Chrissy.”
Oh. He felt stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Less monster than tumor, less tumor than lowly
“Would you like tea, Princess Josephine?”
“Yes. I would like tea.”
“Isn’t this a pretty teapot?”
“Yes. It is pretty. And a teapot.”
“Shall I pour a full cup?”
“Yes. You shall,” Jocko said.
He was getting the hang of this. It was easier than he thought it would be.
Princess Chrissy said, “Something’s dripping out of your ears.”
“Sweat. Just sweat.”
“I don’t sweat out of
Jocko shrugged. “It’s a gift.”
“It’s icky.”
“A little icky,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t stink.”
As she poured the tea into the cups, Princess Chrissy said, “Princess Josephine, whose picture is on your dress? Is he a knight of your kingdom?”
Jocko wasn’t wearing a dress. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with his hero’s image on it.
“He’s the one, the only, Buster Steelhammer! He’s the face-smashing, butt-kicking, steroid-crazed, make- you-cry-mama
Princess Chrissy said she didn’t know what a wrestler was, they didn’t have wrestlers at the royal castle, and Princess Josephine, who was Jocko, was thrilled to explain. He wrestled himself around the floor. Got himself in a hammerlock. Which he could do because of the length of his arms. And the extra elbow joint. He stomped his right foot in his face, held his squished-up face to the floor. He didn’t have any hair to pull. Except the three hairs on his tongue. But he’d never seen any tongue-hair pulling in any show put on by World Wrestling Entertainment. He couldn’t pick himself up and body slam himself. He tried. But he couldn’t. However, he could do a lot of cool wrestler stuff. Which he did. And then returned to his place at the table.
Princess Chrissy giggled. “You’re silly.”
Her giggle made Jocko feel like a real prince. Or a princess. Whichever.
Princess Chrissy picked up her cup, blew on it, and said, “This is the only time I ever, ever had real tea to drink for teatime. Maid Erika brewed it for us.”
“What do you usually drink at teatime?”
“Air tea,” Princess Chrissy said.
Jocko drained the teacup in one swallow. “Yuch. Blech. Gaaaah. Gaaaah. Kack. Feh. Fah. Foo.” He stuck out his tongue and rubbed it vigorously with both hands. Grabbed up the fancy napkin. Wiped out the inside of his mouth. Blew his nose. Blotted the sweat from his ears. He said, “No offense meant.”
“You should ought to put sugar in it,” Princess Chrissy said, pointing to the four cubes left on the plate.
Jocko snatched up all four cubes. Tossed them into his mouth. Rolled them around. Better. But too sweet. He spat them in his cup.
“Wait,” he said, sprang to his feet, and pirouetted out of the room. Along the hallway. Into the kitchen. Around the center island. He liked to pirouette. When he was nervous. Burning up energy. Spinning to calm down. Oh, how his hat bells jingled!
When he returned to the living room, he brought a silver tray with two fresh teacups. A two-quart bottle of cold Pepsi. A plate of whoopie pies.
“This is how we have tea in my kingdom,” Jocko said.
He poured Pepsi in both cups. Didn’t slop any on the table. Didn’t just drink from the bottle. Threw the four plain-looking biscuits into the fireplace. Tossed a whoopie pie as if it were a Frisbee and caught it when it spun around the room like a boomerang and returned to him. Totally George Clooney.
Putting her tea aside, Princess Chrissy said, “This is lovely.”
“Very lovely,” he agreed.
“Princess Josephine, tell me the news from your kingdom.”
About to thrust an entire whoopie pie in his mouth, Jocko put it down instead. He was only Josephine’s stand-in. He didn’t know anything about her kingdom. Maybe he should lie. But lying wasn’t right. He had often lied. But it wasn’t right. He wanted to be a better Jocko.
Princess Chrissy said, “Tell me about your dragons.”
“There aren’t any dragons.”
“What about witches?”
“Nope. No witches.”
“Then tell me about your wizards.”
“No wizards.”
He saw she was unhappy with him. He was a bad conversationalist. Bad. Pathetic. Despicable. Horrendous.
Think. Think. Salvage the moment. Put the burden of conversation on her. “Your father, he’s the king of Montana. How many heads has he chopped off?”
“Silly. He doesn’t chop off heads.”
“Some kings do,” Jocko said.
“No, they don’t.”
“Some do. And torture people in dungeons.”
“No, they don’t.”
“They rip out your fingernails.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Princess Chrissy asked.
“Jocko’s just saying. Like in the history books. They brand you with hot irons and stick needles in your tongue.”
“You have yellow eyes,” Princess Chrissy said.
Now confidently holding up his end of the conversation, pleased to discover his social skills improving so rapidly, Jocko said, “They put you on this thing they call the rack, and they stretch your body until your joints pull apart.”
“You got scary eyes,” Princess Chrissy said.
From her armchair by the fireplace, Erika said, “Did you know that some angels have yellow eyes, golden eyes?”
“They do?” Chrissy and Jocko asked simultaneously.
“Did you know that angels have to know how to wrestle because they’re always wrestling devils?”
“Is Buster Steelhammer an angel?” Princess Chrissy asked.
“He’s too bad-ass to be an angel,” Jocko decided.
Outside, the growl of an engine rose, like a truck pulling into their driveway.
Putting aside her book, rising from her chair, Erika said, “Why don’t you talk about angels, just angels, while I see who that is.”
“It probably isn’t angels,” Chrissy said. “Angels fly, they don’t need trucks.”
Erika said, “That’s why I keep a semiauto shotgun handy, sweetheart.”
Chapter 43
In the interest of efficiency, a Communitarian needed to adapt to setbacks whenever they occurred. With the urgent need to finish bringing more order to the disordered barn and thus do her part to destroy humankind, Nancy Potter used the push broom as a crutch and hobbled into the tack room at the back of the barn.
