“Would you be the proprietoress?” he said.
I admitted that I was she.
“It appears that a rather large area of your bookshop is devoted to something called ‘Women’s Issues’. Would you direct me to your section on ‘Men’s Issues.’ Please.”
Even with the tacked-on “Please,” the man’s tone was sufficiently taunting and patronizing to cause both Griselda and Andaya to glance up.
It astounded me how the presence of one eight-hundred-and fifty-square-foot bookstore that focused on the concerns of women and other marginalized groups could be interpreted as a rebuke to anyone else’s life. I often responded to such challenges by pointing out some of the other category headings in the store, such as History, Politics, Philosophy, Art, Science, and saying, “There you go. Men’s Studies.” Or I would point out that every other bookstore in town specialized in books by and about men. “So give them the pleasure of your company, why don’t you?”
However, that morning, my lower instincts won out. “Actually, we do have a fairly extensive selection of books that deal exclusively with Men’s Issues,” I said, and led him to Gay Nonfiction, where The Leatherman’s Handbook and Anal Pleasure and Health were displayed face out.
The man reddened, and for a few moments, I feared I had gone too far. Then he noticed a gay history book with Abraham Lincoln on the cover.
He guffawed. “Abraham Lincoln? Are you people nuts? Next thing, you’ll be claiming Jesus Christ as one of your own.” Satisfied that he had got the best of me, he smirked, slipped his glasses back in his pocket, and opened the door with a showy sweep of the arm. Two women bustled in, delaying his grand exit.
The first woman smiled and thanked him for holding the door open, and he glowered in response. I recognized her as Simone Carrington, a member of the municipal council in Winnipeg. She had been in the news because she had run openly as a lesbian and been elected. The second woman brushed by the man, seemingly oblivious to him and everything else around her. She was over six-feet and had a streak of white hair running through a long black mullet. The white streak and mullet disappeared into a white cross on the back of her black satin jacket.
Both Simone Carrington and the white-crossed stranger, who didn’t appear to be together, headed to the rear of the store.
The man did his best to slam the door but was foiled by the anti-finger-trapping device. He left muttering and shaking his head as the door closed gently behind him.
“Do you think it was a good idea to egg him on like that?” said Andaya. “Could be an invitation to get your window broken again.”
“Oh, the poor sluggard probably just found out his son is gay,” said Griselda. “Or his wife’s a dyke and he’d like to kill her. Speaking of which, I don’t imagine you’ll be going to the memorial this afternoon, Sara?”
“Yes, of course I’m going.”
“Well, you’re a much bigger person than I’ll ever be. Not sure I could do it if I was in your shoes.”
Andaya leapt into the awkward silence that followed, shifting the topic away from Cindy’s funeral and, by association, Wanda’s affair.
“Isn’t that business in the States horrifying beyond belief?” she said. “All those innocent people just going about their daily lives. It’s all so shocking and disturbing.”
“Tell me about it,” said Griselda. “I have so many good friends in New York City. It’s difficult not to take the attacks personally.”
“I can only imagine. Did you hear George Bush’s speech? The so-called ‘greatest speech in American history?’”
“Most ‘hateful’ speech, if you ask me. First, he counsels his fellow Americans not to target their Muslim neighbours, thereby implying that Muslins are not real Americans, then, he claims the terrorists are living among them, thereby targeting those same Muslim Americans. How screwy is that?”
“For me, the scariest bit was when he labelled the coming response a ‘Crusade,’” said Simone Carrington from Philosophy. “Now here we are, the rest of the world, caught between Osama bin Laden who is convinced that God is on his side and George Bush who thinks—no, who knows—that God is on his side.”
“If only the Goddess were equally ubiquitous,” said Andaya.
“Hear, hear. But didn’t you love Mayor Giuliani’s solution?” said Simone. “Get out and shop, everybody. Buy lots of stuff and get that economy moving.”
“Right, no doubt there about the values being defended,” said Andaya.
“And what does our special bookseller have to say?” said Simone, moving to me at the front of the store. “Any thoughts?”
She smiled and extended her hand.
“By the way, I’m Simone Carrington, from Winnipeg. We haven’t met formally, but I’ve been hearing about your store for some time.”
Her grip was warm and firm, and my hand tingled at her touch.
“Yes, I know who you are,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
As I listened to the women discuss the situation in the States, I had been musing over the interfaith prayer service aired the previous day. An assortment of prelates and cardinals—all men (some in dresses)—along with the Clintons and other dignitaries and stars had marched into Yankee Stadium to a boisterous rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Oprah Winfrey, the co-moderator, had prefaced her comments with “God Bless New York!” and called on each of the prelates to say a prayer. The crowd had waved flags and applauded each prayer, chanting “USA! USA!” like they were at an Olympics basketball game. Actor James Earl Jones, in his deep CNN voice, rumbled that New York City had endured the greatest act of terrorism in human history but assured the audience that the American Nation indivisible under God would prevail.
I was about to voice my thoughts on the service when the phone rang. Fatima from Libida Publishing was calling to notify me that their fall list had been postponed.
