Strangled Prose by Joan Hess

the windshield; she had at least kept her seat. She was mangled but not terminally so. Her father arranged to keep her existence out of the newspaper and even hushed up her name in the police report. I did not ask. The vision of bloodied chicken feathers had more than dampened my curiosity.
    So I had naïvely presumed that no one knew about her presence in the car. I had seen no reason to offer the information to anyone and had donned my mourning clothes like the brave little widow that I was. But now …
    â€œHow could you do it?” I bawled at the embankment. “Azalea Twilight, I hope you—I hope you—” I sputtered to a halt, embarrassed by my ferocity.
    Well, I hoped she was prepared to take the consequences. I was not the only one with a grievance in the community, for that matter. I had never asked Britton questions about his past, preferring not to be bored with lost love, disillusioned irony, or even cherished sexual conquests. I caught myself speculating about the reference in the sordid book and gave myself a pinch. If only the entire population of Farberville would behave with equal self-restraint, we might all survive the scandal. And Peter Pan would appear on my windowsill to search for his shadow.
    I realized I was below the Twiller house. The path snaked invitingly up the steep slope; I could see the top of the roofline. Mildred was there, sobbing into a lace handkerchief or reclining on a chaise lounge with a damp cloth over her eyes. How had she found out about Carlton’s little passenger? I considered confronting her to demand an explanation. Outraged indignation battled with an ingrained distaste of scenes. Indecision sent me forward and back, as if I were propelled by a piston in my back.
    In the midst of all this inner turmoil, I heard Caron’s voice above my head. “Mother, what are you doing? Is that some kind of old-fashioned dance?”
    She and Inez were hanging over the overpass, Punch and Judy with pimples. I took a second to compose a reasonable explanation, which was not as easy as it sounded, then yelled, “Taking a walk. What are you doing?”
    The girls looked at each other. After a hushed conference, Caron giggled and said, “Taking a walk. I thought you were supposed to be having a reception at the Book Depot, Mother.”
    Inez sighed grandly. “For Azalea Twilight, Mrs. Malloy.”
    â€œI know where I am supposed to be,” I yelled. What a silly way to have a conversation, I thought. I pointed at the embankment. “Come down and walk back with me. I need some help putting the Book Depot back into its original state. If you’ll help, I’ll give each of you a paperback.”
    They scrambled down the path to join me. Caron said, “Can we have Professor of Passion for our Twilight collections? Will Azalea autograph it in person?”
    â€œOh, yes,” Inez added with another sigh, clearly on the edge of a literary orgasm. “Her thirteenth book, you know. It must be divine…” More sighs. “I just adored the last one; it was so utterly sensitive. The hero had jade eyes and a mysterious scar on his cheek that he would not explain. His name was Jared.”
    I gave them a nudge and we started for the store. “I was thinking of something more educational, such as Pride and Prejudice. You have no business reading things you don’t understand—either of you.”
    â€œMother, I happen to understand everything I read,” Caron huffed. “After I read Professor of Passion, would you like me to explain any of it to you?”
    If we hadn’t been ten feet from the store, I might have marched her off to the nearest closet until the speculation faded to a dull murmur. I hadn’t considered her potential reaction earlier, when all my ranting was addressed to my personal affront.
    Caron and Inez would zero in on Professor of Passion, whether they got it from me or from the