Legendary

by Amelia Kibbie

  James put his head in his hands. Arthur, now that they were alone, was able to pat his knee under the table. It did little to reassure him. “The trail can’t end here.” Lance slammed his fist into his open hand. “All right. Here’s the plan. Mrs. Wylit, you return the tea cup, and drop it on the floor — make a big scene, all of that, you’re a natural, luv — and then Arthur, you grab the cup—”

  “No, no, no.” James stood and slid past Lance to exit the wobbly table. “No. All of this is awful. There has to be a reason that Mr. King wants the cup this badly. I have to make him understand that our cause is more important somehow.”

  “Look, mate, I’ve already tried talking to him, tried to get the sympathy vote,” Lance shot back. “He’s got a heart of stone.”

  James gazed into Arthur’s eyes, green to green. “Let me try,” he begged. Arthur reached out and squeezed his hand. “If I can’t get the cup, we can try Lance’s plan. But the last thing I want to do is rob some old man to help this horrible Tom person.”

  Arthur raised James' hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. “All right. I know you can do it, James.”

  James nodded and rounded the wall to the bar. Mr. King had the radio on for the cricket scores. He leaned back on his stool and had his leg drawn up, calf resting on the bar. The appendage ended just before the ankle, and the old man rubbed the stump, and winced as if it ached. When James appeared, he dropped his leg down again with a graceless, embarrassed move.

  “I’m sorry.” James opened his hands, a mirror of the temperance card in a tarot deck. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “Think nothing of it.” Mr. King motioned him forward. “Another round? Or, let me guess — you’re here to plead with me about that chav Tom’s football cup.”

  “May I sit?” James motioned to the remaining bar stool.

  Mr. King cocked his head, and raised his fingers to his ear as if he hadn’t heard. “Sit down?” He shrugged. “Go right ahead, sonny. You’re a strange band to be sure, but I suppose you’re paying customers.”

  “What kind of fish is that?” James motioned to a cheap painting that hung above the bar of a man reeling in a strange creature with whiskers.

  “Catfish.” Mr. King reclined on his stool to light a cigar. “We don’t have them here.”

  “But they have them in America, yeah?” James put his elbows on the bar, eyes bright with interest. “I read about them. Mark Twain.”

  “Indeed they do. Caught some there meself. Me uncle took me to the states for a fishing trip when I were a young man.” He nodded down to his leg. “That was long ‘fore this. And before you ask, no, I didn’t lose it in the war.”

  James knew better than to ask what had happened. “What else did you fish for in America?”

  “All kinds. That bass up there. Largemouth. Caught him in Lake Superior.”

  “It’s enormous.” James showered the dusty trophy with an admiring gaze.

  “Almost pulled me out of the boat.” Mr. King laughed, and poured himself and James a pint. “Most lads fish with their fathers, but mine was always working. Me mother’s brother, Harvey, he taught me to fish. Most of these things were his.” He motioned the antique rods and reels and baskets. “He taught me to weave a fish basket out of reeds and vines and things if you’re ever lost in the woods.”

  “Is that the trumpet-shaped thing?” James listened and sipped his pint, his whole body intent on absorbing what Mr. King spoke. The barkeep went on for some time about how fish baskets worked, how unsuspecting creatures swam in but couldn’t get out, and what his uncle had taught him about weaving his own in the wild.

  “Did you take your son fishing when he was a boy?” James asked as Mr. King reached up and lifted down one of the fish traps for him to hold.

  Mr. King coughed, and ashed his cigar into the football cup. “The Good Lord gave us me daughter Elaine.”

  James let a long pause go so they could both drink their pints. “And so you taught her to fish,” he said to break the silence.

  Mr. King nodded, and reached back to take down a bottle of gin. He poured them each a small glass. James threw it back and smacked his lips in enjoyment. He’d never done a shot of gin before, and he rather liked it. He knew it made Arthur sick — he couldn’t stomach anything but beer and maybe a glass of table wine.

