Beowulf for Cretins

by Ann McMan

  “Qu’il faut se méfier des métamorphes.”

  It was Abbie’s mother.

  “Oui, maman,” Abbie addressed her. “We should beware of shape-shifters. But tonight, we speak English—as a courtesy to our guests.”

  Solange Abbot waved a hand. “Comme vous le souhaitez.” Abbie’s father touched his wife’s hand. “As you wish,” she amended.

  Grace noticed a slight tightening to the set of Abbie’s jaw. She wanted to take hold of her hand, but she couldn’t. She wanted to lean her head against her shoulder, but she couldn’t. She also wanted to throw her down on top of the table and have her way with her, but she couldn’t do that, either.

  “Would you like my butter?” she asked.

  Abbie looked at her strangely.

  “I’m not going to eat it.” Grace shrugged and gave her a shy little smile that she hoped no one else would notice.

  Abbie’s expression softened. “Yes,” she said softly. “I’d love to have your butter.”

  Grace passed her plate over so Abbie could discreetly transfer the two small pats of butter to her own plate.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I thought you could use it,” Grace added. “Consider it combat rations.”

  “In that case, could I have your brioche, too?”

  Grace laughed.

  Abbie contrived to touch Grace’s fingers when she handed the bread plate back. To Grace, her touch was like the jolt from a 220 line.

  It was ridiculous.

  Grace was going down for the count, and they hadn’t even made it to the first course.

  Handsome Derek was making the rounds. Grace noticed that he was artfully serving from two different decanters. She surmised that one contained the Rully Rouge, and the other the Smoking Loon. She waited for him to reach their table to test her hypothesis. Sure enough, she, Abbie and Luc Abbot were served from the same decanter—Lorrie from the other.

  Statuesque Pamela followed behind Derek with a single decanter of white wine, proving that the special treatment must’ve been reserved for Lorrie.

  Grace caught CK’s eye.

  “Told you,” her friend mouthed.

  “So, Abbie.” The beleaguered visiting poet leaned forward to command the new president’s attention. “I’m dying to learn more about your background. Why did you leave such a promising career in academe to pursue foundation work?”

  Abbie sighed. “It was a pragmatic decision, actually. When my husband became ill, I needed a position with greater flexibility, to allow me to spend more time at home. It was a difficult decision, but really, the only one I could make under the circumstances.”

  “I am sure the administration at Princeton understood,” Mitchell Ware added. “You were a real asset to the classics department there. I know they were sad to lose you.”

  “Thank you for saying that, Mitchell. But I think you dress me in borrowed robes. I was more of an acolyte than a leader—basking in the shadows cast by real scholars.”

  “You’re too modest, Abbie.” It was Eddie Meeker this time. “I read your first two monographs on Boccaccio and Petrarch. If those aren’t seminal works, I don’t know what are.”

  Abbie smiled that million-dollar smile of hers. “I’m amazed you made it through those, Edwin. I rather thought they were tomes, destined to become doorstops.”

  “I don’t agree.” Eddie raised an index finger. “You have a natural gift for exposition. The writing was excellent and the scholarship was superb.”

  Abbie shook her head.

  “You don’t have to flatter her, Eddie,” CK offered. “She already accepted the job.”

  “I only speak the truth.” He looked at Abbie’s father. “You must agree, Monsieur Abbot?”

  “Of course, I agree,” he said. “Our Élisabeth can often be timide . . . shy,” he corrected.

  “Il y a beaucoup de choses qui n’ont aucun sens,” Solange added.

  Grace’s French wasn’t all that great, but she got the sting of Abbie’s mother’s remark.

  “You are right, maman. There are many things that don’t make sense.” Abbie regarded the rest of the table. “How about we make a pact to spend the rest of the evening focusing only on things that do?”

  “Fine with me,” CK said. “I’ll start.” She held up her wineglass. “This is just about the best wine I’ve had since coming to Vermont.”

  “Here, here.” Lorrie raised her glass of Smoking Loon. “I’ll second that.”

