Beowulf for Cretins

by Ann McMan

  Against her will, Grace let out a tortured whimper.

  “What’s wrong?” Abbie’s voice was filled with concern.

  “It’s my hands.” Grace held one up so Abbie could see her damaged palm.

  Abbie’s eyes went soft. “Oh, honey.”

  Grace nodded. “Those damn vines of yours are a menace.”

  Wait a minute . . . did she just call me honey?

  “Why don’t we go inside,” Abbie suggested, “so we can soak your wounds and put some ointment on them?” She scrambled to her feet and took hold of Grace’s elbow to help her up.

  “Okay.” Grace grunted her way to a standing position. She met Abbie’s eyes. “So, you’re not still mad at me?”

  “Not right now,” Abbie said. “But the night is young and you are a woman of great invention.”

  They started walking slowly toward the patio doors, although Grace did more limping than walking. About halfway there, something occurred to Grace. She stopped and turned to face Abbie.

  “Hey? Where were you, anyway? I just risked my life to break into an empty house.”

  “Oh.” Abbie took hold of her elbows. “That’s easy. I went back to your place.”

  “My place? Why?”

  “Well, it would appear yours wasn’t the only asshole Rizzo ripped to shreds this evening.”

  Grace smiled at her. “Did you leave the back porch door open for Grendel?”

  Abbie bent forward to kiss her. “Of course I did.”

  Chapter Seven

  Grace did finally get a chance to talk with Brittney—but not until Thursday morning, the day of the dinner at Abbie’s. Since seeing Grace with Abbie at Burton Island, Brittney had skipped two classes, a Borealis meeting, and a scheduled office appointment—but she had still managed to turn her theme paper in on time. Grace had tried emailing her and even sending her a note through campus mail. No response. Nothing.

  Grace was making a quick stop at the Borealis office on her way home to get changed for the pre-inaugural soirée. She needed to drop off some marked-up copies of two short stories for Bryce, and pick up three new submissions to read over the weekend.

  She ran into Brittney in the foyer of the building.

  When Brittney saw her coming, she tried to veer off down an adjacent hallway, but Grace called out to her. Enough was enough.

  “Brittney. Wait up, please. I’ve been trying to catch up with you.”

  The young woman stopped and turned around. She watched Grace approach with what Grace thought was reluctance and trepidation. When she drew closer, Grace couldn’t quite read the girl’s expression. The only thing she was sure of was that Brittney was not meeting her with composure.

  “I’ve been concerned about you,” Grace said. “It’s not like you to miss two classes in a row.”

  Brittney shrugged, but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you ill?” Grace asked.

  “No.” The girl shook her head. She didn’t offer any other explanation for her absence—and she avoided making eye contact with Grace.

  Grace decided to try another approach.

  “Did you enjoy the holiday weekend, Brittney?”

  “I stayed here,” the girl said curtly.

  “I thought I saw you out on Burton Island,” Grace offered. “On Sunday.”

  Brittney lifted her chin. “I saw you, too. With Dr. Williams.” Brittney threw out the words like an accusation.

  Bingo.

  “That’s right, Brittney. Dr. Williams was visiting a friend on Butler Island. I offered to give her a ride back and save Captain Polly the trip.”

  Brittney looked unsettled, like maybe she hadn’t expected Grace to own up to getting busted so easily.

  “She’s really pretty,” she said. “But those sunglasses looked totally weird.”

  Grace tried hard not to laugh. “She’s very nice, too. I hope you have a chance to get to know her. She’s going to be a real asset to St. Allie’s. We’re lucky to have her.”

  “I got invited to a luncheon with her on Monday—after the inauguration.”

  “That’s great. And a real honor, too. I hope you go.”

  “I’m not the only one,” the girl explained. “There are a lot of students going.”

  “All the more reason for you to be there,” Grace suggested. “Especially since you’re so active on campus.”

  Brittney shrugged again. “Maybe I will go.”

  “Good. Perhaps you can take your friend along, too.”