  Mr. King sipped his gin, and then stared into it as if waiting for portents or images to appear. “Aye, I did teach our Elaine,” he said after a time as he swirled the liquor with one hand. “When she were a little sprout. She had a little rod in her hand before she could hold a spoon.” He smiled at the memory, but his eyes were sad. “She were always an active gell — ran about the neighborhood playing with the boys. She was brilliant at footy. Her mother was always concerned she wasn’t... well, that she wasn’t inside playing with dolls or summat girly. But she was happy, truly happy. And she could fish. Better ‘n me.” He chuckled. “She could tie off a lure faster than you can say ‘Bob’s your uncle’. When she got older, I taught her how to ride the bus to the edge of town so she could go fishing whenever she wanted.”

  James polished off his pint, and Mr. King set out another with as much skilled speed as his daughter apparently tied fishing lures. “Do you still fish together?”

  Mr. King took an exaggerated drag from his cigar. The smoke wafted free of his mouth and swirled around his beard as he stamped out the cigar into the golden cup. He looked at James, and his eyes were red. “No.” He paused to draw another thin cigar from his shirt pocket and chew off the end. He spat it defiantly at the football trophy. “Not since she went with Tom for awhile.”

  The rawness of this wound was so obvious that James feared poking further. He waited, and his eyes strayed from time to time to the golden football trophy. Well, it probably wasn’t made of real gold, he thought. Brass, probably, or something even cheaper. For something so cheap, practically worthless, even, it held an ironic amount of meaning for Mr. King, and Tom for that matter.

  He thought about asking, what did Tom do to her, but instead led with, “I’m sorry, Mr. King. That must have been difficult for you. And for Elaine.”

  “She loved the water,” he went on, without prompting. “Fishin’ in it. Swimmin’ in it. I told her she’d grow gills if she weren’t careful. Shame, really, that she were a city girl. I think she were born for the countryside. But she liked city things, too. When she were toddlin’ around, I’d take her on the streetcar and the buses. She always begged to ride on top.”

  James took a measured drink and attempted to steer Mr. King back in the direction he needed. “But when Tom came, that was a different story.”

  Mr. King nodded, mouth drawn down. His frown etched deep lines in his tired, kindly face. “She fell for him, probably five years ago. Used to come in here regular, more often when he wanted to see ‘er. Now they both stay away.” He sipped his pint, and swiped foam from his mustache. “I dunno what she saw in ‘im, but she wanted to do everything right for ‘im. I think she were worried, being in her late twenties and not having caught a husband yet. She learnt the names of all the players on his favorite football teams, memorized about twenty years of cricket history, all of it. She never wanted nothin’ more than to please ‘im. What did he do in return?”

  Mr. King punched his mouth down into a thin white pucker. “All he did were tell my gell what was wrong with her. He only wanted a whore and a housemaid, someone to look after that flea-trap boarding house. Tommy told her fishin’ and the like, all the things she loved, it were all... unfeminine. Unbecomin’ of a woman. That she ought to take up sewin’ so she could fix his socks, put on lipstick and look at movie star magazines. And God help her, she believed him. All of it.”

  “Oh, no,” James whispered, and covered his mouth with one hand. “No, she didn’t.”

  Mr. King nodded, and his head drooped like a horse about to die from heat and overwork. “I saw what it were doing to her, and o’ course I missed her comin’ to fish with me. I
just missed her.”

  “Of course you did.” James lent forward on his elbows again. It struck him, then, how odd this was — the barkeep in need of a sympathetic ear, instead of the other way round.

  “I told her to break it off with him. At first, she told me I were nutters, that I should be happy for her. She was so sure they’d be married, children, everything. Thank God it didn’t come to all that. After a few months, she started to see the things I saw, how worthless Tom was and how horrible he made her feel. So she left him.”

  “Hear hear,” James affirmed, after a swig of bitters.

  Mr. King lifted his shoulders as if they weighed a thousand pounds, and gave a miserable shrug. “She weren’t ever the same. She still took up sewing and lipstick and movie stars and tea sandwiches and high heels. And she’s been miserable ever since.”

  James ran the pads of his fingers over his lips. “And that’s why you bought Tom’s trophy when he was down on his luck, and use it as an ashtray.”

  “If there was a place in the loo, I’d put it there for blokes to piss in.” Mr King tapped his cigar against the cup again with vehemence.

