Isolated Judgment

by Jonathan Watkins

  “There we go,” Theresa announced, and squeezed Issabella’s elbow. “That’s the ticket, right there, Izzy. Come on.”

  She followed, and soon they were standing in front of a long row of booths that offered every variety of medieval—and fantasy-themed souvenirs imaginable. Pewter dragons lined the shelves, and knights, castles, maidens and kings. Jester caps hung from the roofs. Toy swords and poleaxes were poking out of barrels. There seemed no end to the variety, and Issabella kept scanning the wealth of knickknacks until she found the unicorns.

  Theresa was already there, staring intently down at the rows of horned beasts. Issabella stepped up next to her and noted that the selection was quite broad. There were little pewter unicorns, and glass unicorns, plastic unicorns, and little carved wood unicorns. Some were large, some small. Some were rearing, some curled up as if asleep, and others standing in majestic poses.

  She watched Theresa’s face become solemn, her eyes half-lidded and flat, scanning from one unicorn to the next, appraising. The big woman had adopted the air of a serious bidder at a fine art auction—all business.

  “This is going to take a while, isn’t it?” Issabella whispered.

  “Only if you keep interrupting my process, Izzy.”

  “Process? What process?”

  “Shush.”

  Issabella sighed and contented herself with people-watching while Theresa remained rooted in contemplation. Families wandered all about, mostly with faintly bored expressions. Their kids jounced around beneath them, faces smeared with pop stains and chocolate, toy swords swooshing hither and yon. Not far away, a puppet show was underway and Issabella watched as a bobblehead puppet king swung a scepter at a colorful puppet dragon. The dragon’s head turned into a burst of confetti streams, and some of the kids surrounding the show laughed and applauded. One of them shouted, “That’s so fake,” and she watched a stern mother lead him away from the group by the arm.

  “Tell me what you think,” Theresa said, and held a glass unicorn up in between them. Issabella peered at it. It was standing on all fours, its mane frozen in a whipping motion. The glass was clear with little streaks of pink running through it. The horn was a darker pink, becoming red at the point.

  “It’s nice,” she said. “You should get it.”

  “Oh, I am. I’m getting all of them, Izzy,” Theresa enthused, her eyes suddenly bright with unicorn hunger.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “You know I’m not.”

  “There’s, like, thirty of them.”

  “Forty-two.”

  “Then why not just have them ring them all up now and call it a success? We can go get a pop or something and relax awhile.”

  Theresa sniffed and gave her a look.

  “You don’t just scoop them all up at once,” the big woman explained patiently. “Imagine if you were getting adopted. You want to just get herded up with all the other orphans and piled into a bag? No, you gotta pick each one out, so it knows you’re adopting it specifically. That way they all know they’re part of a family and not just, you know, a...a collection.”

  Theresa saw Issabella looking at her in confusion as she said that last part, and the tavern owner’s cheeks flushed with apparent embarrassment. She set the unicorn back down and made a show of studying the others.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yeah, but I seen that look.”

  “There was no look, Theresa.”

  “You don’t approve. Well, whoop-dee-do. Nobody asked you to.”

  Eventually, she nodded toward the attendant behind the booth, who sauntered over.

  “Gimmee all of these,” she said, one hand waving to encompass the herd of unicorns. The attendant’s expression turned puzzled, and he opened his mouth to voice the obvious question, but she cut him off.

  “Yep. All of ‘em. No foolin’.”

  While the attendant started ringing up the herd and placing the little unicorns in a bag, Issabella watched Theresa and felt inexplicably cruel. The tavern owner had a way of doing that to her. Theresa had been Darren’s friend long before Issabella had met either of them, and there was still a hint in her interactions with the woman that suggested Issabella was somehow an interloper. That feeling didn’t always present itself, and it had become less frequent over time.

  But, still, there was a prickliness around Theresa Winkle that essentially said, You’re good for Darren. But you and I know you wouldn’t give me the time of day if I wasn’t his friend.

  Standing there amid the bustle of the fair, watching Theresa make a point of not looking at her, Issabella felt her usual sheen of polite civility melt away.

  “I don’t deserve that,” she said. “You’re my friend, too.”

  Theresa peered at her like she’d suddenly grown a third eye.

  “What?”

  “My friend,” Issabella repeated. “Not just Darren’s. You’re my friend, Theresa. At least, I would be your friend. If you’d let me.”

  Theresa watched the unicorns disappearing into the attendant’s bag. She brought out a wad of bills from her purse, still making a point of not looking at Issabella.

  “Fine.” Issabella sighed, and started to wheel away. “I’m getting a pop and finding something fun to do. See you later, Theresa—”

  “Izzy, wait.”

  Issabella stopped.

  “I wasn’t judging you,” she said.

  “Okay. Never mind about it.”

  Theresa handed the money over to the attendant. He passed the bulging bag of figurines to her, his obvious delight at clearing out his entire inventory masking any alarm he might have felt at the extravagant purchase.

  “Ready to go?” Theresa said to her.

  “Not if you’re mad at me.”