  They all raised their glasses.

  Grace happened to catch a nonverbal exchange between Abbie and her mother. It didn’t look friendly.

  She glanced at her watch as discreetly as she could.

  How many more hours of this did they have to endure?

  # # #

  After Father Beatty—everyone just called him Jimmy—delivered the invocation and Mitch Ware made his brief remarks welcoming President Williams, all attention shifted to the meal. There were four courses, all French and all superb. There was also enough ambient conversation and laughter to allow Grace and Abbie to exchange a few words.

  They both took pains to speak in code, because Lorrie seemed especially eager to eavesdrop on anything they said to each other.

  “How was your reentry from North Carolina?” Grace asked.

  “It was touch and go,” Abbie replied. “At first, I thought the transition was headed in a positive direction, then it took a turn for the worse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Grace commiserated. “What do you think caused the change?”

  Abbie looked at her. “It was a regrettable misunderstanding. I’m happy to say that order was restored fairly quickly.”

  “That’s always a relief,” Grace agreed. “It can be horrible when you think someone has mistaken your intentions.”

  “I agree. Tell me,” she asked, “how are you feeling about the way the evening is going?”

  Grace was surprised by the double entendre. “I think everyone is having a delightful time.”

  “Are you?”

  Grace nearly dropped her salad fork. She had to parse her words very carefully.

  “I’m . . . enjoying the . . .” she looked at Abbie, “view.”

  Abbie smiled at her. “Me, too.”

  “Abbie?” Mitchell Ware called out to her. “We need you to settle a dispute. Your father says that France makes the best vodka. I say that Vermont does. What say you?”

  “Oh, my,” Abbie replied. “I don’t know that I can settle this question. Anyone who knows me understands that I’m not a connoisseur of intoxicants.” Beneath the table, she pressed her leg against Grace’s. “With, perhaps, one exception.”

  “Maybe you should try a blind taste test?” CK suggested.

  “Capital idea, Dr. Greene.” Mitchell cast about for one of the Scandinavian stunt doubles. He caught Pamela’s eye. She approached the table. “Pamela, could you please bring us two shots each of Grey Goose and Smuggler’s Notch vodkas—straight up. Dr. Abbot and I are going to do a blind taste test.”

  “Of course.” Pamela glided off.

  How the hell does she do that? Grace wondered. It’s like she’s moonwalking.

  “I have a feeling this will end badly,” Abbie said in an undertone.

  “Why?” Grace asked.

  “Because my father hates to lose and he’s a diehard Francophile. He’ll never be willing to admit that Vermont makes a better vodka.”

  “I thought you didn’t know anything about intoxicants,” Grace teased.

  Abbie pressed against her leg again. “Believe me,” she said. “I know plenty.”

  Lorrie must’ve noticed their exchange. “Tell me something, Abbie. Why do men get up to these ridiculous contests?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea, Laurel,” Abbie replied.

  “But surely, your late husband didn’t partake of such foolery?”

  Abbie took a moment to reply. “He was much too sick for most of our years together. The small bit
of energy he could muster went into his legal work—not games.”

  Lorrie was either too stupid or too vindictive to back off. “It’s too bad you weren’t blessed with a longer life together.”

  “Son mari était trop vieux pour elle. Elle n’aurait jamais du l’épouser.”

  Abbie shot a stern glance across the table at her mother.

  Solange addressed Lorrie. “My apologies. I said her husband was much too old.” She shifted her sights to Abbie like she was lining up a kill shot. “Élisabeth should never have married him.”

  Grace could detect a subtle stiffening in Abbie’s posture and knew she was about to get up from the table.

  She knew she had one shot at defusing this looming gunfight at the not-so-okay corral. As casually as she could, she picked up her wineglass and unceremoniously dumped half of it down the front of her shirt.

  “Oh, dear god.” She noisily shoved her chair back from the table. “Look at the mess I’ve made.”

