One Perfect Knight

by Judith O'Brien

"Let's see," she said as she flipped through the seven pages of pointillism. "Where was I?"

  "Turn of the century," prompted a composed David. "Illustrious product."

  "Oh, yes. Right Of course. Okay, now. Picture the turn of the century, what it must have been like for those poor people back then, before Mr. Swenson's greatgrandfather offered a grateful public Shine-All. Just imagine it! The dull brass, the dismal-looking metals, dingy sinks. That is, if they were lucky enough even to have sinks. Dreadful, simply dreadful" She shook her head at the tragedy. "How terrible everyday life must have been, and…"

  The intercom buzzed again.

  "Excuse me!" she chirped, reminding herself to give Audrey a nice potted plant. "Yes?"

  "Julie, I'm sorry to bother you, but this man is most insistent."

  "Tell him he'll have to wait."

  "But Julie, I may have to gall security.

  "Security?" Mr. Swenson piped excitedly.

  "Why security, Audrey?" Julie asked.

  "This man here, well. He told me to tell you his name is Sir Lancelot!"

  Julie literally felt the color drain from her face.

  "Oh!"

  The art director beamed "I just knew she had something up her sleeve."

  With that, her office door was flung open, and Sir Lancelot, splendidly clad in his blue tunic, Excalibur drawn, entered the meeting.

  "Lady Julia." He bowed, then turned to the round, glass-topped conference table littered with half-eaten doughnuts. Everyone smiled. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Round Table," he added gallantly.

  "Lancelot," Julie began, pulling his arm. "How did you find me?"

  From his belt, he pulled one of her business cards, complete with her job title and address. "This, Lady Julia. One square parchment containing your whereabouts. And there were others."

  Of course, she thought. She had a box of them in her bedroom on top of the dresser.

  Lancelot examined the card. "You must employ many fine scribes to do this work," he said sagely.

  Betty from production clapped with delight, and Lancelot bowed and rewarded her with a handsome smile.

  "Okay, Lance." Julie began to push him out of hci office. "Please, can you wait out front? I'll be done here in just a while."

  The sword glinted under the fluorescent light, and she added, "And why on earth did you bring that?"

  "And would I leave it in such a dangerous place as your apartment?" Lancelot countered.

  "Fine. Just leave for a few moments, and ..:"

  "And," he continued, "you put Excalibur under your bed! What kind of person can shove the mighty Excalibur under a bed with worthless boxes!"

  "Hey, my shoes are there." She stopped before she mentioned the Barbie dolls.

  "Very well. But now look at Excalibur, the dirt and smudges. I need something that will clean it. King Arthur will be most distressed."

  At that, Mr. Swenson, like a congregant at a revival meeting, leaped to his feet. "Shine-All!" he shouted.

  The office, except for Lancelot and Julia, erupted into spontaneous appla. She looked at Lancelot, torn between this magnificent bit of serendipity and wanting to prevent the further tarnishing of his name.

  And then another thought crossed her frantic mind, Perhaps this could help elevate Lancelot. Maybe by using, of all things, an advertising campaign, she could fix some of the damage that had been done.

  It was just slightly possible.

  "Thank you, thank you." She nodded, grinning back ,it the Stickley & Brush crew, acknowledging the applause from the Shine-All executives.

  "Yes, ladies and gentlemen," Julie began, warming up to the topic. "Just imagine how different history would have been had Sir Lancelot himself been able to take advantage of the stellar properties of Shine-All! Perhaps that was all that was needed to ..:"

  "Shine-All?" Lancelot asked tersely. "What in the name of Merlin is Shine-All?"

  "Aha, Sir Lancelot. How pleased I am that you asked. Shine-All is the magical combination of secret yet all-natural ingredients that will make your armor shine, your sword glow."

  A sudden look of comprehension crossed Lancelot's features. She wasn't sure what he would do, whether he would simply storm out of the meeting after all, she was using his very real name and predicament to sell cleanser-or follow her lead.

  He blinked, and then, as if in anger and disbelief, he bellowed, "I cannot believe such a product exists."

