"Well... give me the inside scoop. You gotta know something that wasn't in the paper, Lily."
"I doubt it." Bobo loved to talk, and I knew he'd follow me around the house if I gave him the slightest encouragement.
"How old are you, Bobo?" I asked.
"Oh, I'm a senior. I'm seventeen," he said. "That's why I'm outta class early today. You gonna miss me next year when I go off to college, Lily?"
"You know it, Bobo." I got the Mop & Glow from the cupboard, then turned the sink water to hot. "For one thing, I ought to charge your parents less money because I won't have your mess to clean up."
"Oh, by the way, Lily..."
When he didn't finish his sentence, I glanced over, to see Bobo was blushing a bright red.
As I raised my eyebrows to show I was waiting for him to finish his sentence, I squirted some cleaner on the floor. The water was running hot; I squeezed out the excess water and began to mop.
"When you were cleaning my room the other day, did you happen to find... something... ah, personal?"
"Like the condom?"
"Um. Right. Yeah." Bobo stared at something fascinating by his right foot.
"Um-hmm."
"What'd you do with it?"
"What do you mean? I threw it away. You think I was going to sleep with it under my pillow?"
"I mean... did you tell my mom? Or my dad?"
"Not my business," I said, noting that Howell Winthrop, Jr., came a decided second on the list of people Bobo feared.
"Thanks, Lily!" Bobo said enthusiastically. He met my eyes briefly, his shoulders relaxed: He was a man looking at blue skies.
"Just keep using them."
"What? Oh. Oh, yeah."
And Bobo, if possible, grew redder than before. He left with a great show of nonchalance, jingling his keys and whistling, obviously feeling he'd had an adult conversation about sex with an older woman. I was willing to bet he'd be more careful disposing of personal items in the future, as well he ought.
I found myself singing as I worked, something I hadn't done in years. I sing hymns when I'm by myself; I know so many, from the countless Sundays I'd spent sitting with my parents and Varena in church - always in the same pew, fifth from the front on the left. I found myself remembering the mints my mother always had in her purse, my father's pen and the notepad he produced for me to draw on when I got too restless.
But thinking of my childhood seldom brings me anything but pain. Back then, my parents hadn't cast their eyes down when they spoke to me. They'd been able to hold conversations without tiptoeing verbally around anything they thought might distress their ravaged daughter. I'd been able to hug them without bracing myself for the contact.
From long practice, I was able to block out this unproductive and well-traveled train of thought. I concentrated on the pleasure of singing. It's always an amazement to me that I have a pretty voice. I'd had lessons for a few years; I used to sing solo in church, and perform at weddings from time to time. Now I sang "Amazing Grace." I reached up to brush the hair out of my face when I was finished, and it was a shock to find it was short.
Chapter Eight
I'd almost forgotten my sedentary neighbor's participation in the Wednesday-night class. It sure hadn't looked like he was having a good time, so I was surprised to see Carlton warming up when I bowed in the doorway. He was trying to touch his toes. I could tell from the way his mouth twisted that movement was painful.
"The full soreness has set in, huh?" I said as I sat on the floor to pull off my shoes.
"Even my hair hurts," he said through clenched teeth as he strained downward. His fingers just managed to touch the tops of his feet.
"This is your worst day," I told him.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"I thought maybe it would help to know that tomorrow won't be so bad." I rolled my socks in a neat ball and stuck them in my right shoe. I stood, rotated my neck gently, then bent from my waist and put my hands flat on the floor. I gave a sigh of pleasure as my back stretched and the tension of the day flowed out.
"Show-off," Carlton said bitterly.
I straightened and looked him over. Carlton was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. To the untrained eye, he would have looked pretty good, but I could see the lack of definition and development in his arms and thighs. Overweight, he wasn't; in shape, he wasn't.
Marshall came in and gave me a private smile before one of the other students approached him with a question. I followed him with my eyes for a moment and then considered Carlton, who was on the floor, his legs spraddled to either side, trying to touch his chest to the right leg, then the left. Carlton's thick black hair, normally gelled and swept behind his ears, was getting wild as he straightened and bent, straightened and bent. I pulled the top of my gi out of my gym bag and slid into it, then tended to the tying of the belt.
"So, Carlton. Remember the subduing hold we practiced last time?" I asked. Carlton scrambled to his feet.
"Ah... no. I had so much to learn that one night."
Marshall was laughing with a knot of the younger men in the class.
"Okay. Reach out to grab my gi with your right hand... . That's right. Now, grip hard." Apparently scared he'd pull me off balance, Carlton barely took hold of the loose material. "No, Carlton. You really have to hold on, or you'll think I was able to do this because you weren't exerting full strength."
Carlton, while increasing the force of his grip, looked distinctly anxious. "Oh, I wouldn't think that!" he protested.
"Now, remember? I reach up with my right hand, like so. ... I sink my thumb into the pit between your thumb and forefinger, to hit the pressure point - I got it, I see - and then I twist your hand so that the outside of it, the side of your little finger, is pointed toward the ceiling. ... Of course that rotates your whole arm, right?"
I could tell Carlton was remembering.
"Now I press your knuckles to my chest, being careful to keep your arm rotated. My fingers are wrapped around your hand, to keep the tension on... . My thumb's still applying pressure... and now I - "
"Nooooo," moaned Carlton, dropping to his knees as I applied counterpressure with my left hand on his upper arm and then bent over from the waist.
"Remember the distress signal Marshall showed you last time?" I asked.
Carlton shook his head, deeply involved with his pain.
"Slap your thigh with your free hand."
He lost no time slapping, and I let go instantly.
He looked up at me, his brown eyes wide in a pleading spaniel look that I suppose had been very effective on other women.
