by Keziah Frost
Customers marched to the cash register feeling a sense of civic duty, voting with their dollars: I represent what Gibbons Corner believes, just as well as the next guy.
The opposite wall offered fiction, self-help books, and magazines. The center of the store had displays of best sellers, classics, biographies, “Arnie’s favorites,” and greeting cards. The children’s section was divided similarly, and even had its own sections of White Magic and Bible Stories side by side.
Because of Arnie’s refusal to declare the Bookstore’s “brand” to be specifically this or that, the establishment evoked suspicion in many of the residents of Gibbons Corner. The manager and the owner could not have been less concerned, and provided a cheerful meeting room in the basement for an assortment of book clubs: The Cozy Mystery Book Club, The Feminist Literature Discussion Group, The Graphic Novels Affiliation, The Gibbons Corner Writers Workshop, and The Skeptics’ Circle (which had begun as a group of skeptics, but had morphed into a trio of avid conspiracy theorists).
At the center of this base of the town’s intellectual identity stood Arnie Butler, forty-six years old, a single man with a bit of a paunch, hazel eyes behind black-framed glasses, and unruly brown hair. Arnie was a friendly and talkative man, whose greatest skill was that of putting people at ease. Tolerant, easy-going, a great reader who was interested in everyone and everything, Arnie created about him an environment that attracted people who had passionate opinions on academic topics. Arnie, therefore, passed his days with people who desperately wanted to convince him of things. He enjoyed the rhetoric, and he drove fanatics to distraction by listening to them at length and with sincere attention and then remaining happily undecided. Arnie was a man who truly saw every side to a question, making it impossible for him to choose one belief as more valid than another. Or at least, that is what he professed to the public. What he actually believed in the privacy of his own mind, may have been another thing altogether.
Carlotta was not interested in Arnie’s beliefs. She had popped in on this rainy August morning, shaking off her plastic rain bonnet and resting her umbrella by the door, to find out what he knew about the publishing industry. If, in the course of the conversation, he would somehow pull from her the admission that she was writing a book, well, that was not in any way her intention.
It is very difficult to keep an exhilarating secret to oneself.
Arnie seemed pleased that Mrs. Moon considered him an expert on the field of publishing, but was quick to admit his ignorance.
“I’ll be glad to tell you what I do know, but it isn’t much. I don’t write books; I just read them and sell them, you know.”
Dear, simple Arnie Butler.
“Well, let’s suppose you—or someone—wrote a book. Which publisher would you send it to?”
“From what I understand, you don’t send it to a publisher.”
“You don’t?”
“No. You have to find an agent first. The agent sends it to a publisher.”
“Well for goodness sake.”
“Yes. That’s how they do it now.”
“Well, how do you find an agent, then?”
“You really probably have to do it all online, Mrs. Moon. Are you online?”
“Of course, I am, Arnie. I move with the times. So, what do I type into the little rectangle thingy on the top of the screen?”
“The browser? Oh, you would type ‘literary agent,’ I guess.”
Carlotta was writing in her small notebook. Now she knew the step to take after she wrote “The End” on the last page of her memoir. It was always best to be prepared.
“You know, Mrs. Moon, you should join the Writers’ Workshop. They meet in the basement twice a month. They know more about this stuff than I do.”
Carlotta smiled, “I’m not a joiner, Arnie.” She added, to herself, I’m a leader. Carlotta did not join other people’s groups. Other people attempted to join hers. And she decided who was to be let in. A writers’ group would be for mere beginners. She had little patience for beginners. “And,” added Carlotta aloud, “the Writers’ Workshop is obviously a group for people who write things.”
Arnie said, “Aw, come on, Mrs. Moon. I know you’re not just making conversation. Aren’t you working on a book yourself?”
Carlotta, unable to resist the thrill of sharing her excitement about the child of her brain, told Arnie about The Golden Bonds of Friendship. She swore him to secrecy. If what she knew about human nature applied to Arnie (and why shouldn’t it?), the whole town would know she was writing a fascinating book by late afternoon.
Carlotta was halfway to the door when she stopped and decided to make this visit a double mission. She pivoted and returned to Arnie’s counter.