“We just don’t have enough pre-orders to go ahead with the new titles, and our backlist sales can’t subsidize the new titles like they used to,” she said. “We’ve lost so many accounts this past year. Too many independents closing up shop.”
And mine could be next, I thought.
I offered to double my order, but of course what Libida needed was exactly what Common Reader needed—more cash on a regular basis.
“The other problem is, everyone seems to have fallen behind in their payments,” said Fatima.
I apologized for being one of the culprits. I was about two hundred dollars in arrears with Libida. I promised to send Fatima a cheque as soon as possible.
She said not to worry, to pay when I could.
“We’re all of us in the same boat,” she said, “small publishers and independent booksellers alike. The real offenders are those damn chains. My biggest account is six months overdue. They ordered massive quantities of two of our Spring/Summer titles but won’t pay until the New Year, after their returns are done. Meanwhile, we’ve gone into reprint and I’m terrified we’ll be stuck with huge inventories after the returns come in.”
I extended condolences about 9/11 and we said our goodbyes.
While I was on the phone, Monique Midgely (known as Midge) had wandered in, accompanied by a co-worker from the post office. A young man and woman (nothing better to do) had slumped in after them.
Midge and her co-worker were now checking out New Releases at the front of the store, the white-crossed woman was in Religions, Simone Carrington had moved to Canadian Politics, and Griselda was on a stool reaching for the new Judith Butler. Griselda stepped down, dug a pen from her purse, and appeared to copy the ISBN from the back of the Judith Butler before nonchalantly shoving it into the middle of the Fs with the dust jacket yanked up.
I made a mental note to reshelve the book in the Bs where it belonged, and to tap down the jacket so it wouldn’t tear when the next customer pulled the book out to look a
t it.
As the young couple approached Lesbian Nonfiction on the right-hand wall, the young woman moved closer to her companion.
“Sapphism. What’s that?” she said.
“Dunno,” said her companion. “Something to do with Muslims, I think.”
As they approached Gay Nonfiction, the young woman pointed to Anal Pleasure and Health and giggled. He frowned, placed his arm protectively around her shoulders, and drew her back to Lesbian Nonfiction.
Books about women getting it on with each other. Now that was cool.
I moved to where I could keep an eye on both the young couple and the white-crossed woman, who was now on her knees rummaging in the deliberately small Religions section.
Over the years, Carmen and I had noticed more shrinkage in the Sex section and the Religions section than in any of the others, so I had gradually cut back the inventory in both categories. We kept a close eye on what was left.
The sex books were understandable. People desperate for sex information may have been embarrassed to bring the books to the cash desk. But how did supposedly religious people justify stealing books on how to be more virtuous? Eastern, Western, Pagan, Wicca…. You name it, they got swiped in equal numbers.
The white-crossed woman stood up suddenly and scanned the section headings. “Looking for anything in particular?” I asked.
“A book for my granddaughter’s birthday.”
“What kind does she like?”
“Good books, of course. Decent books.”
“I mean, what type does she read? Spiritual perhaps?”
“Maybe.”
“Something lighter? Biography? Science fiction? A cozy mystery? Short stories perhaps?”
“I hate short stories.”
“Any particular authors she likes?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Do you know if she’s read Nicola Griffith?” I handed her a copy of Ammonite, on a hunch.
“Oh, now this looks familiar. Yes, I think she has this in hardcover.”
“We’re on the right track then. How about Octavia Butler?” I suggested, handing the woman a copy of Lilith’s Brood, a reissue of the Xenogenesis Trilogy.
“I don’t recognize this,” said the woman, reading the blurb, “but it looks right up her alley.”
“You want a great book?” interrupted Midge. “Check this one out. It’s amazing!”
Midge handed the woman a collection of locally self-published stories that I had accepted on consignment a year ago. In all that time, one single copy had sold.
The white-crossed woman flipped through the pages. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think my granddaughter likes short stories.”
“But these are different,” said Midge. “She’ll love these. Guaranteed.”
The woman clutched the short-story collection to her chest and handed me back the copy of Lilith’s Brood.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’d like to keep browsing now.”
It dumbfounded me how readily some customers would take the advice of a complete stranger over my own informed recommendation. Few customers suspected a stranger of ulterior motives or limited vision, but my advice was considered suspect because I was presumably trying to make a sale. Yet it was obviously in my interest for them to be satisfied with their purchases so they would return to the store. The author of the short-story collection was undoubtedly a friend or relative of Midge’s.
“So,” said Griselda, snapping her purse shut. “Anything else I should be apprised of?”
“In your field? Other than the new Judith Butler? Well, we did receive an interesting shipment from Routledge a couple weeks ago, and a few books from Columbia.”
I plucked three titles from Queer Theory.
“Got that already, and that, and that. Got them all at the Learneds. Super deal, too. Twenty percent off the regular price.”
I mentally threw my hands in the air. If an educated person like Griselda Woods could not make the connection between the continued existence of Common Reader Books and actually purchasing a book from it now and again, then who could be expected to make the connection? On the other hand, when had I ever turned up my nose at a twenty-percent savings on a CD?
