwdriver?”

  She bit her lip, embarrassed. “Paul thought it was beneath him to do repairs, so he always called a repairman. I never learned how to do anything, not even fix a leaky faucet. That’s a long way of saying, No, I don’t have a screwdriver. Or a hammer, or a wrench. I have a nail file.”

  I bundled her into my car, and we drove to the hardware store. I showed her a toolkit designed especially for women, and she recoiled as if bitten by a viper.

  “It’s pink. Manufacturers think they can produce any sort of junk, but as long as it’s pink, women will buy it. I refuse to buy pink tools. I don’t even like pink. If I’m going to buy tools, I want real tools.”

  I bought her real tools: a hammer, an adjustable wrench, pliers, two screwdrivers, a level, a measuring tape, the whole bit. And a nice case to keep them in. I told her I’d custom-make compartments for the inside to hold them in place. When the cashier totaled everything up, her eyes widened.

  “I can’t afford all this,” she whispered in my ear. “Maybe just the screwdrivers and the hammer for today?”

  “You can pay me back later.” I handed over my credit card. “Or I’ll add it to my bill.” I wouldn’t, of course.

  So, no library work got done that day. First I rehung all the kitchen cupboard doors, then she showed me other doors that didn’t close right. At five o’clock, I’d just finished the door to the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom.

  “What else?” I asked.

  She looked down. �
��You’re supposed to be building a library, not doing a ‘This Old House’ project.”

  I smiled and lifted a shoulder. “I’m retired, I’ve got plenty of time. Besides, you give me lunch every day, so consider this partial repayment.”

  “Well,” she said slowly, “those old windows in the tower room do leak when it rains...”

  For the next few days, the library took a back seat to helping Jill winterize her home. Caulking, weatherstripping, hanging storm windows, getting the chimney sweep in to clean the chimneys. In the morning I showed up with whatever I’d noticed I needed for the next day’s projects, so she wouldn’t see how much it cost. “I’ll add it to my bill,” I always told her.

  “It’s going to cost more than the library,” she retorted.

  “It’s not as much as you think.”

  She looked skeptical but made no response.

  Once the major problems had been dealt with, I finally got back to the library, with occasional interruptions for a door lock that jammed, plaster that fell from the ceiling, and, on one memorable day, a bat swooping through the living room.

  Then there was the day the electricity went off. As I was working in the library, which was on the north side of the house, and it was late fall and late afternoon besides, it was pretty dark. I stuck my head out the pocket door. “Jill?”

  A dark form emerged from the direction of the kitchen. “Sorry, my fault. I knew I couldn’t turn on the microwave and dishwasher at the same time, but I forgot. I’ll go down and fix it.”

  I heard her rummage in a drawer, and then a flashlight came on. I closed the doors and followed her. “You don’t know how to do anything else, but you can do electrical work?”

  “Of course not, but this has happened often enough I know what to do.”

  I followed her to the basement and stopped, horrified, in front of the electrical panel. “My God, didn’t the house inspector see this?”

  She nodded ruefully. “Yes, he said it needed to be updated, but I just don’t have the money to rewire the house right now, so I’m careful. And I’ve got smoke detectors on every floor.”

  I cleared my throat. “I probably shouldn’t say this―”

  Jill held up a hand. “I know, I know. Getting the electrical system updated is more important than a library, but I really, really want a library, and honest, Jim, as long as I don’t turn on the microwave and dishwasher at the same time, it’s fine.”

  I wasn’t at all sure about this, but what could I do? It was her house, not mine, and, as the person building her library, I could hardly order her to stop. But I did double-check all the batteries in her smoke detectors before I went home for the day.

  Speaking of home, despite what it might sound like, I actually did live there and not at Jill’s. Abby was busy with the new school year, and a new principal who she said was an enormous improvement over the previous one who had retired at the end of the last school year, unlamented by all the students, most of the teachers, and probably even some of the parents. The new man, Victor Immanuel, had been a teacher himself for three and a half decades before he became a school administrator, so he understood the problems in the current educational system, Abby said. Instead of considering early retirement, she was actually looking forward to going to work again.

  For my part, I loaded the dishwasher correctly, thanks to Jill’s tutelage. Unfortunately, Abby didn’t notice until I pointed it out to her. Surprised, she peeked in.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice, Jim. I actually thought I’d loaded it myself and forgotten about it. Good work. And thanks,” she added.

  I decided not to take another stab at laundry, even had Jill allowed me to practice on hers, which she had not.

  Just before Thanksgiving, I went to the doctor for my scolding. A check-up, he called it, but what it invariably entailed was a lecture on my weight, which was going up, and my blood pressure, which was certainly not going down. I’d given up weighing myself at home, because it was too damn discouraging. The only reason I went before Thanksgiving was to get it over with before the holidays.

  “It took long enough, but I’m glad you finally started to listen to me,” said the doc. I stared at him blankly. “You’ve lost ten pounds and your blood pressure’s down twenty points,” he continued. “We’ll do a blood test later, but I’ll bet your glucose is better, too. Keep it up, whatever you’re doing.”

  I thought of Jill’s vegetarian lunches, and the long walks every afternoon. “I will,” I promised.

