Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

“I know Ling,” John Richard said.

You idiot Jerk, I raged internally, take your son to the orthopedic surgeon yourself. I turned my attention back to Arch.

He was trying not to writhe in pain. Tears still streamed down his cheeks. I knelt beside him and asked what I could do. Miserably, he shook his head. Michaela appeared with a plastic bag filled with ice. She gently laid it on the rapidly swelling ankle. I wondered if she was thinking of the coup de Jarnac.

I said, “Maybe he should go to the emergency room at Southwest - “

“Let me go with Julian,” Arch said to me, his voice low. “Just let me, okay?”

“Dr. Ling is closer and better than Southwest,” Julian insisted. “If the X rays show Arch needs to go to the hospital, I can take him. Arch, can you sit up, put your arm around my shoulders?” When Arch nodded mutely, Julian deftly hauled him to a standing position. My son’s left ankle dangled, and he winced.

“I’m going with you - “

“No way,” Julian told me firmly. “Stay and handle the banquet. Have a couple of parents help you out. I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”

“Arch, honey, do you want me to come with you?” I asked.

“I’m okay, Mom.”

“I’m really, really sorry,” Howie Lauderdale gargled, increasingly distraught. “I was just trying to be aggressive, the way Dad - “

“Howie!” Buddy snapped. To avoid strangling Howie, Buddy, or both of them, I accompanied Julian, who supported a hobbling Arch, to the hall’s east door.

“Wait!” called Michaela in her commanding-coach voice. “We have something for Arch.” She snatched a trophy from her table and strode over to us. She announced loudly, “For Ninth-Grade Fencer of the Year.”

Arch’s tear-streaked face instantly lit up. The parents and kids all clapped. I would have been elated, if I hadn’t felt so miserable.

Easing Arch into the Rover proved difficult. Away from his peers, he squawked at every move that jiggled his injured foot. Around us, midwinter darkness pressed in. A high-pressure system must have moved across Colorado, though, because the air felt unusually warm - which probably meant it was forty degrees instead of five.

“Friday the thirteenth,” commented Julian as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Go figure.”

“You all right, hon?” I asked Arch for the hundredth time.

“I’m fine, Mom. We’ll call you.”

I cursed myself all the way back up to the Great Hall. Buddy Lauderdale must have told his son to press hard in the attack. I’d heard enough tales of fathers sharpening football spikes and bribing sons to crash into hockey and soccer goalies not to be certain of that. But I never would have thought Howie would play along. Of course, I’d seen Howie fence, and beneath that cherubic face was an ambitious athlete. Once he was in a competitive situation, he might be unable to stop himself. No doubt that was what Buddy Lauderdale had been counting on, when he’d called Michaela and said he wanted the two boys to fence tonight.

Arch had frozen when Howie commenced his attack. Why? Because I’d gasped, and ruined his concentration?

Was everything that went wrong with my child ultimately my fault? I didn’t want to contemplate that one.

Lost in thought, I stared at one of the Wet Paint signs plastered in our bedroom hallway. Was it really my gasp that had distracted Arch? Or could it have been something else? Was it possible Arch had seen something under the minstrels’ gallery? He’d been standing in virtually the same place where I’d been the previous night, when the boy-duke apparition had materialized. But if he had seen the ghost, why hadn’t he mentioned it? Too afraid of looking like a wimp?

In the castle kitchen, two team moms had somehow found Eliot’s key ring, unlocked the cupboards, and were poking around. Both expressed concern for Arch; I said he’d be fine. The women told me they were trying to help with the buffet. They’d lit the burners under the chafers and lugged in the hot platters. They’d had to be as quiet as possible, since Eliot was doing his castle-as-conference-center monologue. At least I wouldn’t have to hear that again.

One of the moms said, “He was looking for clients. And tossing in a little history.”

“Like croutons,” the other one added, giggling.

I smiled, thanked them for helping, and checked my watch: quarter to seven. The women gushed over the scent of the roasted veal and the garlic-laden, cheesy potatoes. They were only too glad to carry trays with the molded salads upstairs. I gently stirred the pans of shrimp curry and rice. When my helpers returned, we turned the rest of the food into the serving dishes, then trooped back upstairs.

“Ah, our feast!” Eliot cried when we made our entrance. He turned to his audience. “You are probably not aware that in Henry the Eighth’s time, one of the favorite meats was peacock, more for its glory than for its taste. So! In the kitchens of Hampton Court, a peacock would be skinned and roasted. The head, skin, and feathers would be set aside until the meat was cooked, and afterwards be replaced on the roast. The peacock’s beak would then be gilded, and the roast bird in all its feathered glory would be carried forth to the Great Hall!”

Under the low sparkle of the chandeliers, it looked as if all the guests’ stomachs had knotted and their faces turned chartreuse. By the time Eliot finished the peacock story, the students were mock-gagging. That would teach Eliot to discuss uncooked bird head, skin, and feathers. The exception was the Lauderdales, who were deep in a whispered conference. Howie Lauderdale, his head hung with guilt, would not meet my gaze. And then there was John Richard, who had refused to leave with his son, because his girlfriend had demanded they stay and eat the Hyde-subsidized dinner for which they’d paid. Now the Jerk sported his own plucked-peacock look, an expression of embarrassed surprise I had come to associate with Viv massaging one of his nether parts. Sure enough, her hands had disappeared under the table.

Eliot asked if there were any questions. The guests murmured. I didn’t quite have the food set up, so I was desperate for someone to ask something. Is it true chambermaids were sexpots? Anything. Does that woman with Dr. Korman count? On second thought, maybe we could skip the questions.

A parent called out, “Was this castle ever under siege?”

“Ah,” said Eliot, warming instantly to his topic. “Yes. But the siege ultimately failed. Now, when a siege succeeded, it was usually because there was a confederate within, or because the besieging army was able to bore underneath the castle foundations, or because the attackers had found another way to undermine the self-sufficiency of the castle, say, by poisoning their well.”

“What about that high-priced letter from that king?” another parent called. “Found any more of those?”

Eliot’s chuckle was indulgent. “Alas, no. The toilets, or garderobes, have all been thoroughly cleaned and restored, with no further finds. We got a royal flush the first time, what?”

Only a few people laughed. I grabbed a silver spoon, tapped a crystal glass, and announced that dinner was served. I asked the guests first to thank Eliot for his enlightening presentation. The parents and students clapped with much relief, then made a beeline toward the buffet table. I had the two team moms go first, demonstrating the way lines should go down each side of the buffet. Once that was under way, I hustled back to the kitchen for the plum tarts-with-zirconia, two cartons of vanilla ice cream, and the first quart of lime sorbet. As I sped back up to the Great Hall with my rich cargo, I wondered if any of those self-sufficient castles had ever had to deal with melting ice cream.