  Brittney looked confused. “What friend?”

  “The one you were with on Sunday—at Burton Island.”

  Brittney blushed. “She’s not really my friend. She’s just some girl I met out there.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of people you know.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “On Monday? No. I didn’t get an invitation to that event, I’m afraid.” Grace glanced at her watch. “I need to run, Brittney. I want to catch Dr. Oliver-James before he leaves. I’ve got some pages to give back to him.”

  “He’s still up there,” she said. “I just met with him.”

  “Oh.” Grace was nonplussed. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses not zebras. Sister Merry Larry was on overtime these days . . .

  “Great,” Grace said with more enthusiasm than she felt. “Well, I’ll run this right up to him. You take care, Brittney. I hope I see you in class on Tuesday.”

  “Okay, Dr. Warner.”

  Grace headed for the stairs without looking back. When she reached the first turn and started up the next flight, she could see that Brittney was still standing in the same spot, watching her with that oddly blank expression.

  It gave her the shivers.

  # # #

  The black suit was totally wrong for this evening. The jacket hung on her like a shroud and the pants made her look like a mobster.

  She stared at her reflection in the mirror.

  “I look like a rerun of What Not to Wear.”

  The classy invitation card read “cocktail attire.” Grace had no clue what that meant. She thought about asking CK, who was also invited, but she knew CK would probably show up in flip-flops and tie-dyed yoga pants, no matter what caliber of dress was requested.

  When in doubt, go to The Google.

  She walked to her computer and opened her browser. “What is cocktail attire?” she typed. The screen filled with about twelve thousand links to retail stores and online shopping venues. She clicked on “images” and scrolled through the photos. Most were of rail-thin women who were scantily clad in sleeveless short dresses with plunging necklines.

  Yeah. I don’t think so.

  It wasn’t that Grace hated dresses. She didn’t. She just didn’t own many—and none of the ones she had were what you’d call chic. They were mostly classified as wedding or funeral attire. She actually did own one “party” dress. It was a fussy, flouncy something-something and tulle creation her mother had painstakingly and expertly stitched together for her to wear at her brother’s second wedding. Wait . . . third wedding. They got married in Wilkes-Barre at the Moose Lodge because Dean couldn’t get the church to annul his second marriage—or his first, for that matter. Her brother never understood why the diocese didn’t accept his claims of spousal infidelity as an adequate basis to have those sacramental unions dissolved—not even when Grace took pains to explain that it was his infidelity that ended the relationships, not the unoffending spouses.

  “So?” he declared. “Cheating is cheating—and the church makes it clear that cheating gets you out of a bad marriage.”

  “Dean,” Grace tried again. “‘Cheating,’ as you call it, is not like a canonical ‘get out of jail free’ card—especially when you’re the one doing the cheating.”

  He remained unconvinced, and, as the years and the spouses passed, he continued to file his petitions for declarations of nullity.

  She looked over at her closet, where the puffy sleeve of what she calle
d the “Moose frock” projected from her somber cache of dress clothes.

  Yeah. That’s not happening.

  She closed her laptop. This was getting her nowhere.

  Desperate times called for desperate measures. She picked up her phone before she could think better of it, and punched in a number.

  Her mother answered on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mum. It’s me.”

  “Well, my goodness. Is there an R in the month?”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “It hasn’t been that long since I called.”

  “Yes, it has. It was Shrove Tuesday. I remember exactly because I was baking the king cake for the altar guild, and I was so distracted by your call that I accidentally dropped five plastic babies into the batter. Vivian Makowski was unlucky enough to get the slice with the ‘quintuplets,’ and everyone teased her about taking fertility drugs.”

  “How is Mrs. Makowski?”

  “She’s doing pretty well, considering.”

  Grace knew it was a mistake, but she took the bait. “Considering what?”

  “She had twenty-two polyps removed during her last colon-oscopy. But that’s nothing compared to what Kolby did while she was in the hospital.”