  He was playing along! She wanted to hug him, give him a huge kiss. Instead, she continued her pitch.

  It was the usual ad routine, nothing new in the content. But in the delivery, that's where this was so very different. After hearing her praise the product, Lancelot held the sword.

  "Then I must have Shine-All, to restore Excalibur for my king and Camelot!"

  Julie applauded his performance along with everyone else, although she could see from his expression that he was more than a little dazed.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  "In truth," he admitted, "I have no idea what transpired."

  Mr. Swenson was very nearly performing cartwheels with delight.

  "This is stupendous, absolutely stupendous! I think I can speak for the entire executive committee when I say that we wholeheartedly back this campaign." He turned to Lancelot "And sir, I realize you are most likely a Shakespearian-trained actor of the highest rank, but I must shake your hand. What a twist! That all Sir Lancelot was doing was trying to clean Excalibur for Arthur-no stealing, no treachery. Just a decent knight trying to please his king. Excellent placement of Shine. All, naturally. Front and center. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant I wouldn't be surprised to see this becoming a new trend: the great misunderstandings of history! I can just see Richard III selling breakfast cereal, because the little princes were not murdered but simply wandered off looking for a better breakfast Or that Jack the Ripper would have been a great guy had he been able to get his hands on a package of safety razors. And.. ;"

  Julie nodded, trying to move Mr. Swenson along as gently and quickly as possible. "Andd what's your name?" he asked of Lancelot.

  Without hesitation, he bowed. "I am Sir Lancelot du Lac."

  Swenson grinned. "By golly, I'd almost believe you. Great job, excellent job."

  The agency people were as excited as the clients, all wanting to speak to Julie, to shake Lancelot's hand. A few wanted to touch Excalibur, but after Lancelot's initial outcry, Julie said that the finish wasn't dry on the sword, and they didn't want it ruined before the first print ads were even shot.

  "Lancelot," she said softly. "Could you please come with me?"

  He nodded. "Yes, Lady Julia. We need to speak. It is most vital I have been thinking about Malvern."

  "Oh?" she responded, noting the nervous stares and double takes Lancelot and his sword were prompting. They rode down to the ground floor, and she walked Lancelot to the street, hailed a cab, gave the cabbie the address and fare, and turned to Lancelot.

  "I'm so sorry, but I really can't talk right now. I have a ton of work to do. Here are my keys. Could you meet me at home? I'll try to get off early tonight and…"

  "I see." His lips were tight.

  "I feel awful about this, but really, I have to ..:"

  He didn't wait to hear the rest He grabbed the keys and got into the front seat.

  The driver, a look of alarm on his face, shouted, "Hey! What's the big idea!"

  "Sorry," Julie said. "He's from out of town. Lancelot, get into the backseat, not the front."

  Again without speaking, he slammed into the backseat.

  "Hey, lady," said the cabbie. "I ain't driving a guy with a sword. No way. So here's your money back, and get Prince Valiant here out of my car."

  "No, wait." She bent to see into the backseat. "Lancelot, I'm sorry, but maybe I'd better take Excaliber."

  "No."

  "Please. You have to understand that in this time, in this city, a sword is not a very good thing to have."

  "You said it was not
safe in your home. Now you say I may not carry it with me to ensure its safety. Then what is to be done about it?"

  "Well." She stood, looking over the roof of the car as she thought of a solution. "I have an idea. We have a safe at the agency. It's for when we have valuable items in the office, like rented jewelry for a shoot or something. I can put it in the safe for the day and bring it home tonight."

  "No."

  "What do you mean, no?"

  "I refuse to be in this place unarmed."

  The driver slid open the acrylic divider. "Listen, buddy, take it up with the NRA. Meantime, get out of my cab."

  "Lancelot," Julie snapped. "Please. Just give me the sword, and I'll keep it safe. Promise."

  He did not respond. He turned to her, just briefly, an expression on his face that was bleak and hollow. Then he looked away.

  The worst part was that as right as she felt she was in sending him back to her apartment, as correct as her solution had been, she was the cause of his misery. She was the cause of his pain.

