ice pack once more.
We sat in companionable silence. Cody was on my lap, Deke and Dunk moved back and forth between Frank and Jack, and Bingle refused to let any of them near Ben. Ben had his eyes closed and was stroking Bingle’s ears. “Tell me the rest of Parzival,” he said.
“Jack could tell it better,” I said.
“No, go ahead,” Jack said. “You’ve read it more recently.”
So I told of how Parzival went to Wild Mountain, and noticed that the Fisher King suffered some ailment, but having been warned by his mentor not to appear overly curious or to ask others too many questions, Parzival made no inquiries about the Fisher King’s health.
I described the great feast in the hall of Wild Mountain, during which the Holy Grail itself was brought forth. Parzival noticed that all the people of the castle looked to him in anticipation, and he was filled with curiosity about all that he had seen — but remembering his mentor’s admonitions, he asked no questions.
The next day, after a night of disturbing dreams, he awoke to find himself alone. Thinking it rude of his hosts to abandon him without so much as a servant to help him dress, he donned his clothing and went into the courtyard, where his horse was saddled, his sword and lance nearby. Angry now, he mounted and hurried to the drawbridge. But as he reached the end of it, someone gave the cable a yank, so Parzival nearly fell into the moat. He looked back to see a page, who cursed him and called him a fool. “Why didn’t you ask the question?” the boy asked, shaking his fist at the knight.
“What question?” Parzival asked.
But the boy merely shut the iron portcullis and left Parzival with nowhere to go but away from the castle.
“What was the question?” Ben asked.
“Parzival has to go through a lot to find out what it was he should have asked,” I said. “But basically, it was long ago foretold that only one person would be allowed to ever find the enchanted Wild Mountain, a knight who would end the suffering of the Fisher King by simply asking one question: ‘What’s wrong with you?’ So Parzival blew his big chance.”
“Does he get another one?” Frank asked.
“Yes, but it isn’t easy. Parzival is so ashamed, he loses all faith in himself and in God. Eventually he regains it, and eventually, he meets the Fisher King again. He finally asks, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ The king is healed, and everybody lives happily ever after.”
“Thank God Travis isn’t here,” Jack said, almost angrily.
“Why?”
“I’d hate to have that be his impression of the story! You skipped the most important parts of it!” he grumbled.
Ben yawned. “Don’t give her a hard time. I enjoyed it. And she’s given me something to look forward to when I read it myself. Thanks, Irene.”
Jack said good night, and Ben and Bingle went home. Frank and I stayed up a little longer, talking and not talking, more than satisfied with both, and with few thoughts of medieval poetry.
He fell asleep before I did, and I thought about the next day being Monday, and that he would be leaving again early the next morning. I decided I would try again to get in touch with Phil Newly and Jim Houghton.
Plans or no plans, it would still be a Monday. I started softly humming the song I had heard at Gillian’s apartment — “I Don’t Like Mondays.”
That Monday would be one of my worst ever.
51
MONDAY AFTERNOON, SEPTEMBER 25
Las Piernas
The Moth knew about the dog. Because of its work, the dog was trained to be friendly. And even if it had been asked to guard the house, the Moth had spent time getting to know it, and getting to know Ben Sheridan’s schedule as well.
Sheridan had cut back on his work at the college. He was teaching the usual number of courses, but he allowed his graduate assistant, Ellen Raice, to handle more of the duties. Ms. Raice had been very forthcoming about Ben Sheridan’s schedule.
Knowing when the professor would be on campus made it easy to figure out when to start coming by to talk to the dog. The dog was lonely when his owner was gone, and so he liked the visits, wagged his tail when the Moth approached.
It was really not too surprising, then, that the dog hadn’t barked when the Moth once again broke into the garage. Dr. Sheridan had put a different lock on the back door, but not one that prevented breaking the door itself.
The Moth went into the house and carefully searched again.
And failed again.
Angry and frustrated, the Moth swept a gloved hand over a shelf full of videotapes, knocking them to the floor. This time, a little damage should be done. Swinging the crowbar, the Moth watched with glee as other things flew off the shelves — books, framed photographs. The most satisfying moment came when the iron bar hit the screen of the television set with a bang. At the sound of breaking glass, the dog started barking.
This had a slightly sobering effect. If the dog heard it, had the nosy old neighbor heard it? The old woman’s attention to everything going on around here had already forced the Moth to park on another street, to climb fences to get here.
The dog kept barking.
Frightened, the Moth hid in the bathroom. After a while, the dog was quiet again. “What would Nicky say if you were caught?” the Moth asked aloud, but the thought was more irritating than frightening.
Nicky had been ignoring his Moth.