  Kolby was Mrs. Makowski’s ne’er-do-well son. He was forty-three years old and still lived at home in his mother’s basement. Grace had actually gone out with him a few times while they both were inmates at Bishop Hoban High. Her mother never missed an opportunity to remind Grace of how close her bad judgment nearly brought her to complete ruination.

  “Do I want to know what that was?” Grace asked.

  “Well, he stole her keys and took that floozy, Marlene Zink, joyriding. He’s on his fourth DWI and isn’t allowed to drive anything—not even the forklift at the Schott’s plant. Of course, he totaled the Buick—hit a pothole and rolled it three times before it crashed through the plate-glass window at The Chicken Coop. I have no idea how those two escaped without serious injuries. Vivian said they were too drunk to realize what’d happened. I guess Kolby climbed out of the car and tried to order some ribs.”

  Grace closed her eyes and dropped the phone to her shoulder. These are my people.

  “But that isn’t why you called,” her mother continued.

  Eureka. It usually took the span of five or six more object lessons before Agnes allowed Grace to get to the point of her call.

  “Yeah. I have to go to a quasi-fancy dinner party tonight and I don’t know what to wear.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them.

  “Fancy? How fancy?” She could hear the excitement in her mother’s voice. “Is this a date? Because if it’s a date, you really should ask your . . . companion . . . what he . . . or she . . . is wearing. You don’t want to clash.”

  “It’s not a date, Mum. It’s a college event. Dinner at the new president’s home.”

  “Oh. How nice. Have you met him yet? Is he single?”

  “Mum. He is a she—and, yes, she’s single.”

  Silence on the line.

  “How old is she?”

  Grace sighed. “I dunno—maybe forty-six or -seven? I didn’t ask.”

  “So, you’ve met her?”

  Grace had to hand it to Agnes—she had the prosecutorial instincts of a U.S. Attorney.

  “Yes. I’ve met her a couple of times.”

  “Are you attracted to her?”

  “Jesus, Mum.”

  “Do not blaspheme, young lady.”

  Grace took a deep breath. “I did not call to discuss Abbie. I need advice about what to wear.”

  “Her name is Abbie?”

  Blood in the water. How could I be so stupid?

  “Where are her people from?” Agnes was all over it now. “Has she been married before? Will I get to meet her at Thanksgiving?”

  I want to die . . . Maybe I should just wear the fucking Moose frock and be done with it?

  “Mum.” Grace tried again. “Forget about Abbie. I need advice about what to wear. The invitation reads ‘cocktail attire,’ and I don’t know what that actually means. That’s why I called. You know my wardrobe choices—what should I wear? I don’t wanna show up looking like a doofus. Please. I’m running out of time. The thing starts in half an hour.”

  Her mother sighed. “I suppose it’s pointless to suggest you wear a dress?”

  “I’d say the odds are about as good as they were for Kolby getting that full rack of St. Louis ribs.”

  “I take it that’s a no?”

  “That would be a no. Correct.”

  “Well.” Her mother seemed to think about it. “Do you have black slacks—and a decent pair of shoes that don’t look like work boots?”

  Grace stifled her reflexive response. “Yes, to both.”

  “Are the shoes black?”

  “One pair is.”

  “And they have heels?”

  Grace walked to her closet and checked. “Little ones.”

  “Those’ll work. Now, do you have a tailored shirt—preferably white? Something with a nice collar, long sleeves and decent cuffs?”

  “I have that one you bought me on sale at Macy’s last year.”

  “Perfect. Is it pressed?”

  “Well,” Grace demurred. “I’ve never worn it so it still looks pretty good.”

  Her mother let that one pass. “It’s September, so you could get away with a jacket—as long as it’s tailored and matches the slacks.”

  “Yeah. I don’t have any that aren’t too lived-in. They all make me look like one of the Blues Brothers.”

  “How about a vest—something short and colorful?”

  Grace thought about it. “I have that Chinese-looking one I wore to cousin Serena’s confirmation two years ago.”

