A Yankee Dinner

~

The Medieval Faire is closing at dinner time, and all fans will be leaving. I practice with my new Kyudo bow for the archery completion. I do it with all the tradition I can master, even wearing the traditional outfit. As I send the long arrows to their target, a crowd starts to gather behind me. My new bow creaks as I draw it, so I pull it slower. It is hard to keep it smooth, and I still shake slightly.

My practice time is too short, and I retrieve my arrows. As I turn to walk back, I face a Japanese master, the one riding the horse and chopping watermelons. Red in the face, I bow low to him. His bow is almost as low. I ask, “Please forgive my lack of the Japanese tongue.”

“No, it is my turn to apologize. You have studied with a master?”

“My master is my mother. She has instructed me for five years.”

“Such a short time, she must be outstanding. Perhaps I have heard of her.”

“She is Lady Jane Sayuri Hayashi.”

“Hayashi sounds familiar, but you are not Japanese?”

“I am adopted. Perhaps you have heard of the mark of the dragon.” I touch the back of my neck.

The master stiffens. “I know of the Dragon, but we thought she had died. She won the master’s round, then disappeared and never returned. So she came to America. You must come to my school so that my students might learn what you can teach. I am Sensei Hiro”

“You honor me; I am Wachinga or, in my adopted language, Big Trouble in a Small Sack. Perhaps someday I will be able to come, but not this month. My lord master has given me a quest. After archery, I would be pleased to introduce my friends. They serve excellent wine.”

I compete but lose in the third round as my aim with the creaky bow fails.

Hiro says, “Wachinga, Aim is not as important as technique and form; those qualities will serve you well in your future trials.”

He has talked to someone, perhaps Sara, and knows what I will soon face, but I let it slide. Instead, I invite him to the gathering in Sir Gunter’s tent for lunch to enjoy roasted ham, cheese, and white Rhine wine. Sara and Wolf are too young to drink, but no one cares; we are behind closed tent flaps.

~

Lady Mary Stewart announces that she has put the plan for Ishmael’s school in motion, and it depends on me and my date with the Mayor.

“What?” I stare at her open-mouthed,

“Don’t look so surprised; you have caught the Mayor’s eye, and he has given you the keys to the city. So I have confidence that your date tonight will go well.”

The older woman has planned something for me. She knows her court intrigue, and my respect for her grows.

I report to her tent at five p. m. with my dress and wig, expecting to put them on and wait. But she has other plans. After I undress from my uniform, she looks at me with disapproval and has me washed by her Lady in Waiting. The woman shaves my legs and armpits, something I have been lax about, and I’m sure Lady Jane will hear about it. The dress slips over my head, and makeup is applied to cover my many bruises. However, my chin and nape tattoos are left open. I protest, “It will bring too many stares on a date.”

She answers, “He is intrigued by the meaning of your tattoos, don’t disappoint him. Tonight is not the time to be mysterious; entertain him.” Mary opens the wig box and draws in her breath. “This is the finest of Japanese wigs. I am honored to hold it. “The wig is carefully placed on my head and adjusted. Blue pumps are fitted on my feet, and my wide white belt is affixed about my waist. I stuff my ceremonial dagger into the belt, but Lady Mary shakes her head, and the belt and knife disappear. I am prepared.

A limousine pulls up beside the tent, and the Mayor steps out. I see him through a crack in the tent flap as he knocks on the tent post. Losau steps out to greet him, asking who calls, and then bids him wait. She reenters the tent and says, “It’s the boss.”

I tell Losau to invite him in. The other ladies have left the tent through the back entrance, and his Honor enters. Losau bows to both of us and exits. We are alone.

He says, “Sir Wachinga, I barely recognized you with the black hair. I see you have a well-provisioned tent.”

“Lady Stewart loaned it to me for this meeting, and please call me Grace. Would you care for a drink first, perhaps a German white wine?”

“Yes, I would, but because of my office, I must ask your age.”

I pull my driver’s license from the wallet on the camp table and show him.

Satisfied, he hands it back, saying,” It would go wrong for both of us if you drank underage in the presence of the man responsible for enforcing the law.”

I pour a glass of chilled wine, which he sips. I do not pour one for myself. I want to be alert, at least at first.

Catching my drift, he sets his glass down, holds out his hand, and says, “I promised you a date, and I know a quiet place where we won’t be bothered. Shall we go?” He assists me into the limousine. Once on the road, he asks about my tattoo.

“I took on the mark of a Mojave woman to save the life of the girl who would later become my sister,” I tell him the brief version of my story. After I finish, he is quite a long minute. We have crossed a large bridge, perhaps into The Bronx. Is there no end to this city.

“You are truly a champion. I know of no one who would do what you did or are willing to do. Ah, we’ve arrived.”

I hadn’t paid attention to where we were going; we next to a large building. Like a gentleman, Michal helps me out of the car, and I look up at the sign proclaiming Yankee Stadium. “I thought you said, quiet?”

