another dead fish, plus an orange rind, out of the cleavage of her dress while the man on shore glanced away in mild embarrassment.
She glared at him for a moment and then, in an attempt to restore some measure of dignity, took a majestic step forward, slipped, and fell flat into the mud.
Arthur reached down to help her but she waved him off, pulling herself to her feet. Using the sword to balance herself by thrusting it into the silt, she lifted one foot and pulled an empty cigarette pack off the bottom of her shoe* While one hand made vague attempts to wipe off the sludge, with the other she gave the still-gleaming sword to the man on shore.
'Thank you, lady,' he said, and bowed to her.
She pulled a crushed beer can from the hem of her dress and said two words in a musical voice that would have shamed the sirens of myth.
'Never again.'
And with that the Lady of the Lake turned and trudged slowly back as the roiling waters reached out to receive her.
Carefully Arthur examined his sword. They were two old friends, reunited at last. It gleamed in his hand, happy to see him.
He stepped over to a large, dead tree and swung at a low branch. The branch was as thick as the arms of two men, but the glowing sword passed through it without so much as slowing down. As if startled that it could so easily be severed, the branch hung there for a moment before thudding to the ground.
He heard the rustling behind him and he spun. Automatically he grabbed the hilt with both hands, holding the sword Excalibur in such a manner as to be both offensive and defensive.
His eyes glittered in the dimness. 'Who?' he called out. 'Who is there?'
But he knew the answer even before they stumbled forward. In the wonderment of it all he had completely forgotten about his two would-be assailants. He was fortunate, he realized, that they were as incompetent as they were. Had they been even mildly formidable, he would have left himself foolishly vulnerable.
As it was, they stumbled out with eyes like saucers. Chico came right to Arthur's feet and then, to the returned king's surprise, the scruffy skulker dropped to one knee. Groucho looked down at him curiously. Without returning the glance Chico reached to his partner's pants leg and pulled him down also. Groucho's knees crunched slightly as he hit the ground.
Arthur lowered Excalibur, holding the pommel with one hand and letting the blade rest in his palm. 'May I help you?'
'We swear,' said Chico fervently.
This came as no surprise to Arthur, but he waited with polite curiosity to see if that was the end of the pronouncement. It wasn't.
'We swear our undying allegiance to the man with the Day-Glo sword and the submersible girlfriend.'
King Arthur gave a little nod of his head. 'Thank you. That's very kind.'
There was a long pause, and then Arthur said, 'Is that it?'
Chico looked up at him as if Arthur were a drooling idiot. 'We're waiting for you to knight us.'
Arthur suppressed a cough. 'When hell freezes over,' he said.
Chico gave this some thought. Finally he nodded. 'All right,' he said agreeably. 'We'll wait.
Won't we?' He nudged Groucho in the ribs.
Groucho stared at him forlornly. 'My feet are cold,' he sniffled.
They left the park together, their feet crunching on the gravel of the path beneath their feet.
Chaptre the Fourth
The young woman stepped out of the shower, now refreshed and prepared to face the new day that was shining so nauseat-ingly through the bathroom window. It was the bathroom's only source of illumination, the fluorescents having burnt out some time ago. There had been no money to buy new ones.
She ran the towel over her slim body, rubbing it briskly across her back. Here in the womblike security of the bathroom, the day didn't seem quite so bad. She had just done the shower breast examination that she always dreaded, and was pleased to have found no lump in evidence. So she had her health, knock wood. And even better, she had a job interview this morning.
She wrapped the light blue terry-cloth towel around her body, and another towel around her strawberry-blond hair. She kept it short and manageable enough that drying it took only a few minutes. She was not one for wasting a lot of time on external frivolities.
She wrinkled her nose at herself in the mirror. She hated her face because it was perfect.
The nose was just right. The eyes were just the right space apart, the eyebrows just the right thickness. Her cheekbones were not too high or defined. Her skin displayed no mars or blemishes. She was, on the whole, very attractive, as far as most people were concerned.
But she did not agree. She longed for some distinguishing feature to 24
25
give her face the character she felt it lacked. All the truly elegant women, she believed, had some feature you could hang a description on. A majestic profile caused by highly arched eyebrows, or a nose that was a tad too long-that was what she wanted.
She had even gone to a plastic surgeon once. He had laughed at her. Laughed! He told her that his patients would kill for looks like hers. He'd advised against unnecessary surgery, and told her to go home for a week or so and think it over. She had never gotten the nerve to go back.
She padded quietly into the living room which doubled as an office. She found him-her boyfriend-as she knew she would. He was slumped over his typewriter, his head resting comfortably on the keyboard of the battered Smith-Corona manual. She ran her fingers through his greasy black hair and whispered, 'Hon? Honey, go to bed. You really should go to bed.'
He grunted as he stood, balancing himself against the table. His eyes did not open as she took him firmly by the shoulder and steered him toward the bed. He passed an open window and snarled, and she noticed with distress that he was developing a most unhealthy pallor.
'Hon, have you considered trying to get outside a bit more?' she said carefully. She was treading on tricky ground -the last time she'd broached such a subject, he had construed it as a criticism of him, and worse, an implication that he should get a job. 'How can I get a job?' he'd screamed at the time. 'I have my work!' He had then gone into a silent tantrum that lasted three days. It had been three very peaceful days for her.
This time he barely uttered a reply before collapsing onto the couch. It wasn't the bed, but she decided to leave him there. It wasn't worth the aggravation somehow, and besides, she had to get to the interview.
She had to get the job. She just had to. If for no other reason than that, within two days, the employment agencies would no longer be able to get in touch with her. The phone company would be disconnecting them then.
She let the towel drop to the ground as she looked at the small assortment of clothes that hung in her closet. She heard a stirring in the living room, and for one moment fantasized that he was waking up. That he would come into the room, see 26
her standing there as she was, naked, her hair wet, her body slim and supple. That he would take her in his arms and make wild, intense love to her.
He snorted and turned over on the couch.
She hoped against hope there would be further noise, but there wasn't. So she allowed herself the luxury of sitting down on the threadbare bedspread and sobbing for five minutes.
Then she dressed quickly and quietly, went back into the bathroom, washed the tears from her face as best she could, and let herself out of the apartment. The soft click of the door roused the man sleeping on the couch only briefly.
She looked up at the small office building on Twenty-eighth and Broadway. The words Camelot Building were stenciled in fading gilt letters on the glass above the entrance. An ironic name, she mused, for Camelot was a place of pageantry and legend. This slightly rundown building was hardly that.
The guard at the front desk was sixty if he was a day. A cigarette hung from between cracked lips as he said, 'Can I help you, miss?'
