Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Call

by P. T. Dilloway

  Emma nodded and went behind a screen to change into the dress. It fit even better than she had imagined, like a second skin. When Emma stepped out from behind the screen, she saw Becky’s mouth open out of shock. “Holy cow,” Becky said. “You look amazing.”

  “I do?” She turned to the mirror. Her face turned red to see herself in the beautiful dress. She barely held back tears at the thought of how Mom would have reacted to see her like this.

  “It looks very good on you, dear,” Mrs. Chiostro said. “I don’t think I’ll need to do any altering to it at all.”

  “Thank you so much for this,” Emma said.

  The old woman smiled at her again. “You’re very welcome, dear. Now go take that off and we’ll see my sister about your hair.”

  ***

  Mrs. Chiostro led Emma through a cozy kitchen, to steps going to the basement. Halfway down, Mrs. Chiostro put out an arm to stop Emma. “Sylvia?” she called out. “I hope you don’t mind, but I have a girl here who could use your services.”

  “Yeah, sure, bring her down,” Sylvia said. The name and the voice made Emma think of the woman she had met at Dr. Dreyfus’s presentation.

  But the woman she saw at the bottom of the steps didn’t look very much like that woman. For one thing, she wore camouflage pants and a green tank top. For another, her hair was completely gray and cut to almost military length. Then there was the fact Sylvia was reassembling a machine gun.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said without looking up.

  Mrs. Chiostro patted Emma’s arm. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she said.

  Emma wished the old woman would stay because this basement gave her the creeps. Not only did Sylvia have a weapon in front of her, but also there were many more on the walls around her. Pistols, machine guns, and even rocket launchers. This was the person who would cut her hair?

  She pressed herself against the back wall, torn between staying and not hurting Mrs. Chiostro’s feelings or running in terror from this makeshift armory. Before she could decide, Sylvia finally looked up. At least her eyes looked the same as the woman’s at the museum. So did her smile. “Well, what a small world,” she said. “My niece has come to pay me a visit.”

  “Ms. Joubert?”

  The older woman put a hand to her head. “Yeah, you probably didn’t recognize me without the wig.”

  “Wig?”

  “I made it myself.” Sylvia came over to Emma and took a handful of her hair. “I could make a pretty decent one from this. Give you a good price on it.”

  “I don’t need a wig.”

  Sylvia snorted at this. “No, of course not. I meant I’d buy the hair from you.”

  “Oh, sure,” Emma said. That would defray some of the cost of the dress at least.

  “Come on, have a seat and we’ll see what we can do.”

  Amongst all the weapons, Emma didn’t see the barber’s chair until Sylvia motioned to it. The chair was the same olive drab as Sylvia’s tank top; Emma wondered if she’d bought it from the army. Maybe she’d gotten it with all of these guns.

  “You’re probably wondering about the guns,” Sylvia said. “Everyone does at first.”

  “It’s all right, you don’t need to explain.”

  “It’s a little side business of mine. Friend of mine got me into it years ago. Pretty lucrative trade.”

  “I guess,” Emma said, not sure what else she could say. It was grossly illegal to run a gun shop out of your basement, but she held her tongue and sat down in the barber’s chair.

  Sylvia began to comb Emma’s hair; she clucked her tongue at Emma. “You realize the ‘60s are over, right?”

  “What?”

  “When was the last time you had this cut?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A while ago.” It had been four years since she had it cut professionally; since then she had pulled it back and snipped a bit off with a pair of scissors once it got too long.

  “Sure looks like it. A girl like you should take better care of her hair. It’s too nice to let go to waste like this.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.” Sylvia leaned down so Emma could see her face. “Despite how I look, I do know something about hair. Been styling it pretty much since I was a baby. You can ask Agnes about that. She used to be my guinea pig.”

  “Oh. I didn’t mean—”

  “I know you didn’t.” Sylvia resumed combing Emma’s hair. “So what exactly brings you down here?”

  “I have a date. At the opera.”