  James waited a good while before speaking. His heart broke for Mr. King and Elaine. But he could not forget his purpose; could not forget Mr. Marlin and Matthew.

  “Well?” Mr. King demanded, and threw back another shot of gin. “You got nothin’ to say?”

  James took a breath. This was thin ice, but he edged forward regardless. “Putting out your cigars in that cup isn’t going to change Elaine back to the way she used to be. Only you can do that. By talking to her. Showing her how much you love her, even if she never gets married.”

  Mr. King locked him in an infuriated, dead-eyed stare.

  “It’s society. It’s this town, these times, these people,” James barreled ahead, and hoped to reach his point before Mr. King tossed him out of the pub. “Society tells women they need to wear makeup and keep house, get excited about a new Frigidaire — most importantly, get married and have babies. For the longest time, Elaine didn’t care about any of that on the outside. But inside she was bothered by, I don’t know, seeing school friends marry perhaps. She likely spent a long time wondering what it was that was wrong with her, what made her a freak. And when Tom started paying her attention, telling her all of her so-called faults, she thought ‘Yes! I’ve sorted it out. If I can fix these things, I can be normal.’ But she’ll never be normal. Because she’s better than normal. She’s vibrant and exceptional. Yet, she doesn’t see that she is.”

  Mr. King’s cigar ash was long, and it fell on the bar before he could flick it away, so intently was he staring at James. “How d’you know?”

  “I know a thing or two about the world telling me I’m abnormal. Judge me if you like, but I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. King. As I’ve said, that using that trophy as an ashtray isn’t going to help Elaine. It doesn’t even help you. Sure, it’s jolly good to see Tom upset about it, but it hasn’t given you Elaine back. It hasn’t made you happy.”

  Mr. King stared at him, motionless.

  “But it would make me happy,” James said, “to trade it for the information we require to find out where Mr. Blanchard is. I need to do this to find the long lost son of a woman who was kinder to me than my own mother. It was the dying wish of a dear friend, and I need the information. If I give Tom the cup, he’ll tell me. And if he won’t, my tall friend will beat the tar out of him.”

  After a long silence, Mr. King said, “Now that, I’d like to see.”

  “But it won’t fix Elaine,” James reminded him. “And it won’t fix Tom. Tom’s going to be an arsehole for the rest of his life, and nothing you or I do is going to change that. But if I can complete my quest, good can come from it.”

  Mr. King stared down at his fishhook-scarred hands. He said, “Will you tell me what to say? To Elaine? How to start... how to begin...”

  “Yes,” James promised.

  Mr. King stared deep into James' eyes, two pools of earnest emerald, and reached behind him. He lifted the football trophy, and handed it over the bar into James' waiting hands.

  Chapter 18

  Lincoln, past midnight, was well lit, though deserted and inhospitable. They’d hauled the suitcases and Mrs. Wylit for many blocks. The merriment of their victory, as well as the libations they’d consumed, had worn off. The troop was grim and exhausted. They had a path forward now, but no place to stay for the night. No buses or cabs to be found, and no hotels. They’d left the only boarding house they knew of, and, suffice to say, they weren’t welcome there anymore.

  It was James' turn to let Mrs. Wylit lean on his arm. She came out of her stupor in a foul mood. “If we’re going to sleep in the bloody train station, let’s stop off somewhere and get a bottle, why don’t we?”

  James was inclined to agree, though liquor did nasty things to his head in the morning. He could already feel the creeping clutch of a headache as a result of gin passing between his lips. Arthur put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a grim, apologetic smile that was likely meant to brighten his spirits. It didn’t. Perhaps they shouldn’t have enraged the owner of the only boarding house they knew of.

  They followed the train tracks through a row of shops. It began to rain, and Lance shook his fist at the sky, cursing. As Arthur went to jiggle open their limp umbrella, Mrs. Wylit raised a shaking finger, its tip stained with flaking red polish. A brick and stone Saxon tower with a clock face barely visible in the soggy gloom rose up in the moonlight.

  “A church.” Lance huffed out a sigh of relief. “Well, we are weary travelers on a sacred mission, aren’t we? Perhaps they’ll grant us sanctuary.”