  “I ain’t mad. I just don’t know why I get that kind of look.”

  “You just bought fifty unicorns, Theresa.”

  “No, I bought forty-two unicorns.”

  “We can’t kid each other is what you’re saying,” Issabella snapped. “I mean, that’s the deal, right? You can call me princess all day long, but if I raise an eyebrow at you, suddenly we’re not friends poking fun at each other. Suddenly I’m a bad guy.”

  Theresa seemed taken aback by the accusation. She looked down at the bag in her hands.

  “I feel like an ass,” she said after a while.

  “That’s not what I was trying to do. It’s just...I thought after Darren went missing last year, and you and I...”

  Teamed up, she wanted to say, but it sounded corny in her mind. Teamed up to rescue him. Kidnapped my father. Marched into an abandoned book depository with a shotgun.

  Teamed up was the right term. They’d acted in concert and done what they could to remedy a horrific situation. And ever since then, she’d been waiting for some sign from Theresa that they had reached a new plateau together, a level of friendship that wasn’t affected by their different relationships with Darren Fletcher.

  She wanted to be Theresa’s friend. Full stop.

  “Let’s just skip it,” Theresa mumbled.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Yeah. I know. You want to talk about feelings, right?”

  “Am I your friend, Theresa? That’s all I want to know.”

  * * *

  The Black Knight lunged and the King met his sweeping charge. Their swords rang across the tourney yard in front of the faux castle front. A smattering of cheers went up from the assembled crowd of festivalgoers.

  “Let this be your final warning, King Roderick,” the Black Knight bellowed through the heavy iron helmet. “Yield your lands to me! Yield me your titles and the hand of your fair daughter! Do this, and your life may yet be spared!”

  The King glowered at him from across the tourne
y yard, the crown on his head sitting crookedly.

  “Never!” he shouted back. “On my honor, I say thee nay, base coward! All you shall have from me is a length of steel through your black heart!”

  “Bold words! I’ve slain every one of your knights! What chance have you against my blade?”

  The King stood straight, planting his feet wide apart. He held his sword out with both hands, the point aimed at the sun directly overhead.

  “It is you who art a fool,” he roared. “For you face no knight this day, villain! You face a king!”

  More applause rose as they came together again, both men moving in easy, practiced unison. The swords glanced off each other, they grunted and groaned, and the dance went on.

  Among the front row of spectators, Darren was contemplating abandoning his promise to Issabella. Off to his left, there was a large tent whose signage promised all forms of “mead, ale, and local brews.” He was readying to make his way back through the crowd when he noticed the Black Knight falter.

  The kid in the king outfit had gone to one knee, feigning weakness under the Black Knight’s attack. The Black Knight’s sword swept up into the air, poised to pierce down into the prone monarch. In his mind’s eye, Darren saw Daniel on the beach, pinned under the massive sword that had killed him.

  The sword wavered in the air, catching the sun’s light, flashing with intent.

  But then...nothing. The Black Knight remained where he was, sword held high. He seemed frozen. He remained like that for several long, awkward moments. Darren glanced around, noted the confusion on the faces of the crowd. He looked at the King, and saw confusion etched there as well. The duel had come to an abrupt, unscripted halt.

  Then the sword did come down. The Black Knight’s gauntlets trembled open and the blade thumped lifelessly into the grass at his feet. Shaking, the man in the armor suit sank down to his knees. The gauntleted hands yanked at the helmet until it came off and joined the sword in the grass.

  Darren was looking at a sweat-bathed young man in the throes of some sort of attack. His face was fish-belly pale, and his eyes stared blindly around, as if he wasn’t really seeing the crowd at all. Ringed by an elaborate beard of dangling tufts, his mouth hung slackly open. He looked like a man staring into something horrifying, transfixed and unable to look away.

  Inside him, Darren felt a twinge of kindred sympathy. He knew what it was to stare into a gruesome memory, to be seized by it and lost to it.

  “Is he alright?” someone called out.

  “Buddy, you okay?”

  “He’s having a heart attack!”

  The kid in the king’s costume rushed over and kneeled down next to the shivering knight, his mouth moving to form questions that were too soft for Darren to hear.

  “I’m calling an ambulance,” someone near him in the crowd muttered.

  Darren watched the Black Knight’s face crumple in on itself, bunching up tight as tears sprang onto his cheeks. A wrenching sob leapt out of the knight’s mouth, and Darren thought, Hello, Michael. You weren’t so very hard to find after all, were you?

  A flurry of purple appeared in the corner of his eye, and Darren turned to watch as a young woman rushed toward the two former combatants. She was dressed in a tight purple gown that swished around her feet as she ran. Her generous breasts, already straining against the too-small bodice, jounced wildly, threatening to spring loose in full view of the assembled families. As she ran, she tugged fiercely up at the bodice.

  Managing to forestall that particular humiliation, she swept down on the crying heap of black armor, folding herself protectively around him, and Darren saw her face clearly.

  A jolt ran through him. He recognized her.

  * * *

  Theresa bit into the giant turkey leg she’d bought, and grease ran down her chin as she chewed happily.