  “The opera? That’s pretty fancy. You definitely don’t want to look like a flower child then. We’ll have to come up with something classy.”

  “Whatever you think is best,” Emma said. She still wasn’t sure she could trust Sylvia’s judgment, but with so many weapons around she didn’t think she should make the older woman angry.

  “Good. You relax and let me take care of things.”

  Emma bit down on her lip as Sylvia began to hack away with the scissors. Would she end up with a buzz cut? Maybe she would need to go in a wig as Sylvia had at the presentation. She shivered at the thought of Dr. Dreyfus stroking her hair only to have it come off in his hand.

  But when Sylvia held up the mirror, Emma gasped not in horror but awe. She patted the hair, which Sylvia had cut to about shoulder-length. Not only was it shorter, but it seemed thicker and wavier as well. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “I told you I know what I’m doing,” Sylvia said with a wink. She held up a bag filled with Emma’s old hair. “I owe you about a hundred. You want me to apply that against what you owe Agnes?”

  “That would be fine.”

  Sylvia stroked Emma’s new hairdo and said, “You make sure you take good care of it. You want, I can give you a list of some things to buy.”

  “Sure,” Emma said, though she doubted she’d be able to buy anything for a while.

  She hurried upstairs, where Becky squealed at the sight of her. “Oh my God!” Becky said. “Look at you!”

  “You like it?”

  “You look great, kid. Like a big girl.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mrs. Chiostro had the dress in a garment bag and then pressed a shoebox into Emma’s arms. Inside Emma found a pair of dark red shoes to match the dress. “Those should be a good fit for you,” the old woman said. “I found them up in the attic.”

  As promised there was also a pair of white formal gloves that went nearly to Emma’s elbows. She would have liked to try them on with the dress and shoes, but that would have to wait. “I don’t think I can thank you and Sylvia enough for this.”

  “It’s our pleasure, dear. And you be sure to come back and tell me how it went.”

  “I will.” She gave Mrs. Chiostro a brief hug and then left with Becky to catch the bus. Along the way, she couldn’t help but think of her upcoming date and picture Dr. Dreyfus’s face when he saw her.

  Chapter 19

  Emma was going on the date, but Becky felt as nervous. Emma hadn’t gone on a date since her senior prom and that had been a disaster. Becky hoped for better luck tonight. “You look great, kid,” Becky said.

  “You’re sure?” Emma touched her hair, which had remained smoother and bouncier than Becky had ever seen it. That sister of Mrs. Chiostro’s had worked wonders.

  “Of course I’m sure. You look like a million bucks.”

  “Is this lipstick too red?”

  “No, it’s fine. Trust me.”

  There was a knock on the door that caused them both to stiffen. Becky took hold of Emma’s shoulders to look her in the eye. “Go back to your room and wait until I get you.”

  “But—”

  “You have to make him wait a few minutes. You don’t want him to think you’re too anxious, do you?”

  “I guess not.”

  Emma went into her room while Becky answered the front door. Immediately she could see why Emma was so smitten with this Dr. Dreyfus. He looked so sop
histicated in his tuxedo, like a nerdy James Bond. Even the glasses looked good on him. Better though was the smile he flashed her.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m Dan Dreyfus. Is Emma home?”

  “Yes, she’s still getting ready. Would you like to wait in the living room?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  It was only then she noticed the bouquet of carnations and box of chocolates. She snatched the chocolates away from him. “She’s allergic to chocolate, but I’ll take them.”

  “That’s all right.” She glared at him as he shifted nervously. “I remember my first apartment. Shelves made of cinderblocks and a mattress taken out of the trash.”

  “We bought our mattresses,” she said. She and her previous roommate had bought them from the Salvation Army thrift store, but that wasn’t the point. She didn’t want him to think because they didn’t have chairs in the living room they were bums.

  “That’s great. So you’re Emma’s roommate?”

  “Becky Beech.” She shook his hand; he had an especially firm shake. “I’m also her best friend. We’ve known each other since kindergarten.”

