Charlaine Harris: Shakespeare’s Trollop

I could still see how Deedra had looked as she’d half-turned to tell me what the caller had proposed to do to her; her lower lip a glossy peach and her upper lip bare, her clothes and hair and demeanor just a careful step away from floozy.

“Did she say who she thought he was, the man calling her?”

I shook my head. “Can you check her phone records?” I asked.

“It’ll take a while, but we’ll get ‘em,” Marta said.

Her deputy stuck his head into the room. “I’ve finished searching the bathroom,” Emanuel said, his eyes scanning us curiously. “What now?”

“Extra bedroom,” the sheriff said. “And bag the sheets on the top of the washer.”

His head vanished.

“What about him?” I asked.

“What?” she said, as if she was about to get angry.

“Did he know Deedra?”

Her face changed, then, and I knew she was involved with Clifton Emanuel to some degree.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I’ll find out.”

Janet Shook aimed a kick at my stomach, and I arched back to dodge it. My hand shot out and gripped her ankle, and then I had her.

“Stop!” called a commanding voice. “Okay, what are you going to do now, Janet?” our sensei continued. He was leaning against the mirrored wall, his arms folded across his chest.

We had frozen in position, Janet balancing easily on one foot, my fingers still circling her ankle. The seated class, looking like a strange nursery school in their loose white gis, studied the problem.

Janet looked grim. “Land on my butt, looks like,” she conceded, after a moment’s evaluation. I heard a couple of snorts of laughter.

“Lily, what would you do next, now that you’re in control of the situation?” Marshall’s faintly Asian face gave me no hint of the best answer.

“I’d keep going up on the ankle,” I told him, “like so.” I lifted Janet’s right foot another inch, and the knee of her supporting left leg began to buckle.

Marshall nodded briefly. He faced the other class members. Like the rest of us, Marshall was barefoot and wearing his gi. Its snowy whiteness, broken only by the black belt and the fist patch on his chest, emphasized the ivory of his skin. “How could Janet have avoided this situation?” he asked the motley group sitting against the mirrored wall. “Or having gotten into it, how can she get out?”

Raphael Roundtree, the largest and darkest man in the class, said, “She should’ve drawn her kick back quicker.” I let go of Janet, though Marshall hadn’t told me to, because she was beginning to have trouble keeping her balance. Janet looked relieved to have both feet on the floor, and she nodded to me by way of saying thanks.

“She shouldn’t have kicked at all,” Becca Whitley rebutted.

“What should Janet have done instead?” Marshall asked her, a sweep of his hand inviting Becca to show us. She got up in one fluid movement. Becca often braided her hair for class-and she’d done so tonight-but she didn’t lay off the makeup. Her toenails were bright scarlet, which for some reason struck me as improper for karate… though scarlet toenails didn’t seem to bother Marshall, and it was his class.

Marshall Sedaka, our sensei, was also the owner of Body Time, where we were holding the class in the big aerobics room. I’d known Marshall for years. At one time, he’d been more to me than a friend. Now he straightened and moved closer to get a better view.

Janet moved away and Becca took her place, lifting and cocking her leg slowly so everyone could see what she meant to do.

“So,” she said, her narrow face intent, “I kick, like so…” Her foot began moving toward my abdomen, as Janet’s had. “Then Lily takes a little hop back and her hand reaches for my ankle. That’s what she did with Janet.”

I obliged, imitating my movements of moments ago.

“But,” continued Becca cheerfully, “that was a feint. I snap it back and aim it higher this time.” Her leg floated back toward her, bent double at the knee, and lashed out again at my head. Becca was one of the few people in the class who could even attempt a head kick with any hope of success. “See,” Becca pointed out, “she’s leaning to reach my ankle, so her head’s a little lower than usual.”

I held still, with some effort, while Becca’s foot with its bright nails flashed toward my face. Becca pulled the kick about an inch from my nose. I exhaled, I hoped silently. Becca winked at me.

“Good move, Becca,” Marshall said. “But not an option open to many of the people in this class. Carlton, what would you do?”

Carlton was my next-door neighbor. He owned a little house almost identical to mine on Track Street, so if I stood facing my house, his would be on the right, and the Shakespeare Garden Apartments slightly uphill to my left. With his thick dark hair and large brown eyes, Carlton, single and self-supporting, was a real honeypot to Shakespeare’s buzzing little hive of single women. Carlton went from one to the other, dating one for a month or two, then another; he wasn’t as reckless as Deedra by a long shot, but he wasn’t as careful as I was, either. In karate, Carlton was too slow and cautious, to his detriment. Maybe that caution, that deliberation, came from his being an accountant.

“I wouldn’t kick at Lily at all,” Carlton said frankly, and Janet and Raphael laughed. “I’m heavier than she is, and that’s my only advantage with her. I’d try to strike her harder and hope that would take her out of the fight.”

“Come try.” Marshall returned to his spot against the wall.

With a marked reluctance, my neighbor scrambled to his feet and approached me slowly, while Becca folded gracefully to the floor with the rest of the students. I dropped into my fighting stance, knees slightly bent, one side turned toward Carlton.

“I’m supposed to stand and let him try to hit me?” I asked Marshall.

“No, give him some trouble,” Marshall directed, so Carlton and I began circling each other. I moved in a sort of smooth, sideways glide that kept me evenly balanced. My hands were up, fisted and ready. Carlton was a lot taller and heavier than I was, so I kept reminding myself not to discount him as an opponent. What I didn’t allow for was the macho factor and Carlton’s inexperience. Carlton was determined to best me, and inexperienced enough to gauge his strike wrong.

He struck at my ribs, seiken, with his left fist, and I blocked him, my right forearm coming up under his striking arm to deflect it upward. I didn’t propel his arm sideways enough-definitely my mistake-so instead of his punch landing in the air to my right, as I’d intended, his momentum carried him forward and his fist smacked my jaw.

The next thing I knew, I was down on the mat and Carlton was leaning over me, looking absolutely horror-struck.

“Dammit, Lily, say something!” he said frantically, and then Marshall shoved him aside and took his place.

He peered at my eyes, asked me several interesting questions about what parts of my body I could move and how many fingers I could see, and then said, “I think you’re gonna be okay.”

“Can I stand up?” I asked peevishly. I was deeply chagrined at having been knocked down by Carlton Cockroft, of all people. The rest of the class was crowding around me, but since Marshall had said I was in no danger, I swore I could see some suppressed grins.

“Here,” Janet Shook said, her square little face both worried and amused. I gripped her outstretched hand and she braced her feet and pulled. With a little help from my own feet, I stood upright, and though everything looked funny for a second, I decided I was almost normal.