“But, it is Grace, It is an off night, and there won’t be anyone around; we have the field to ourselves. Please, let’s go inside; our dinner’s getting cold.” He leads me through a low dark tunnel into the Yankee’s clubhouse. I touch the nameplate on Gary Sanchez’s locker. I love baseball, and he is my favorite Yankee. We go to the Yankees dugout. The lights on the field are low, and he helps me up the steps to walk to the table at home plate. The two waiters in attendance have set the table. While I sit, my chair is held for me, and I notice the small tattoo on the waiter’s wrist, FDNY, Fire Department of New York. I look up at the rough-looking mountain of a man, his attention to detail is impeccable.

“I hope you enjoy your dinner, Ma’am. I can personally vouch for the skills of the cook. Tonight’s dinner is steak cooked to perfection with lobster bisque to match; your first course will be she-crab soup.”

“The cook hails from Maryland or Virginia?” I ask.

“Yes, Ma’am, you must be familiar with the Chesapeake Bay.”

“Oh, yes, I remember netting crabs off of the pier at Old Point Comfort.”

The soup is lovely with an undercurrent of Old Bay seasoning and is paired with an excellent dry white wine.

Michael asks me about knights and what we do. I first tell him about our adventure to the Amazon rainforest and follow by telling of Wolf’s proposal for a small school for street kids. The steak is soft and buttery and has a hint of lemon and garlic. It is served with Cabernet Sauvignon wine to set off the juiciness of the meat.

The Mayor listens intently about the school and then talks about the difficulties of such an endeavor, “It will require not only money but a long-term commitment.”

Pearl onions slip down my throat.

“My orders to help Ishmael did not say, Stop when things get difficult.” Spears of asparagus roasted with balsamic vinegar amuse the Wachinga lips.

I ask Michael about the difficulties of running such a big city. Another slice of steak, another sip of red wine, roll over my tongue.

He laughs and says, It is easy to hire good people and trust them to do their job. But, finding people to trust is a hard job.”

I agree with him as almost everyone I have ever met was more interested in helping themselves than helping my causes.”

The waiters whisk away our plates and place a bowl of ice cream with bits of vanilla beans drizzled by a mint chocolate sauce. A bottle of chocolate wine is poured into new glasses.

Michael asks, What do you want?

I think upon this and become confused; the wine is so smooth, and intoxicating. I’ve had too much. Finally, I answer, “I have sworn never to quit. I would like to see the day when my efforts fulfill my goals.” The vanilla beans give the ice cream a solid finish to a satisfying meal.

He says, “Sometimes you can never reach the end, but if your cause is good, others will carry on.”

The waiters remove the bowls. We sip on the chocolate wine. Then I notice Michael staring at my pendant, the seed of Aman, resting openly in my meager cleavage, and I involuntarily finger it. He doesn’t ask, but I tell him what it is and my dreams of what it might do to me.

“Why don’t you just get rid of it? Instead, give it to the Kaniwa’ns who accompany you?” he asks.

“I can’t; if I wander from it, I will suffer dizziness. The seed was given to me by the first tree, Aman. A whole tribe depends on me performing my duty.”

“Duty is a powerful word.” He reaches into his jacket, pulls out an envelope, and lays it on the table. “I have just performed a Mayor’s duty; Lady Knight Grace Wachinga, I am sure you will do your’s.” He places a business card on top of the envelope. “I am always available to help. Please count on me as a patron. Let’s play ball.”

The stadium lights come up to full brightness. I think about opening the envelope. It’s thick, but it’s sealed, and Michael didn’t say to open it now; probably a few hundred dollars. I thank him and stand. The waiters whisk the table and chairs away. I see a man walking out of the dugout wearing a Yankees uniform. Oh, my goodness, it’s Gary Sanchez, and he hands me a glove with a baseball and points to the pitcher’s mound. I arrive and look back. Mr. Sanchez is in the catcher’s position, and the Mayor is in the batter’s box. I wind up and throw a high slow pitch that arcs down for a strike. Sanchez lobs it back at me, and I throw a faster strike. The third pitch is fouled away by the Mayor. I toss the next pitch hard like I knew I could, and the mayor swings too late. I’ve struck out the Mayor of New York. The two men trot up to me, and each signs the glove and baseball.

“It is late. Perhaps it is time to get you back to your friends,” Michael says.

~

We exit the stadium, and I revel in the glow, mostly of too much wine. The Limo drops me off in front of Lady Stewart’s tent, and I dreamily step in; I think my wig is crooked. All the knights are waiting like fathers. Mary asks how it went, and I hand over the envelope.

She opens it, and her eyes go wide. “It is the deed to an old automobile garage with a large residence above it. The deed is clear of debt, but the building will be condemned and torn down if we don’t occupy it in two weeks. Young Lady, where did he take you?”

In my glow, I say, “Yankee Stadium, home plate.”

“The dog, that’s where he took me,” Mary snaps.