by Alexie Aaron
Sister Anne knocked on the door and was summoned inside. She put a firm hand on Marianne’s arm. She led Marianne to a large chair opposite the priest. The nun pulled a wooden chair from the corner forward to sit beside the nervous patient.
Father Saul looked up from his materials and studied Marianne. “Miss Irving, how are you this morning?”
“My health is well, Father. My mind is troubled.”
“I’m here to listen.”
“It’s the lapse of memory that haunts me.”
“What is the last thing you remember?” Father Saul asked.
“I was at the book club. No, I remember leaving the club.”
“Back up, tell me about the book club.”
“It’s called Page Turners, and I’ve been going for a few years. It’s run by a gentle little man in his fifties named Wendell Baumbach. Rumor has it that he lives with his mother.”
“There is nothing wrong with caring for your elders.”
“I think she still takes care of him.”
“Try not to judge, my child. Go on.”
“We were finishing up with Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman. This was our modern book. Kabir and Marc were arguing a point. Wendell looked uncomfortable. He likes lively discussion, but these two gentlemen sometimes take things to extremes. Wendell called for a break. I got up to go to the ladies’ and my foot caught and tipped over my bag. I tend to keep several books inside. Where some people fool around with their phones when they have time to kill, I read. I had quite a few in the canvas bag. I braced myself for ridicule. Marc and Kabir like to tease me because I buy secondhand books. They helped me to pick them up. There was an unfamiliar book inside. I thought it may have been dropped in by accident weeks before when I purchased books from the secondhand bookshop, but why hadn’t I seen it earlier? Now I think it came from somewhere else, but I’m still not sure. I remember picking up the leather book and tucking it in my purse, much to the annoyance of Kabir and Marc who thought it was my cheat sheet for the book club discussions.”
Father Saul jotted down some notes. “Why did you put it in your purse? Were you afraid that either gentleman would steal it?”
“Not these men. I would trust them with my ATM card and pin number.”
“But not with leaving the book there with your other valuables.”
“It looked valuable. I didn’t want to risk damaging the book. I’m a responsible woman, so I put it in my purse next to my phone.”
“Is this the same phone you recorded your ordeal on?”
“Yes, Father.”
The priest picked up the micro tape recorder Sister Anne had the incident recorded on. “Tell me how you have this recording?”
“I was leaving the community center when I remembered a few things I needed to do the next day. I was leaving a voice memo and… This is where my memory is gone. I’m not talking fuzzy, as if I had a night celebrating with alcohol, but gone as if it never happened.”
“You’re sure this isn’t a joke somehow perpetrated by Kabir or Marc?”
“Yes. What happened would be beyond the gentlemen I know. I discovered it when I found myself in that horrid little hotel. According to the manager, I had been there for three days and had many, many men visit me. Since I had a valid credit card, he saw no reason to check on me or to call the cops. I went straight to the emergency room and had them do a rape kit on me and test me for Rohypnol. You have a copy of my medical report. There was nothing in my blood that would have caused me to act out in this way or to leave me with no memory of the three days.”
“Why did you come here?”
“I thought that maybe I was experiencing some kind of breakdown or, possibly, a possession. I know you don’t do exorcisms, and odds are I’m not possessed, but I thought I would go someplace safe before totally losing my nut. My mother told me before I left home to make my way in the world that if I was in trouble, to go to the church.”
Father Saul nodded.
“I have to have another HIV test in six months, and the doctor at the hospital has me on treatments for the other critters I picked up. Fortunately, I didn’t become pregnant. If I didn’t have that recording, I would have thought that aliens had abducted me or that I had been hypnotized, but it’s my voice asking a stranger if he wants… Well, you heard it. The tape runs for two hours and fifteen minutes. It saved automatically. I could hear what sounded like I was in charge of what was happening to me. As if someone’s darkest desires had been imprinted upon me.”
“Someone’s?”
Marianne colored.
“Miss Irving, each one of us have a dark place where we cage the dark things we may ponder. It doesn’t mean you ever act upon them. As Christians, we fight the evil that is within and without.”
“I’m not proud of some what ifs that cross my mind,” Marianne said. “I do mention them in confession and pray with my parish priest for strength and forgiveness.”
“I can’t dismiss that you may have had a mental challenge that took hold of you for those days, but I would think you would have seen signs of it before. According to the history Sister Anne took on your admission, you stated that you have never lost time or had periods of not remembering something. You have led a life as a Christian woman, and there is no history of schizophrenia in your family. There is one thing that occurs to me that is a bit unusual, but I caution you, it still may be a false lead.”
“What is it?” Marianne asked.
“It’s the book you thought to protect from your friends. Friends who have never stolen from you before. This behavior is telling. Could you supply me with the name of your bookseller and maybe his contact information if you have it?”
“Yes,” Marianne said. “Sister Anne, it’s on my phone.”