  A flurry of activity ensued, with virtually everyone offering Grace his or her napkin and an accompanying amount of homeopathic advice about how to immediately neutralize red wine stains.

  “Use white wine,” Mitchell Ware called out.

  “Baking soda and vinegar,” Eddie Meeker suggested.

  “Take off your shirt and suck out the venom,” CK cried.

  Grace glared at her.

  “Hey, it’s an idea,” she said.

  Lorrie didn’t miss a beat. “I volunteer to help with that one!”

  Abbie shot a look at Lorrie before glaring at Grace. She was strangely silent in the barrage of helpful solutions. She just sat there, staring at Grace as if she wasn’t really seeing her.

  That can’t be a good sign, Grace thought.

  Somehow, Pamela, the blond Tutsi, appeared at her side. “Let me take you someplace where you can deal with that stain,” she offered. Grace nodded, and shot a last, hopeful glance at Abbie before getting up and meekly following Pamela out of the dining room.

  # # #

  Grace was rubbing furiously at the stain, which had permeated a five-inch-wide swath down the front of her starched white shirt.

  What kind of idiot am I? She rubbed more of the mysterious paste Pamela had given her into the stain. I ruin my best damn shirt, and for what? So Abbie can just sit there and glower at me like I’m some alien life form? Maybe she should’ve gotten up and gone ten rounds with that harridan of a mother of hers. More paste. It’s no skin off my nose.

  Grace sat back and held her shirtfront out under the light to try and see if her efforts were resulting in any improvement. It was impossible to tell. The powder room Pamela had led her to was small and at the back of the house. The overhead light in here was amber-colored and of low wattage, and that made it hard to tell if she was making any headway.

  This is ridiculous. I need to take the damn thing off.

  She got to her feet and removed her vest, after first checking to be sure the adjacent sitting room was empty. She didn’t really need to worry—nobody would be coming all the way back here tonight. She had been tempted to drop breadcrumbs en route just so she could find her way back to the dining room.

  She folded her vest and placed it over the back of her chair and unbuttoned her shirt the rest of the way. Once it was off, she could do a better job of attacking the stain. She didn’t know what she was going to wear the rest of the evening if she couldn’t succeed in lightening this up a bit. Right now, her shirt looked like the last act of Bonnie and Clyde.

  Hell, even if I do get the damned stain out, it’s going to be soaking wet. Maybe I should just wear the vest? CK would without thinking twice about it.

  And Lorrie would probably love it . . .

  She rinsed the big globs of pulverized paste out and peered at the fabric. Maybe it was beginning to work a little bit?

  She set about applying a fresh coat of the mystery glop and wondered what was going on in the dining room, and whether Abbie had killed her mother yet.

  Dear god that woman was impossible. No wonder Abbie expressed ambivalence about the wisdom of taking a position so close to Québec. Grace wondered why she hadn’t sought employment opportunities in Tierra del Fuego.

  She was startled when she heard a door slam. Pictures on the wall in the powder room shook.

  Oh, fuck . . . somebody just came into the sitting room.

  She quickly reached out and snapped the switch to turn the overhead light off.

  Maybe if I’m really quiet they won’t know I’m in here.

  Unless they have to use the bathroom . . .

  Fuck.

  Horses, not zebras. Horses, not zebras.

  Whoever was in the next room started talking swiftly—and loudly—in French.

  “C’est un vrai cauchemar! Je ne peut plus. C’est assez!”

  Grace couldn’t quite follow. “It’s enough,” was about all she could make out. Whoever the woman was, she was pissed—that much was for sure.

  “Je devrais avoir ma tête examinée! J’etais fou de penser que ca passerait bien!”

  Grace could tell by the way the sound kept coming and going that the woman was striding about the room. It also sounded like she was picking things up and slamming them back down.

  “Comment qu’elle peut venir ici et m’humilier? Rien que je fasse est assez bon.”

  The angry voice was getting closer. Grace held her breath and tried to plaster herself against the back wall of the powder room, clumsily holding her shirt up against her bare chest.