  "I… listen. You've got to understand. Things are different here. And, well, maybe we can talk later," she said in a rush. He stared straight ahead.

  "Okay? We'll dear this up later. It's just that they need me upstairs. I'll take care of this, I promise." She patted the sword. He continued to gaze ahead.

  There was anger and humiliation on his face, and she longed to reach out, to apologize, to make up for what had happened, to thank him properly for saving the campaign and, in all probability, her job.

  "Lady, I got to go," the driver said, and she nodded and dosed the door.

  The cab pulled away, and she clamped her hand over her mouth. "Oh, Lancelot," she said softly, watching the yellow car weave in and out of the Madison Avenue traffic. "I'm so sorry."

  And for the rest of the afternoon, she was haunted by the expression that had been in his eyes.

  "So, buddy." The cabbie glanced into the rearvirlt mirror. "You from out of town, eh?"

  Lancelot dosed his eyes, wanting to be anywhere but in this moving contraption. Anywhere, anytime would be better.

  "You hear me? I asked if you are from out of town."

  "Yes," he said.

  "What?"

  "I said yes."

  "Oh. Where you from?"

  "Camelot."

  "Yeah? I got a cousin lives there."

  Lancelot looked at the driver for the first time. "You do?' he asked with interest.

  "Yeah, yeah. Camelot City. It's in Indiana, right?"

  Lancelot took a deep breath. "Yes. That's right." The driver continued talking, but Lancelot was no longer listening. Instead, he gazed out the window at the scenes of modern New York, watching the blocks roll past his view, the warehouses and the old factories from the last century.

  He wondered, dully, what sort of place this was, what sort of place she was from. Now he understood why she wept back in Camelot, describing this place. Now he understood how she felt and why she did not want to tell him any more about a place where a man could not carry a sword.

  The faces of the people. They were so different, so sad, as if they had long ago given up hope. When they stophed at a light, a woman wheeling a cart full of bags wheeled to get across the street. Immediately, without thinking, he leaped from the car and tried to help her.

  "Get away from me! Help!"

  He stood, stunned, as others ran to her assistance, not to help her with the cart. To help her with him, with Lancelot.

  "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I was just trying ..:"

  "Get outta here, you psycho," shouted a man with a patch over his eye. "Leave the lady alone!"

  He did. Wordlessly, he climbed back into the cab.

  "See what I mean, buddy? That's just what I was talking about. You can't do nothing nice for nobody."

  The driver continued, and Lancelot, numb, stared at the passing scenes. It was a blur, a haze of buildings and faceless people.

  Then he saw something.

  It was a large sign, obscured by a tree with pink buds in its branches. That alone was an incongruous sight, a tree in bloom. But still he could read what it said clearly, in bold golden letters against a royal blue background. The sign read "Avalon."

  It took him a few seconds to speak. "Please, stop!" he said, and then, tapping on the plastic divider, louder and more forcefully, "Stop!"

  The cabbie, who had been entertaining himself with a running monologue, finally slowed down. "Yeah?"

  `Please, could you stop?"

  The car pulled over to the curb.

  "You going to get sick or something?"

  `No, no. What is that?" Lancelot asked, pointing back.

  "Uh, the streetlight? The stop sign?"

  `No. No, the place a few paces back. It says, `Avalon.' "

  How odd it felt to say that word, a name that caused his heart to race. Avalon. It was an island he had heard of in Camelot, a place of magic and faith, of renewal and healing. Often, he had heard the tales of Avalon, of a wounded knight who was restored both body and soul by passing but a single night on the enchanted island.

  It was a place of hope.

  "Avalon? Oh, you mean the homeless shelter at the church."

  "I'm Sorry, I did not hear you correctly. Could you please repeat what you just said?"

  "The homeless shelter. You know, the place where people with no homes go."

  "No homes?"

  "Yep. Men out of work, between jobs, some have emotional problems."

  Lancelot craned his neck and saw a woman with three small children walk past the pink tree and into the door by the sign. "But there are women and children there." He pushed his hand through his hair in confusion. "There are children."