The nun nodded. “I’ll return it to you. Father Saul, we have been asking our patients to voluntarily surrender their phones while they are in treatment,” she explained.
“Very sound thinking. Too much distraction,” Father Saul said.
Sister Anne walked out of the office. While she was gone, the priest took down as much information as Marianne could remember.
“Father, I’m getting the idea that you may feel the book somehow influenced me.”
“Books can be influential.”
“But I don’t remember even lifting the page or reading the cover. All I remember is that it was bound in black leather and felt warm.”
“Why would it be warm?”
“Good question,” Marianne said, hunching her shoulders.
Sister Anne returned, and Marianne unlocked the phone and gave Father Saul One More Time’s phone number and address. She also, on his request, gave her contact numbers for Kabir Patel and Marc Davis.
“Miss Irving, what happened to the book?”
“I faintly remember handing it to a friend to deliver it to the bookstore for me before I came here.”
“Who did you give it to?”
“Monica Voorhees. We became friends at the book club. Let me give you her phone number. I tried to call her to tell her I arrived here safely, but all I got was her voicemail.”
“Sister Anne, please escort Miss Irving to her room. After, would you return here? I have some things to discuss with you.”
The nun nodded, and Marianne got up. “Father, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Irving. Give us some time to figure this out. In the meantime, I think you can participate in Holy Communion.”
“But I haven’t confessed all my sins. What about what went on in my missing days?” Marianne asked.
“God knows you’re contrite. Leave this room knowing that all your sins will be forgiven.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Sister Anne returned, shut the door, moved the extra chair back, sat down, and waited for Father Saul to address her.
“Sister Anne, I’m going to ask you to keep Miss Irving’s phone on you and ans
wer it for her. Record all the conversations, and bring any pertinent conversation to me.”
“Yes, Father. May I be so bold to ask where you are going with this?”
“Somewhere in the back of my mind the mention of a strange black leather-bound book rang a bell. I can’t quite grasp it. I’m going to confer with several priests who deal with evil objects. I’m going to see if we can pin down if it’s possible for a book to, first, influence someone to sin and then, afterwards, extract the memory from them.”
“That seems impossible. Books are just cardboard and paper.”
“They are filled with words. Some are made of other materials that resemble paper and cowhide. I will know more after I have researched this further.”
Sister Anne nodded.
“Oh, and if such a book appears, don’t touch it. Isolate it and call me immediately.”
“Yes, Father.”
~
Nash walked the aisles of the second floor before he went down and opened the doors for Saturday’s business. He had help on the weekends. Cam Richards, a very industrious, hungry college student, was energetic and loved people. He brought his sister Mary, a young woman with Down syndrome along with him. Nash always had important bookshop tasks for Mary to perform, for which she was paid a good wage. Clara met both of them when she arrived with a large basket of baked goods to share. Clara was wearing the store T-shirt she had worn home after the blueberry incident.
Mary extended her hand and introduced herself. “I’m Mary. Cam’s my brother, and Nash is my boss. I can show you the children’s section. I know where everything is.”
“I would like that. I’m Clara. I’m Nash’s girlfriend, and I will be spending the day here helping out.”
“Nash has a girlfriend!” Mary called out.
Cam called back. “It’s about time!”
Mary took Clara’s hand and walked her over to the stairs. “I’m not allowed up there because of the fairies. They push books off the shelves.”
“I’ll go up if you hear any drop,” Clara promised.
“Good. I can wrap books in brown paper.”
“I’m lousy at it. My ends are always too big,” Clara admitted.
“There is a trick to it. Most of the books are one of four sizes. Nash marked each size on the ruler on the roll of paper.”
“He’s a clever man.”
“He sure is. He hired me.”
Clara resisted the urge to hug Mary. She figured, when Mary wanted to be hugged, she’d tell Clara. Until then, Clara would treat her like she would one of her chefs.
“What do you do when you’re not Nash’s girlfriend?” Mary asked, picking up a plastic tote with dusting equipment in it.
“I cook in a restaurant.”
“Do you have one of those hats?”
“Mine is more of a scarf. I do have an apron and a chef’s coat.”
“Cool.”
“What do you do when you’re not here?” Clara asked.
“I go to school. I’m going to be an artist. I designed the T-shirt you’re wearing. My brother helped make the screen, and I painted the white on the front.”
“I think you did a very professional job. When you get your business set up, I’ll talk to my boss at the Biscuit, Bagel and Buzz about carrying your line.”
“I will do that.”
Nash walked over. “Less talking, more dusting. Clara, you’re on hardcover duty. Come upstairs, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“Yes, sir,” Clara said, running up the stairs after Nash. She lost sight of him and walked right by the aisle he was standing in. He caught her arm and pulled her into an embrace. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too. Thank you for letting me spend the day with you. I’ll try not to get in the way,” Clara said, enjoying the way Nash pushed her hair back from her face.
“You are distracting, but Cam and Mary can run the store by themselves if need be. I normally man the counter and work on my internet orders.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Keep an eye on things up here. The books like you.”
