Dear Miss Demeanor

Joan Hess

Dear Miss Demeanor

The third book in the Claire Malloy series, 1987

From the Falcon Crier, Volume 7, Number 2, October 15

Dear Miss Demeanor,

How far should a girt go on the first date?

Dear Reader,

On the first date, a girl should go as far as Okie’s Hamburger Mecca. She should then order french-fries. If she paces herself well, the final fry will be consumed five minutes before curfew. Once on the front porch, she may shyly allow masculine lips to be brushed across her cheek before fleeing inside to telephone Miss Demeanor with all the juicy details.

Dear Miss Demeanor,

My old lady won’t put out. Should I dump her and find someone else?

Dear Reader,

A proper lady will put out the garbage, put out the cat, or, with adequate equipment, put out a forest fire. That is what you meant, isn’t it? Perhaps the lady in question lacks asbestos boots.

Dear Miss Demeanor,

If a married man is seen with a woman at the Xanadu Motel, should someone tell his wife?

Dear Reader,

Let us presume it was his wife. In any case, what were you doing at the Xanadu Motel?

ONE

Caron and Inez skittered into the Book Depot like bumper cars gone berserk. Caron’s cheeks were scarlet, either from the exertion or, as I suspected, some new bout of outraged indignation. With fourteen-year-olds, indignation is a daily affair. With my daughter, it approaches an hourly schedule.

Caron is all red hair, freckles, and frowns. As an enfant terrible, her imaginary friends were all mischievous imps who knocked over lamps and terrorized the cat. Inez is quite the opposite; she may have been an imaginary friend. Her pale, blurred face hardly ever flushes, and her eyes are too deeply hidden by thick lenses to flash with fury, unbridled or otherwise. She did, however, shove back her stringy brown bangs with a gesture that neared irritation.

I eyed them with an instinctive wariness. “What’s up?”

Caron slammed her books down. “You must Do Something, Mother!”

“You really must, Mrs. Malloy,” Inez added over Caron’s shoulder. She had not yet learned to speak in capital letters, but it was only a matter of time. Caron is an excellent tutor in the delicate art of adolescent melodrama.

“What must I do?” I asked mildly.

“It is absolutely Terrible!” Caron said, begi

Inez bobbled her head earnestly. “That’s right, Mrs. Malloy. Miss Parchester is above reproach.”

It was, as usual, mystifying. I raised an eyebrow, but as I opened my mouth to protest that I personally had not accused Miss Parchester of anything, a deafening roar shattered the relative tranquility. A two-hundred-pound woodpecker tearing through the roof A locomotive coming down the aisle. An ocean liner docking in the living room. Or, foregoing whimsy, a jackhammer a few yards from the door of my bookstore.

I buried my face in my hands as the noise continued to pulsate through every inch of my body. Caron and Inez gaped at each other, by necessity speechless. Just as I thought my head would explode, the roar stopped.

“The street crew,” I said, rubbing my temples.

Caron went to the door and peered out. “What on earth is going on, Mother?”

“Powers that be have decided to take up the railroad tracks in the middle of the street, since the last train went through Farberville twenty years ago. Although I ca

“I am too worried about Miss Parchester to concern myself with street crews,” Caron interrupted. “You have to do something, Mother, before she has a Nervous Breakdown.” Inez punctuated the sentiment with a sniffle.

I looked out the window as I formulated a response to their incomprehensible demand. The jackhammer man was rubbing his hands together as he studied his instrument. The gloat on his face brought to mind images of satanic Spanish inquisitors positioning their racks. Caron was right. I did have to do something.

I shooed the girls outside, locked the door, and hung a flyspecked sign on the doorknob, Until Thurber Street was once again a peaceful path to the campus, the Book Depot was closed. A week or two without an income was cheaper than a hearing aid or a trip to the butterfly farm. There were a few minor matters, such as overdue rent, groceries, Caron’s allowance, and payments to the great plastic factory (I never left home without it), but I wouldn’t make any money until the crew left. My clientele was too genteel to climb over sawhorses to seek literature. Or semi-pornographic paperback thrillers, for that matter. Somewhere in Farberville a banker sighed; I felt the icy breeze on the back of my neck, but there wasn’t much to do about it.

We walked up the hill. Caron and I live in an upstairs apartment across from the Farber College campus. Although I never before considered it an especially serene location, it was a cemetery in comparison to the construction site in front of the Book Depot. The sorority girls next door produced squeals, but never machine-gun fire.

I took two aspirin, made a cup of tea, and went into the living room. “Who’s Miss Parchester?”

Caron’s lower lip began to inch forward. “She was the journalism teacher at the high school, before He told her that she was fired. I had her for Journalism I, and when Rosie got mononucleosis, Miss Parchester let me take over the column.”

“What column?” I asked. Inevitably, it took a while to elicit coherence from Caron, but I was used to it. Motherhood has been with me for fourteen years, although it has crystallized in the last three. Razor-sharp edges and all. The dreaded developmental stage called the terrible twos has nothing over the traumatic teens.

“The Miss Demeanor column,” Inez said weakly. I had to search the room for her; she was invisible on the upholstery, like a transparent plastic cover.

“Misdemeanor?” I said. “Is this some sort of legal advice to potential juvenile delinquents? Are you really qualified to-”

“Miss Demeanor!” Caron enunciated the consonants with little sputters of irritation. “An advice column about ma

My jaw dropped in spite of my efforts to control it. “And you’re giving advice about proper behavior? When did you turn into Farberville’s Emily Post?”

“When Rosie got mono, Mother; I explained that already. I was Rosie’s freshman assistant. Freshmen aren’t allowed to be on the newspaper staff, but Miss Parchester thought I could handle Rosie’s column until she comes back to school.” Caron fluffed her curls and shot me a beatific smile. “Mono can last as long as six months.”

“So you’re writing the column? You’re in charge of etiquette at Farberville High School?”

“I was doing the column, but now the Falcon Crier has been canceled for the rest of the year. That’s why you have to Do Something.” The smile vanished as her chin began to quiver, and tears welled in her eyes. I was not impressed, but Inez hurried over to pat the tragic figure’s tremulous shoulder.

“It is unjust, Mrs. Malloy,” she said in a low voice. “Miss Parchester has been accused of embezzling money from the journalism accounts. I think she’s just on some kind of leave, but he said that she couldn’t even come to school until the account was audited and the money replaced. Poor Miss Parchester was distraught.”