  “That long? You must be really close.”

  “We are.” She straightened her back and pushed out her stomach, like a bear preparing to attack. “If you do anything to hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

  He gulped. “I would never hurt Emma. I like her.”

  “I hope so.” Becky tried to break the tension by smiling, but this only caused him to gulp with fear again. “I have to look out for her because she can’t do it for herself. She’s too sweet and trusting. Even after what happened.”

  “You mean her parents?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “I looked it up.”

  “Doing your homework, are you?”

  “I wanted to know more about her.”

  “You didn’t think to ask?”

  “I didn’t think she’d talk about that. Not to me.”

  Becky nodded. “She doesn’t even talk about it to me.” She wagged a finger at Dan. “You’d be better off not bringing it up.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to her.”

  “Good.” Becky cleared her throat. In a louder voice, she said, “I better go and see what’s keeping her.”

  As expected, Emma sat demurely on her bed, her eyes on the floor. “Is it time?” she asked.

  “Yes. Go make your big entrance.”

  It would have been a better entrance if Emma had more experience walking in heels. The careful way she plodded along made it look as if she were learning to walk. Dr. Dreyfus’s eyes still widened at the sight of her. Becky knew what he was thinking; she hoped he wasn’t thinking too far ahead.

  He held out the bouquet of flowers to her. “These are for you,” he said. He winced a moment later as Emma began to sneeze violently; her eyes watered and her face turned red. She quickly handed the flowers off to Becky, who dumped them into the trash. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you were allergic.”

  Emma wiped at her eyes and then shrugged. “Live and learn,” she said.

  He took her by the arm to lead her away, but Becky called for them to stop. She ran into her bedroom to find the camera her roommate had left behind. With this she snapped a couple of pictures of the gorgeous couple. “Just something to remember it by,” she said. She gave Emma a brief hug. “You kids have fun.”

  With that they left. Becky sank onto one of the beanbag chairs with the box of chocolates and hoped it wouldn’t take another six years for Emma to go on a date.

  ***

  The Coeur de la Mer was the premiere French restaurant in Rampart City. To get a table could take months if you didn’t have connections. At least that’s what the Zagat’s guide said when Emma looked the place up. She might have worried he couldn’t afford the place if not for the limo they had taken here and how new and perfect his tuxedo looked.

  They had not said much on the way here. Emma had a flashback to her ill-fated date with Craig Jenkins in high school, only this was different. Whereas then she had been too young for much of an interest in boys and irritated by the gallons of Old Spice he had poured on, this time she badly wanted to reach across the seat to touch Dr. Dreyfus. She didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. Becky had been right about that back in the apartment; she didn’t want to appear too anxious.

  “That dress looks great,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

  “From Mrs. Chiostro. We met at the funeral home.”

  “Oh, right. She does amazing work.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “I like what you did with your hair too.”

  Emma patted her hair. “Becky said it makes me look more grown up.”

  “It does—not that you didn’t before.”

  “I know what you meant,” she said. She almost reached over to pat his knee.

  Once they arrived at the restaurant, the driver opened the door for them. Dr. Dreyfus took her arm to help her out of the car. The restaurant looked as expensive as Zagat’s had said. The maitre d’ gave them a skeptical look as Dr. Dreyfus gave them his name. She blushed as she wondered if the maitre d’ thought she was Dr. Dreyfus’s niece or little sister instead of his date.

  He led them over to a table in the center of the restaurant. “Have a pleasant evening,” the maitre d’ said.

  The waiter came up to them with the wine list. As he recited the various wines and vintages, Emma’s face turned red, as did Dr. Dreyfus’s. He finally caught the waiter’s attention. “We’ll just have water right now,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said after the waiter had gone.

  “It’s all right. I’m not much of a drinker anyway,” Dr. Dreyfus said. He changed the subject. “It’s hard to believe you managed to get a doctorate so young. That must take a lot of studying.”