“Would it be out of line if I dusted?”
“No. But I wouldn’t try to alphabetize; you’ll get too frustrated. Some volumes are cliquish. They like to sit together. The good thing about them is, if someone is looking for a book like another one, it’s most likely setting near it.”
“Gotcha,” Clara said. She got on her tiptoes and kissed Nash. “Now go and be Nash Greene shopkeeper. I’ll be just fine.”
The bells over the door rang, and Nash moved to leave but stopped. “Oh, don’t read the books because…”
“Something miraculous may happen,” Clara said.
“Nash, phone for you!” Cam called.
Nash walked over and picked up the handset on the wall by the staircase. “Nash Greene, how may I help you?”
“This is Father Saul from Sisters of St. Bernadette’s rest and recovery home.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I have a patient here who gave me your phone number.”
“Are you looking for a secondhand book?” Nash asked, watching Clara straighten the romance section.
“Do you remember a customer named Marianne Irving?”
“Yes, she is one of my best customers. She buys a lot of books for the book club she’s in.”
“She’s a patient here.”
“Oh dear. I hope she’s alright.”
“I can’t say what the problem is, but I assure you, I and the sisters will care for her. Do you remember the last order you put together for her?”
“Yes. Matter of fact, I was looking into it because, just a few days ago, someone brought up that an additional book may have found its way into her bag. I understand it was a black book with a leather cover.”
“Yes.”
“All the leather-bound books I have in this shop are either prayer books or Bibles. I keep them in a locked cabinet that protects the leather by using the right amount of humidity. After the first inquiry, I checked my stock, and all the books are here. Do you have the title of the book?”
“No.”
“Could it have been a journal?”
“I don’t know.”
“I have extra help today. Let me have one of my assistants inventory the journals. Can I have your number, Father?”
Father Saul gave him the number and asked, “Would it be a breach of trust if I were to ask who inquired about the extra book in Miss Irving’s possession?”
“No. It was Kabir Patel. I believe he’s in the book club with Marianne. I admit to being curious why all this fuss over a book, but I will respect the tenets of your profession.”
“I was looking at your website before I called. I noticed that you deal in rare books.”
“If they cross my path or I have a customer searching for one, I’ve been known to go the extra mile,” Nash said.
“Have you ever heard of books that were deemed dangerous?”
“By content, yes. I have heard of toxic ink, and in several cases, black mold had taken over the spines and may have caused illness.”
“I was thinking something more in the fantastical sense.”
“I’ve seen a book choose a customer before, but it could have just been my imagination.”
“I was in Rome and a volume of essays dropped in my lap. It directed my career in the church. Do not doubt what you saw.”
“How has this book affected Marianne?”
“Loss of memory after influencing her to do something destructive.”
“This worries me. I’ll send out word, if anyone else in my business has come across this before, to give me a call.”
“I want to find that book.”
“I understand. I’ll start working on the problem as soon as we finish this conversation.”
The priest hung up after giving Nash his contact information. Nash looked over at Clara wh
o was trying to pull the hem of her T-shirt away from the edge of the last fiction aisle.
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t seem to unsnag myself. A little help please, Mr. Bookseller.”
Nash saw what the problem was. The Book Lover’s Tale by Ivo Stourton had ahold of Clara. “Excuse me, but she’s my girl,” Nash said, opening the book. “Maybe you should stay with me, Clara.”
“Okay,” she said, making a mental note of the book and the author. She followed Nash down the stairs, and when he was summoned to the counter, she pulled out her phone, accessed her Amazon app, and searched for the book. She read the blurb.
He collects books: Interior designer for the rich and powerful, Matt de Voy lends his tasteful eye to the households of his wealthy female clients. He also advises on which books should adorn their shelves. His deep knowledge of literature becomes his sharpest tool of seduction.
A shadow fell across her. “If you press buy, I’m going to have to ask for your store shirt,” Nash growled.
Clara jumped and dropped her phone in the large bin of not-so-nicely handled paperbacks. She grabbed his hand to steady her as she bent over the canvas rolling cart and rescued her phone. “I just wanted to see if: A, this was a biography; B, whether you were writing under the pseudonym of Ivo; and C, what the book was trying to tell me.”
“I’d say the book was trying to seduce you. Little did it know you weren’t a rich woman. You just look rich. The book won’t be happy with a socialist.”
Clara sighed. “Done in again by my credo: See a penny, pick it up; see two pennies, give both to charity.”
“Interesting,” Nash said.
“Do you want to hear my take on giving a man a fish?”
“Save it for foreplay, I have a shop to run and a special job for you to do.”
Clara smiled.
“I need you to inventory the journals, concentrating on any that are, or appear to be, made of black leather.”
“Okay.”
“You take this sheet and…”
“I’ve done inventory before. If I have a question, I’ll ask Mary,” Clara said, snatching the paper.