  Great. Just great.

  “I don’t know why I thought tonight would be any different. She’s always this way.”

  Grace looked toward the doorway in shock. Abbie?

  Oh, holy shit . . .

  “Papa es un faible qui ne resistera jamais á elle. Ridiculous. Pathetic.”

  A hand reached inside the doorway and flipped the light switch.

  Grace closed her eyes and waited for it.

  “Oh! Mon dieu!” Abbie cried.

  Grace held up her free hand and waved. “Hi there.”

  Abbie looked stunned. “What are you doing in here?”

  Grace nodded toward her wine-stained shield. “Trying to be decent. As you can see, I appear to have failed miserably . . . again.”

  “Oh, dear god.” Abbie raised a hand to her head. “This whole evening is a nightmare.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I honestly cannot endure very much more.” Abbie was making no effort to calm down.

  Grace tried to hush her. “Maybe try to lower your voice by a few decibels?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you probably don’t want people out there to hear you?”

  “You think I give a flying fuck at this point—after that delightful performance by Mommie Dearest?”

  “Abbie . . .” Grace held out a hand to try and placate her.

  Abbie ignored the offered hand. “And, you—carrying on with that anemic coquette, right under my nose.”

  “Hey, wait a minute. I did nothing to provoke or encourage that—the woman is like a hunk of Styrofoam. She can’t do anything but float on the surface.”

  “Very clever, Grace.” Abbie jerked her head toward the front of the house. At least, Grace thought it was the front of the house—Pamela had led her down so many hallways, she really had no idea where they were. “Maybe I should go fetch her so she can explore your . . .” her eyes dropped to Grace’s chest, “verisimilitude?”

  Grace had had enough of this bullshit.

  “What the hell is the matter with you? I have zero interest in that faded sororitette, and you know it.”

  Abbie closed her eyes and leaned back against the vanity. She didn’t say anything for the better part of thirty seconds—which was an eternity in the middle of an argument.

  Finally, she gave a bitter-sounding laugh and opened her eyes. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

  At least her voice was calmer . . .
<
br />   “What?” Grace asked with feigned innocence.

  “That.” Abbie pointed at her shirt. “The wine. You spilled it on purpose, didn’t you? To distract me from hurling a cheese knife at my mother.”

  “That depends,” Grace said.

  “On?”

  “On whether you think it was a brilliant idea or an officious and inappropriate intrusion.”

  Abbie thought about it. “Do I have to make a snap decision?”

  “Well, while you deliberate, maybe you can tell me who won the vodka throw down?”

  “Oh, that.” Abbie rolled her eyes. “My father complained that neither variety was appropriately chilled, so he was unable to make a clear choice.”

  “Speaking of things that are appropriately chilled,” Grace indicated her bare arms and midriff, “it is getting kind of cold in here.”

  “I dunno.” Abbie crossed her long arms. “I kind of like having you at a disadvantage.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Boy, you sure do rebound quickly.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, one minute you’re out there, spewing vitriol like a Sig Sauer on steroids—the next, you’re in here—dispassionately torturing a half-dressed innocent bystander.”

  “Oh, I’m anything but dispassionate, I assure you.”

  Grace wasn’t sure how to react to that one. “Torture is torture.”

  “I’m torturing you?”

  Grace nodded. “Pretty much.”

  “How so?” Abbie asked.

  “For starters, you’re a bit too . . . alluring.”

  “I am?”

  “I’d say so, yes.”

  “Any suggestions about how I might alleviate that?”

  “Well.” Grace thought about it. “You could consider leveling the playing field a bit.”

  Abbie raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “It seems that I’m at a particular disadvantage, sitting here half dressed. So, as I see it, you have two options. You could either find me something to wear that isn’t marinated in red wine—or you could remove some of your own clothing in a bold demonstration of solidarity.”

  Grace could see that Abbie was fighting not to smile. “These are the only options?”

  “From where I’m sitting, yes.”

  “I have another suggestion. How about you change your seat?”