  “There’s not going to be anyone inside,” James muttered, but dragged Mrs. Wylit after the others anyway. As a train roared by on the tracks a mere block away, they shuffled, bedraggled and pathetic, to the nave door of the ancient, crumbling house of worship — St. Mary le Wigford. To James' total surprise, it opened when Lance pushed on it.

  Their ears were immediately assaulted by the roar of a vacuum. Mrs. Wylit shoved the party inside to get herself out of the wet, and suddenly they were standing in the nave of the 900-year-old church. The sacred space swam in a mighty mechanical humming sound. Over this soared a deep bass voice that belted out “Chattanooga Choo Choo” as if to serenade the train that rattled past.

  For all the antiquity of the exterior, the interior was strangely modern. Tables and chairs were set up in the nave, for bingo or some such. Bulletin boards sat along the walls, pinned with historical information about the church, as well as fliers for community events. In the Lady Chapel on the far left hand side, next to the sanctuary, a willowy man with thick Buddy Holly glasses rammed a groaning vacuum over the blue carpeting. As he worked, he sang his lungs out to fill this ancient house of the Lord with the words of a Glenn Miller song.

  When the singing janitor saw them, he gave a violent start, and dropped the handle of the vacuum. He gaped a moment, and then scooped it up and flipped the switch off. “You’re lucky I don’t have a heart condition,” he called through the echoey chapel.

  “Sorry to startle you.” Lance wove through the tables and chairs to stand at the edge of the chapel’s blue carpet.

  “It’s too dark to get a proper picture of the dedication stone.” The willowy janitor shoved his thumb up under his short-billed hat and scratched his forehead. “I suppose you can look around inside a few minutes, but then I’m off.”

  Arthur lumbered up to Lance’s side, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Sanctuary,” he said.

  The janitor froze, in mid-wind as he coiled up the vacuum cord. “What’s that?”

  “We need sanctuary,” Arthur repeated, and his deep rich voice reverberated through the church in a way that was instantly holy. “We’re strangers here and we have no place to stay.”

  James shifted uncomfortably as Mrs. Wylit’s rancid breath rolled over his neck. There was no way this was going to work.

  “San
ctuary?” The man’s voice gave an adolescent squeak. He cleared his throat. “Well. I mean, if you ask for sanctuary, I suppose — well, I’m not the priest, but I know what Father Dale would say.”

  They waited a long beat.

  “And he would say...” James began.

  “Oh. Yes, that you could stay. Mmm. Yes.” Speedily, he wrapped up the cord and strapped it to the side of the bulbous machine.

  “T-thank you,” Arthur stuttered. He shook his head, the way he always did when the childhood impediment returned, as if he could buck it off of his mouth like a horse throwing a rider. “You’re very kind.”

  “Please don’t leave it a mess.” the janitor called over his shoulder as he lugged the vacuum into a nearby closet. “We have a christening in the morning.”

  “You’ll never know we were here.” Lance held up one hand while placing the other over his heart.

  “In the storage room you’ll find some cots and blankets and things. We were a shelter during the war.” The janitor removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his nose on it. “Allergic to dust. Imagine that. Now I can’t swear to the condition of said cots and blankets. Might be motheaten or some such.”

  “Please, don’t trouble yourself.”

  “Here.” The willowy man hurried across the nave to a small table that also held a bingo cage full of multicolored balls. He lifted up a huge metal lunch pail and set it next to the cage with a definitive clank. “Sandwiches, and an apple. I brought it in, but went to Mum’s for tea this afternoon and she stuffed me.” He rubbed what James thought was no more than a microscopic bit of pudding tum.

  Arthur tried gallantly to refuse taking the man’s supper, but the janitor insisted. “I had a feeling I’d be doing the Lord’s work tonight,” he said, stepping into his wellies and pulled on his mackintosh. “Sometimes when I’m here cleaning the church I get a tingle, just right here.” He quivered his fingers at the base of his neck. “That’s our Father telling me it’s time to do his work. I thought, ‘God, how can I do your work so late at night when I’m going to go home and go right to bed? I’m too knackered to do your work, Lord.’ And behold, here you all are. And I still get to go home to bed!”