  I called her later and told her what the doctor had said, adding, “You’re not just a customer, you’re a health and fitness program.”

  “Great,” she responded, the sarcasm heavy in her voice, “I feel like I’ve just been voted ‘Miss Prune Juice’.”

  Well, I had meant it as a compliment.

  On Thanksgiving the whole family came over—our two sons and daughters-in-law, and their sons and daughters. I’d wanted to invite Jill; I didn’t like to think of her spending the holiday alone, but she dissuaded me the second I’d even begun to broach the subject.

  “I’m not going to intrude on your family celebration,” she stated. “Besides, what would I eat? I don’t eat turkey, and I don’t want to eat just side dishes. Anyway, I’m going to the farm animal sanctuary for dinner, they always serve a vegetarian dinner.” I asked what sorts of things vegetarians ate for Thanksgiving, and she smiled mischievously. “Come along next year and see for yourself.”

  Yes, I ate turkey for Thanksgiving, but only two slices of white meat, and pumpkin pie without whipped cream. And afterwards I took my grandkids for a walk around the block. The next day, shopping with Abby at the mall for Christmas presents for our family, I ordered a slice of veggie pizza at the food court. She gazed at me disbelievingly. “Only vegetables? For you?”

  I tried to look noncommittal. “I got tired of the doctor yelling at me all the time. I’ve been eating more vegetables, and at my last check-up he told me I’ve lost ten pounds.”

  Abby lifted a shoulder and turned away. “Well, whatever works.”

  When we got home that afternoon, we found the house in an uproar. Our son David, tight-lipped and white-faced, was loading his suitcase into the trunk of a taxi. As the whole family had intended to spend the long weekend with us, Abby and I hurried over to ask what was wrong.

  He avoided looking at us, devoting far more concentration to stowing his luggage than it required. “I’m going home. Barb”—his wife—“intercepted a message from—” He flushed. “Well, there’s no point in beating around the bush about it. Better I should tell you than you hear it from her.” He straightened and faced us defiantly. “I’ve been having an affair, and Barb found out about it. I’m leaving, and she’s taking the kids and going home.”

  Abby and I stood there, flabbergasted. “Can’t you apologize, and promise never to do it again?” I asked, seeing our happy family weekend popping like a soap bubble.

  David slammed the trunk. “No, because I’m not sorry. Well, I’m sorry to hurt Barb, if she’s really hurt. She’s a great woman and a terrific mom. But I think what she’s really suffering from isn’t finding out I don’t love her any more. It’s wounded pride because I’m leaving her for somebody else. It hasn’t been the same between us since Joshua was born, and, quite frankly, even without Cathy, I doubt we’d stay married.” He glanced over our shoulders and his lips tightened. “I’d better go. Sorry if I ruined your holiday.”

  He jumped in the taxi, which roared off just as Barb came down the sidewalk with Hannah and Josh. The eyes of all three of them looked red.

  “Don’t worry,” Barb choked out. “My quarrel is with David, not you. You’re wonderful grandparents, and I’ll make sure you get to see the kids as often as you want.” She tossed the suitcases in the trunk of their car, buckled the kids into their car seats, and drove away.

  Speechless with shock, Abby and I entered our house to find our other son Mark, his wife Noreen, and their two kids coming do
wn the stairs, suitcases in hand, too.

  “Not you, too,” Abby groaned.

  Mark smiled thinly. “We’re not having a marital crisis, no. But all things considered, we decided it was best if we went home, too.”

  Abby and I waved goodbye as they drove off in their minivan back to New Jersey. So much for a fun family weekend full of togetherness.

  “And he was sorry if he ruined our holiday?” Abby muttered, turning to go back inside.

  It was a dismal weekend, rainy outside and depressed in. I found myself looking forward more than usual to Monday morning and making something special for Jill. As I neared her back door—nobody ever uses the front in our area—I heard voices, tense and strident in argument. One of those lowbrow talk shows on TV? I’d never known Jill to watch those. As I opened the door, I recognized one of the voices as hers.

  “You don’t have to live like this,” said a male voice, low, husky, and persuasive. “Look at this place, it’s half falling down. I can’t believe you’d rather live here than in a nice big house where everything works, and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  “Believe it,” Jill said flatly. “It’s mine. That was our deal. You’d buy me a house, and I’d never bother you for anything again. I guess I should have insisted it work both ways.”

  I felt guilty about eavesdropping, so I moved into the hallway, where they could see me. “Good morning, Jill.”

  The man, who had hold of her wrist, turned to glare at me. So this was Paul, her ex-husband. On the one hand, he seemed to suit her perfectly: tall, dark, handsome, athletic build, jutting jaw. On the other hand, he lacked all the attributes I’d come to associate with Jill: the self-deprecating humor, compassion, intelligence, the overall niceness. She took advantage of his distraction to pull her wrist away. “Good morning, Jim.”

  “Who’s this?” he asked, rudely.

  She took a deep breath. “This is Jim Dunn, who’s building my library and helping me keep my house from falling down.” She laid a small but unmistakable emphasis on the word “my.” “Jim, this is my ex-husband, Dr. Gillespie.”