  “That’s just right. Now all you need are earrings and a nice bracelet.”

  Earrings? And the only thing she had approximating a ‘bracelet’ was a pair of gag handcuffs she and Denise wore one year to a costume party.

  “I’ll see what I can find,” she told her mother.

  “And, sweetie?” her mother asked. “It would be a very nice gesture for you to take Abbie some flowers. Nothing too ostentatious—maybe Peruvian lilies, if you can find them in orange or red.”

  “Right,” Grace agreed, because it was easier. “Orange or red. Got it. Thanks, Mum. You really helped me out. I gotta run.”

  “Have fun, dear. And remember to work your silverware from the outside in.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Yes, Mum. I remember. Talk to you later, okay?”

  “Bye, dear.”

  “Bye, Mum. I love you.”

  Grace disconnected.

  Peruvian lilies? What a ridiculous idea.

  She wondered if they had any at Howard’s Florist . . .

  # # #

  CK was the first person she saw when she arrived at Abbie’s. The cocktail reception preceding the dinner was being held outside, so Grace headed straight for the scene of her recent tenure as an owl job artist. She hoped her dismal failure at that pursuit wasn’t a writ-large, flashing-light preview of the likely outcome of her other tenure pursuit, but she figured it probably was. Metaphors as great as that one were hard to dismiss—especially for her. She did her best to act blasé as she passed by reminders of events that had taken place there just a few nights ago. And she was careful to avoid the areas where the loose pavers were located. Although she was interested to see that all of the pots of geraniums she’d destroyed had been replaced with flowering plants that were more refined. She noted that they also were arrayed in heavy, cast-iron planters. She wasn’t sure if that decision had been part of a staging plan for the event, or a concession to the new president’s apparent penchant for breaking things. Probably both.

  CK was immediately recognizable as she stood near the bar like a Technicolor tent pole. Stood out is more like it, Grace thought. Grace hadn’t been wrong in her suppositions about what CK would choose to wear. The
physicist was decked out in a tunic top and loud checked pants that looked as if they could double as evening wear for a curling team. Her only saving grace for the absurdity of her getup was the fact that her pants were in St. Allie’s colors. She wore a pair of what Grace liked to call her happy-ugly shoes—but she at least made a grand concession to the gravity of the event by opting for black ones. At least, they appeared to be black . . . mostly.

  Grace made her way toward CK as discreetly as possible. She did her best to try and conceal the bouquet of lilies—and to avoid looking at the trellis, which seemed to have been rejuvenated since the other night. She wondered how Abbie explained that one to the grounds crew.

  Of course, CK noticed the bouquet of flowers immediately. She gestured toward them with her tall glass of—something. There were several slices of lime floating in her drink—a clear indication that this wasn’t her first round.

  “What the hell are those for?” she asked, indicating the flowers. “Are we gonna lay something to rest after the dessert course?”

  Grace was tempted to say, “Yeah. My prospects.” But instead, she told the truth. “They’re for Abbie.”

  CK raised a pierced eyebrow. “Are you asking her to the prom?”

  “Give me a break, please?” she pleaded. “This is bad enough already.”

  She caught the eye of one of the bartenders. He was a tall, handsome man who looked more like a male model than a mixologist. “I’d like whatever she’s having.” She pointed at CK’s glass.

  The bartender looked at CK. “Does she mean that?” he asked.

  CK faced Grace. “It’s six ounces of Belvedere and a drizzle of fresh lime juice.”

  Grace blinked. “On second thought, I’d love a glass of red wine.”

  “Hit her with the burgundy, Derek.” CK winked at him.

  “Sure thing,” he said. He picked up an unopened bottle of Domaine Dureuil-Janthial Rully Rouge. Grace gaped at the label. It was a 2013 Premier Cru.

  “Damn,” Grace observed. “I guess it’s top-shelf everything at this gig.”

  “No shit.” CK leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Although I will tell you that not everyone is getting the good stuff.”