“By the way, I’ve been wanting to give you feedback about the reading the other night,” said Griselda. “So disappointing, all that same old, same old.”
Brossard was same old?
“Been resting on her laurels for some time now,” continued Griselda. “But at least she didn’t try and feed us any of that pedestrian narrative that’s going around these days. What is it with all that bloody narrative anyway?”
Griselda checked her watch. “Rats, gotta fly. Have a class to teach in half an hour and I’ve been asked to speak at the memorial service this afternoon. Better prepare something I guess.”
I was surprised to hear that Griselda knew Cindy well enough to be called upon to speak at her funeral. Perhaps the connection was their shared Toronto roots. When Toronto people met on the Prairies, they often formed instant bonds of superiority, never mind if they actually grew up in Mississauga or Burlington.
“I hear Freddie got arrested last night,” Midge said to her friend.
This news stopped Griselda dead in her tracks.
“Freddie? What for?”
“For murdering Cindy. I hear she stabbed her seven times.”
“Don’t you believe it for one minute,” said Griselda.
“I heard different,” said Midge’s friend. “I heard it was murder-suicide. I heard that Cindy smothered her son, then shot herself in the head.”
“Why on earth would she do that?” said Griselda.
“Because Freddie was leaving her, and the boy wanted to live with Freddie. That’s what they say, anyway.”
“How ridiculous. Cindy’s son doesn’t even live here. He lives out east with his dad. And he’s really young, and as far as I know, he’s never even met Freddie. Why would he want to live with Freddie if he’s never met her?” said Griselda, logically.
“Don’t ask me. I’m just saying what I heard.”
I was secretly savouring the exchange. A good store clerk was like a good display fixture: in place but discreet. People talked in front of you as if you were invisible and often divulged personal details that they wouldn’t reveal in a confessional.
Carmen likened our profession to bartending. She liked the feeling of knowing everybody’s business. She loved the stories of which two poets had feuded publicly and which young Victoria novelist had taken the ferry to Vancouver for a romantic tryst with a certain aging playwright. She enjoyed the petty competitions, how a writer billed to read first had manoeuvred her way into the more prestigious closing slot. She also kept tabs on the rivalries and retributions with more serious consequences, such as a declined grant application or an omission from a Governor General’s shortlist because a particular writer had once panned a book by a particular jury member.
“Excuse me for interrupting,” interrupted Simone, “but if you’re talking about Cindy Lottridge, I think the police are looking for her ex.”
“See?” said Midge. “Freddie. Just like I said.”
“No, not Freddie. Cindy’s ex-husband,” clarified Simone.
“Well, if that’s true,” said Midge, “then it’s a good thing Freddie didn’t find him first. Otherwise, she probably would have been arrested for murder.”
“It’s always the ex,” said Midge’s friend.
“Time to go,” said Midge. “Got to get ready for the funeral.”
“Me too,” said Griselda.
She followed the other two women to the door.
“Well hang in there, Sara,” she called over her shoulder. “I can’t imagine what we’d do without your fabulous store.”
Griselda liked the idea of
the bookstore. But what idea ever paid the electricity bill?
Carmen often pointed out the negative correlation between the degree of a customer’s expressed enthusiasm for the store and the amount of money that customer would actually spend. “The more effusive the compliments, the less the amount of money will be spent.”
“Who was that woman?” asked Andaya. “The last one to leave? I noticed her at the reading last week.”
“Griselda Woods,” I replied. “She teaches over at the university. A new hire last year.”
“So that’s Griselda Woods. Imagine her going on like that about narrative. Did you know she submitted a mystery novel to my publisher a few months ago?”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “I wonder why she’s never mentioned it.”
“Maybe because it was rejected?” said Andaya.
The news immediately cheered me up. Not the news that Griselda had written a mystery, but that it had been rejected. “I didn’t know she wrote popular fiction,” I said.
“I’m not sure she wants people to know. She used a pseudonym: Elvira Box.”
“Now that I think of it,” I said, “it seems to me she had a six-month sabbatical some time before she came here. Maybe she wrote it then.”
“That would fit. Presumptuous enough to think she could toss out a book in a couple of months.”
“How do you know all this anyway?”
“My editor. Griselda Woods, or should I say Elvira Box, sent him the manuscript. He told me it was a pedestrian rip-off of Amanda Cross and rejected it outright. Elvira then offered to pay publication costs. ‘We are not a vanity press,’ he informed her, and suggested the web was full of such publishers. But she insisted she wanted a ‘legitimate publisher.’ What’s her specialty, do you know?”
“The erotic in postmodern fiction, or something like that.”
“Of course, it would be something like that. She probably churns out papers peppered with sexy phrases like ‘polymorphous perversity’ and ‘corporeal hybridity,’ as if academic jargon can ever be sexy. Well, she can dismiss my kind of writing all she likes, but without my narrative tax dollars to subsidize her postmodern wages, she’d be out of a job. No wonder our work outside the academy goes unrecognized. The traditional scholars are stuck on dead white males and the Professor Woods of the world only pay attention to each other’s solipsistic drivel.”
The Heart Begins Here Page 14