  “Yes.” Emma’s brain locked up, unable to think of anything to say.

  “What made you want to study meteors?” he asked. “Is that what you always wanted to do?”

  “I liked looking up at the sky and seeing the falling stars,” she said. “When I was little I used to wish on them. Later I started to wonder where they came from.” She went on far longer than she intended about the origins of most meteors from asteroid belts between Jupiter and Mars to debris on the edge of the solar system. She stopped when her throat became too parched to go on. She gulped down some of her water. “I guess it’s not very interesting.”

  “It is,” he said. There was a sincerity in his eyes that made her want to believe him.

  “Why did you want to study Egypt?” she asked.

  “Mostly because of my stepmother. She had a thing for Egypt when she was a little girl and saw Cleopatra in the movie theater. After she married my father—and his money—she started to collect artifacts. A lot of them were bogus, plaster spray painted with fake signs. Still, I spent a lot of time with them and I guess, like you did, I wanted to know where they came from.”

  She tried to think of something to say to this, but again found her brain frozen. She blurted out, “Have you ever eaten here before?”

  “Once or twice, when I was little. The duck was pretty good then. Not as good as in Paris.” He went on to talk about the restaurants in Paris he had visited with his stepmother. “Just about everything you order has butter or cream in it. The real stuff, about straight from the cow. If we’d kept living there I’d probably be three hundred pounds by now.”

  The waiter arrived to take their orders. In French she ordered the duck for both of them based on Dr. Dreyfus’s recommendation.

  “So you must travel a lot,” she said.

  “My stepmom didn’t like to buy from catalogs. She preferred going to the real Egypt. They’d cheat her anyway.” He cleared his throat. “But you must have had some fun in California. Did you ever go surfing?”

  “No. I had too much homework.”

  “Oh, right. I suppose you would.” Her face turned red again at this, as did hi
s. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I know.” Once more the conversation ground to a halt. The evening she had envisioned in her mind had fallen apart. She couldn’t shake the nervousness that gnawed away at her stomach. It wasn’t so much shyness this time as she didn’t want to say something to offend him, to push him away forever.

  Their meals arrived a few minutes later. Dr. Dreyfus took a bite of his duck. “This is great.”

  Emma chewed a bite of hers thoughtfully for a moment before she swallowed. “It is.”

  “Better than the last time I was here. Maybe it’s the company.”

  Her face turned warm. She tried to cover it by wiping around her mouth with her napkin. “I guess,” she mumbled behind the napkin. She looked down at her plate; the date continued to slip away.

  They didn’t order dessert. Dr. Dreyfus looked at his watch and said, “I guess we’d better go if we want to be on time.”

  As they went back to the limo, she sensed she had squandered an opportunity to get to know him better. In the limo she looked down sadly at her feet; she hoped the rest of their date went better than this.

  ***

  Emma knew things were doomed once they arrived at the opera house. She had made a terrible mistake in coming here with him. The moment she saw the place, she shivered. She thought of the last time she had come here. That had been for a charity performance, where her mother had played Elgar’s “Concerto in E Minor” on her cello. It had been her mother’s final performance; two weeks later she was dead. A memorial concert had been held, but Aunt Gladys had kept Emma at home; she had known the experience would be too traumatic for her niece.

  Despite that she was nearly twenty years old, she still felt traumatized to see the place again. Dr. Dreyfus helped her out of the cab, but she initially fought against this. She should never have agreed to this. She should have stayed home.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked. “Do you feel sick?”

  She forced herself to smile. She wasn’t eight anymore. She was a grown woman and she could do this. “I’m fine. My foot fell asleep.”

  It didn’t take much effort for her to pretend to have trouble walking in these shoes. They fit perfectly, but she had very little experience with high heels. They went up the front steps, into the opera house. Emma shivered again as she remembered all the times she had held Daddy’s hand in here as he took her to their seats. When she was really little he would put her on his shoulders, but by the time she was five she decided she was too dignified for that.