  “That looks like something from The Flintstones,” Issabella quipped, and sipped her pop.

  “This is so good,” Theresa agreed, and took another bite of the massive, deep-fried leg. “I never seen a turkey with legs this big. If I ever do, I’m going to kill it myself and cook it. Turkey this big, I could feed myself for a week.”

  Not far from where they were standing, kids stood in a line waiting their turn to ride on a wooden jousting horse. It was attached to a long rope, with a second rope that pulled the horse along the path of the first. When the rider reached the midway point, a second wooden horse with a stuffed knight atop it would reach them, propelled on an identical rope system. Issabella noted that, whether or not the kid’s plastic javelin struck him, the stuffed knight would fall limply down to the ground.

  Some of the smaller kids left the ride in an excited fashion, but the older ones meandered away with obvious dissatisfaction.

  “I can’t believe I never came here before,” Theresa continued. “I feel like a pig in slop. I mean, come on. Unicorns and knights and giant, greasy turkey legs? This is the coolest place I ever been, Izzy. Hands down. I gotta get some T-shirts still.”

  “You’re going to go broke here if I let you.”

  Theresa smiled and wiped grease from her chin.

  “I saw something I’m going to get you, too,” she said. “They’re selling little ivy wreaths with streamers on them. I’m gonna buy you a princess wreath, Izzy. And you have to wear it all the way back home. Deal?”

  “Only if you call me Princess Izzy.”

  “I already do.”

  “I mean without the derision.”

  Theresa chuckled and wrapped the turkey bone she’d picked clean in a napkin. She patted at her chin, and gave Issabella a wink.

  “I know you’re my friend,” she said. “Okay?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry for getting my back up about the unicorns. You’re right, okay? I didn’t forget what we went through. You’re a solid person, Izzy. More than most anyone. I get prickly. I know that.”

  “Okay,” Issabella agreed, and left it at that. She felt good. Standing there in the September sun, watching the big woman revel in the medieval themes of the fair, Issabella just wanted to enjoy that while she could.

  I should get her out of that bar more often, she decided. Just her and me.

  She was opening her mouth, not altogether certain exactly what she was going to propose, but feeling the need to make some date where the two of them would go out and do something together, when Darren appeared out of the throngs of people nearby.

  The whiskered lawyer had a flushed, triumphant look, and when he spotted the two women he pointed excitedly off in the direction he was headed.

  “Bad Porno!” he shouted.

  Theresa and Issabella both stared.

  “Come on!” he yelled, moving away from them at a hurried pace. “Bad Porno! I win!”

  Issabella felt the blood rushing to her cheeks as she watched the strangers assembled nearby look from Darren’s retreating form and back to her. A woman frowned disapprovingly and guided her child away.

  Theresa tossed the napkin with its turkey leg in a nearby trash can. She picked at her teeth and arched a brow at Issabella.

  “How drunk do you think he is?” the big woman said.

  “He’s not...”

  “Maybe he bought a flagon of mead. They sell that here.”

  Issabella remembered the hotel room. She remembered holding the vulgar, poorly drawn pornography up in front of Darren, and his remarking that the face was surprisingly well-defined.

  Rebecca, she thought.

  “Crud,” she said, and tossed her pop in the trash can. “He’s winning the game!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ludolf was sitting in the grass beside Daniel’s grave, his flat cap held loosely in one hand. Sam fretted around the rectangle of dirt, huffing and making low
whining sounds, as if the yellow lab knew what was hidden below.

  Of course he knows, the old groundskeeper thought, and took another swallow from the pint he’d carried with him from the estate house’s basement. He can smell Daniel, still. A year from today, the hound will know what is down there.

  The thought of Sam mourning over the plot of dirt months from now deepened the bleak feeling he’d been nurturing since finding Daniel on the beach, so he took another swig and told himself it would be alright to mourn today. Today he could let the sadness out and not feel unmanned by it.

  “I told you I would return,” he said to the grave. “To say our goodbyes, yes? It is not proper, being fed into the dirt and forgotten without words. I know this. Many went that way, Daniel. Not buried, like you. Burned. Fed into the sky. And nobody to say words over them. It’s a sin, I think, not to speak for the dead.”

  Sam cocked his head, and for a moment it looked for all the world as if the dog was listening to Ludolf’s words and considering them. But then the Labrador whined again and loped off into the surrounding woods. Ludolf listened to Sam plunging away through the brush, until the little clearing was silent again.

  “I should say you were a good boy,” Ludolf continued. “That is the sort of thing people say for the dead. You tried to help me. With the weeding, you were not so good. And with the mowing, not so good. And you threw your cigarettes all over my lawn, Daniel. I don’t have those to chase after anymore. But you liked to help me. You tried to be useful, yes? This is not a bad thing. When the Judge tells me his nephew is to come and live here, I am very nervous. And then I see you. Not a boy. A grown man, with a boy inside him. I am very nervous. But you try to help, and you try to make conversation.”

  He took another swig from the bottle and gritted his teeth against the sting rolling down into his belly.