  "Sure, buddy. Kids are homeless, too."

  "I don't understand. There is so much money, so much wealth in this city. How could people not have homes?"

  The driver said nothing. "I'm getting out."

  "The lady told me to drive you to ..:"

  "I'm sorry. Um, do you have enough coin?"

  "Coin? Yeah, sure." He hesitated, then, as if against his better judgment, he said, "Aw, hell. Here's the change-you've only used half the fare."

  "Thank you," Lancelot smiled, accepting a handful of bills.

  "Tipping is at your own discretion," the cabbie added.

  "Tipping?"

  "Man, you sure are from out of town. Tipping. You know, like at a restaurant. A little extra, eh, coin if you feel the service was good."

  A dawning light crossed Lancelot's face, and he handed a few dollars back to the cabbie.

  "Hey, thanks, buddy. And good luck."

  "Thank you, sir."

  The driver grinned. He could not remember the last time a fare had called him "sir."

  Lancelot walked down the street, taking long, sure steps. He hadn't walked that way since being in New York, walking with purpose, with reason.

  He was walking to Avalon.

  Slowing his step as he neared the sign, he realized there was a line of people waiting to enter or to be let in. A few of the people glanced toward him, then away.

  It was as if he had been slammed in the midsection. He stopped, stunned by what he saw there. It wasm't their clothing, although some wore shabby coats, and one man's shoes were tied together with string. A child's hair was matted, although it had been tied with great care with a faded pink ribbon. It wasn't the outer trappings that caused him to halt.

  It was their eyes. There was something in their gaze, something hopeless and so very dejected. The world had forgotten them. Life went on for others, while those clustered about the locked door waited for entry, waited for admittance to a place that would shelter them.

  He recognized their eyes, for they reminded him of his own expression, the confusion, the loss, the uncertainty of what the future would bring.

  There had been no such thing as a homeless shelter in Camelot. Everyone there had a home.

  His memory stirred to a time before he found Cam
elot. Perhaps it had been more than a thousand years before, in a land vastly different. Yet the face of suffering remained the same.

  The people in the line eyed him with suspicion, in his blue tunic and high boots.

  "Hello," the little girl with a pink ribbon finally said.

  He returned her smile. "Hello."

  There was some commotion, and Lancelot was forgotten. The door swung open, and an exhausted-looking young man with glasses and a backward Yankees baseball held it wide, chatting with the people as they filed put him.

  "Hey there, Phil, what's up? Melinda, you're looking sharp! Hi, Dave. How's the leg?"

  One by one, he greeted them all, and one by one, they responded, sometimes with just grins, other times with shrugs, occasionally with snippets of conversation.

  A strange thought crossed his mind. What if Julia were homeless? What if something happened, and she was forced to wait outside for someone to let her in?

  Without thinking any further, he walked to the man with the cap.

  The man's smile faded. He looked at Lancelot's Aran attire, obviously well-buffed physique. "Yes?"

  "What can I do?" Lancelot asked.

  The man stared at him. "Nothing, man, nothing. This is an official shelter. We have a city permit, and this is our present location, buddy. Sorry if you're feeling the nimby angst of your property value going down, but..:"

  "Nimby?" Lancelot's eyes narrowed. "What does nimby mean?"

  The man in the baseball cap crossed his arms. "You know very well, Mr. Workout. It means `not in my backyard.' Listen, I've had enough with you rich guys. Have your lawyer send me a letter."

  "No, no. You don't understand. I want to help."

  "Say what?"

  "I want to help you. I want to know if there's anything I can do. Absolutely anything."

  "We could always use more money," he replied hesitantly, as if expecting Lancelot to pounce. "Why don't you just write me a check now, before you sober up?"

  "I have no money. Oh, wait." Lancelot had forgotten the balled-up bills. "Here," he said, pleased. "Will this help?"

  "Great. Eight dollars." He was about to hand it back, but there was something about this guy, something that made him stop and take another look "Are you new to New York?"

  The man nodded. "I guess it shows. But I do have a question."