“It sounds wronger to everyone else,” Ben said. “So cut it out, kiddo, or Chizzy will smack the royal butt.”
“She says it too.”
A compromise was finally reached. In return for a tin of Almond Roca, Annamay crossed her heart and hoped to die that she would in the future say oh cow instead of oh bull.
She never hoped to die, Benjie was no stranger, the Almond Roca contained no razor blades.
The events of the week had, as a matter of course, to be reported to her cousin Dru. She wasn’t encouraged to spend the night at Dru’s house because Dru’s mother, according to Chizzy, carried on something fierce and was already on her third husband. But visits during the day were allowed.
The two girls swung on the glider in Dru’s patio, eating chocolate-cream wafers. Probably as a result of the fierce carrying-on, Dru was very sophisticated. She disparaged Annamay’s encounter with Mr. Cunningham in the buff as routine and boring.
“You are such a chee-ild,” Dru said. “Of course you’ll grow out of it in time. Maybe.”
Dru was more impressed by the account of the man with the tambourine and his idea that people should have a different name for every day in the week. The girls made a list of names with the first letters corresponding to those of the days, Misty for Monday, Tess for Tuesday, Wendy, Tanya, Francesca, Sandra and Sunny.
Dru was also interested in the man with the heart tattooed on his arm and the girl with the baby inside her. But she was skeptical of Annamay’s reporting.
“How do you know there was a baby inside her? Did she tell you?”
“No. But she was fat.”
“Lots of people are fat. Not all fat people go around having babies. I bet you don’t even know where babies come from.”
“I do so. The man plants a seed in the woman.”
“How?”
“Well, I guess he might hand it to her like a pill and give her a glass of water so she can swallow it.”
“Oh my God, you’re ignorant. A woman has other openings besides her mouth.”
“You mean she gets — well, like a sort of enema?”
“No, stupid. Not that opening, the other. Now do you understand?”
“Oh sure,” Annamay said, not wanting to put any further strain on Dru’s patience. Dru was inclined to pinch when she was annoyed and Annamay thought it best to change the subject entirely.
“Chizzy says we should never talk to strangers.”
“That’s a lot of bull,” Dru said brusquely. “I’m ten now. In another year or two I’ll be wanting to go steady and how am I going to meet somebody to go steady with if I don’t talk to strangers? You’re at that awkward age when I bet you’re not even thinking of going steady.”
“I don’t have to.”
“Why not?”
“I’m going to marry Benjie when I grow up.”
“Holy moly, you don’t think he’ll wait for you, do you? Vicki says he’s got women stashed all over town.”
“What does that mean, stashed?”
It was uncharacteristic of Dru to admit any doubt. “It means standing in line ready to marry him. One of these days he’ll weaken and pow, it will be all over, he’ll get married like everybody else, Vicki says. Vicki’s an expert on marriage. So if you don’t want to end up an old maid you’d better start talking to strangers.”
“I can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
The only adequate response to this was Chizzy’s poem. Annamay recited it with gestures.
“Do not talk to strangers.” Annamay shook an admonishing finger. “No matter whether they smile.” She smiled evilly.
Dru was annoyed. “Oh stop that stupid playacting and just recite the poem.”
Annamay began again.
“I never heard of brownies with razor blades in them,” Dru said, sounding so irritated that Annamay moved out of range of a possible pinch. “My fathers all use an electric razor. Can you imagine a brownie big enough to contain an electric razor? Chizzy is full of bull.”
“Run away fast,” Annamay repeated, imitating Chizzy’s doomsday voice. “Or this day might be your last.”
There were no brownies containing razor blades, there was no money laden with germs, no stranger in a car.
Chapter Two
The police came and went, came again and left again, throughout the summer. And toward the end of fall the funeral was held.
The small coffin was covered with camellias and white heather and here and there a bunch of cornflowers because they were the color of the princess’s eyes. The church was filled to capacity. Relatives and close friends sat in the front pews on the left, and on the right neighbors and Howard Hyatt’s business associates, and at the back on both sides were the well-wishers and the curiosity seekers and people who’d followed the long search in the newspapers. Also near the back were some who wanted to make sure they could get out quickly if necessary — Mrs. Cunningham with her son, Peter, on her right, and Ben York on her left. He had designed the Hyatts’ house as well as the princess’s palace and should have sat up front as a close friend. But he was afraid he’d break down in public as he had so often in private.
Peter Cunningham’s reason was different. He had allowed his mother only two double martinis before leaving their house and he thought that would hold her. But more and more people kept filing into the church and the music kept playing on and on and finally Mrs. Cunningham began to fidget. Her fingers wriggled in her lap like fat pink worms trying to escape their jeweled collars.
“Peter dear, do you suppose I could just slip out for a minute and—”
“No. It was your idea to come in the first place.”
“The music’s depressing me. I need a couple of Valium.”
“No.”
“Not even one?”
“No. And the music is fine. Debussy. Pavane for a Dead Princess.”
“What’s a pavane?”
“A dance.”
“A dance? What an odd choice.”
“Not if you feel like dancing.”
“That’s a naughty remark, Peter.”
“Ugly,” Peter said. “Evil. In poor taste and gross. But naughty? No, I think not. Try and avoid using that word in connection with anything I do, will you, old girl? It bears connotations of cuteness and I never do anything cute.”
“Sometimes you do.”
“Never. Comprennez?”
“Of course I comprennez.” She glanced at him reproachfully, then turned her attention back to the music. “One expects Bach or Mozart. Pavane for a dead princess, indeed. She was a little snoop. Do you remember the time—?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t suppose there were other times, that she ever saw anything? Do you?”
“No.”
“I really do need a Valium, Peter dear. Please?”
“No.”
“Someday you will regret this, Peter. Someday it will be my funeral and you’ll be sorry.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“I am in great despair and pain,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “And I’m beginning to hyperventilate.”
Benjamin, on the other side of her, could see her bosom heaving under layers of maroon silk. The little gold curls dangling from her maroon satin hat like Christmas ornaments had started to quiver and the silver bracelets on her arms clinked like the chains of a prisoner.