"That really hurt," he said after a significant pause.
"We don't apologize, Carlton," I said gently. "I taught you something. We all get hurt."
Carlton stood up, shook himself. He was having a little struggle with pride; his sensible side won.
"Well, here I am, learning," he said ruefully. "So I assume, to show you I learned it correctly, I get to do it to you?"
I reached out and grabbed his T-shirt.
I had to talk Carlton through the steps of hurting me enough for it to count. "Sorry, I don't have to go down... . Twist my hand a little more... . Now go slow. You really don't want to break my arm. Wait for a real fight for that... . Raphael, what is Carlton doing wrong?"
"He's not keeping you close enough," diagnosed Raphael.
"Okay, Carlton, you're backing off, which means I can get free, or I can at least kick you and make you let go. ..." To demonstrate, I lashed out with my foot suddenly, but I pulled back in time just to tap Carlton's groin.
With a gasp, Carlton let go.
"We'll practice later," I said. "You might feel better doing this with Raphael or one of the other guys, because most men get so anxious about hurting a woman partner that they don't give it their best shot."
"That bother you?" he asked.
"It used to. Now I think that in the real world, it would work to my advantage, and since women don't have men's upper-body strength, I need all the edge I can get." I eyed Carlton with my own curiosity. "Why'd you really start coming?"
"I wanted to see what you were so gung ho about. Three nights a week, for years... never missing, always on time. I thought it must be something that was a lot of fun."
"It is," I said, surprised that it could be seen differently.
"The fun is not apparent yet," Carlton said. I hadn't known his voice could be so dry.
"Oh, it will be. You just have to learn a little, and it won't be so confusing." Marshall was about to begin class, so I went to my place in line. I wasn't convinced that Carlton found me of such overwhelming interest that he felt like following my schedule, especially after our little exchange at my house earlier in the week.
"Kiotske!" Marshall called, and the class came to attention.
At water-break time, after calisthenics, Marshall drifted over to me. I could tell he was aiming for me, I was aware every minute of what he was doing as he said a word to this student or that. I was excited by his nearness, but I had not the slightest idea what to say to him.
"Did you hear anything else about what happened to Thea?" I asked after we'd given each other a little nod of greeting.
"No. The police said fingerprinting the doors didn't bring up anything unusual, and none of her neighbors saw anything. That little house has a grown-up backyard, so that's not too surprising. At least the rat was probably just caught in a trap, not tortured or anything."
"Was she very shook-up?"
Marshall's expression was peculiar. "Thea's pretty emotional," he said.
I wondered if Thea had pleaded with him to come home for her protection, a thought I found distasteful. I didn't want to set foot in the situation between Marshall and Thea. But of course if you have sex with a man, I told myself wryly, you're part of the situation between him and his wife automatically.
As I practiced buntai with Janet Shook, the only other woman who consistently came to class, it occurred to me that the hideous practical joke played on me at the Drinkwaters' might be related to the equally hideous prank played on Thea. Was someone else so enamored of Marshall that she was doing horrible things to women she perceived as being involved with him?
As much as the thought made my skin crawl, it at least made some kind of sense out of an otherwise-bewildering incident.
"Lily!" Marshall called. Janet and I stopped our striking-and-blocking practice, and I bowed to Janet briefly before running over to Marshall. He was standing with Carlton, and he looked a little exasperated. "You're a good teacher, Lily. Carlton and I are not - we're not meshing gears on star drill, and I need to help Davis on his kata. Could you ..."
"Sure," I said. Marshall patted my shoulder and moved on to Davis, a weedy twentyish man who sold insurance.
"Sorry you're stuck with me," Carlton said, though he didn't look particularly sorry.
"What part of this exercise are you having trouble with?"
"The whole thing."
I sighed, not too quietly.
"Okay, specifically, I'm having trouble remembering the sequence."
"All right. Get in shiko dachi... . No, turn your feet out... . Now squat some more."
Carlton moaned.
I dropped into position facing him. "Now, you face that way," I told him, pointing to my right, "and I'll face this way... . No, keep your hips in position; just turn the upper torso. ..."
"Explain to me again why we're whacking our arm bones together," Carlton said pathetically.
"To make them tougher. So we don't feel as much pain when we fight."
"We go through it now so we don't feel it later?"
"Ah... right. Now, forearms down, up ... switch sides! Forearms down, up, switch!"
"So," he puffed after a few more seconds, "what would you do right now if I leaned over and kissed you on the neck?"
"Well, you're standing in a position that leaves your genitals wide open. So I'd probably strike you seiken - that is, with a powerful jab, in the groin, and then when you doubled over, I'd get you with an elbow to the back of the neck, and when you were all the way on the floor, I'd kick you repeatedly."
"Better not do that, then."
"Better not."
"Just wanted to find out."
"There is something else I want from you."
"Name it."
"I want to know who's inheriting the apartments and all Pardon's other land holdings, if he has any."
Carlton grunted as I accidentally elbowed him. "A niece of Pardon's, the daughter of Pardon's dead sister. She called Pardon's lawyer yesterday, who called me, since she's going to be coming to town day after tomorrow to arrange for Pardon's burial. Ow, Lily! Not so hard! And go over his books with me. This gal lives in Austin, Texas. I'm sure you're gonna love her. She's a tae kwon do instructor. Pardon had mentioned her to me one time."
"Could that be why you're suddenly interested in coming here, rather than curiosity about my schedule?"
"Fifty-fifty, I'd say."
"I'd better warn you, goju is really different from tae kwan do. Philosophy, fighting technique, stances."
I shut up and accelerated the star drill until Carlton suddenly gave out. I'd been picking up the signals (shaking legs, increased sweating, a desperately determined set to his mouth) but had ignored them ruthlessly.