“Arnie, you know that Hope always has had a soft spot in her heart for you.” If this was a lie, it was a lie that could become true just by the chain of events that might happen by Carlotta’s stating it, which therefore meant that it was not, strictly speaking, a lie.
Arnie looked very pleased.
“Well, no, I didn’t know that. And I think very highly of Hope. Always have.”
I know that already. Everyone does.
“Maybe you could lock the Bookstore up for a few minutes and just run down the street to stop in at the Good Fortune Café sometimes. She’s very busy, you know, a hardworking businesswoman, but you’ll see all the changes she’s been making in there, and maybe you can chat a bit. Go at a slower time of day, say, ten or ten-thirty.”
Arnie smiled. A handsome smile. What a mercy it was that he bore no physical resemblance to his weird Aunt Edith. He really was a nice looking young man. And he was so charmingly interested in her book.
Under the shop’s awning, she opened her umbrella and smiled as she saw her literary future open before her.
-16-
A dramatic summer storm was lashing northern New York. Gibbons Corner residents were draped in hooded yellow raincoats, their heads down as they walked through the slanting rain. Norbert and Ivy were warm and dry in the Good Fortune Café when a new customer, face concealed behind a black scarf and body covered in a dark plastic poncho, marched toward them from the counter with a scone and a cup of espresso.
“May I?” asked the figure, setting down its order on the table, and proceeded to unwrap in the style of the Invisible Man.
That’s when Norbert did a double take. Margaret was supposed to be in New Jersey, visiting her daughter Vivian. So what was she doing here?
As the petite white-haired woman sat down, Norbert’s question stopped in his throat. This Margaret was subtly different from the Margaret he knew. Her forehead was narrower, and her nose had a small bump just below the bridge. Otherwise, she was strikingly like his friend. She even had Margaret’s bright blue eyes.
Before he could stop himself, Norbert gasped, “Mabel?”
The little woman’s eyes opened wide and her mouth formed an “O.”
“You are a real psychic!” she exclaimed. “How could you know my name?”
“Actually,” admitted Norbert, “that wasn’t a demonstration of psychic ability.”
Mabel looked disappointed.
Norbert explained. “You see, I’m a friend of Margaret’s.”
Mabel brightened. “Margaret Birch! Hey! She’s my friend, too!” she asserted. “I’ve come to see her. Surprise! Ha ha! I might even decide to stay with her. But she’s not home right now, I guess.”
“Oh, dear. You didn’t call before you came? You came all the way from Rochester?”
“Yeah. It’s just an hour and a half on the bus. I wasn’t sure I was coming here until I was already on my way. You know how that goes!” Mabel eyed Norbert and he felt she was deciding right then that no, Norbert didn’t know how that went.
“And you don’t have a cell phone?” asked Norbert.
“Oh, God, no!” said Mabel. “Whatever for?”
“Well, it’s just that you could have saved yourself some inconvenience. You see, Margar
et is in New Jersey visiting her daughter. She’s due back in two days.”
“No biggie,” shrugged Mabel. “I’ll wait. In the meantime, I’ll find things to do,” she purred with innuendo. “For starters, I’ll have my fortune read!” She winked at Norbert. “You’re a good lookin’ fella,” she added.
It had been a while since Norbert had had such a compliment from a woman. In fact, had he ever had such a compliment?
Mabel, glimpsing Ivy in her pink sweater, stretching and peering at her over the edge of Norbert’s man purse, concluded, “Oh. But you’re…. That’s fine. Some of my best friends are.”
“I’m sorry?” asked Norbert.
“Nothing to be sorry about, my dear. We’re living in modern times, thank goodness. We can all be who we are! And you are a fortune-teller, so let’s go!”
“Certainly. But let me just ask… Margaret said you thought Gibbons Corner was a narrow-minded small town, and that you would never come back here. What made you change your mind?”
“Well, hon, when I was here for a little vacation, I gotta say, I got the feeling it was a little judge-y. It’s a cute town, but I felt like a chicken out of water. You know?”
Norbert saw this image in his mind, and it occurred to him that a chicken would be happier out of water than in it, but he only smiled and nodded.
“So, I got back to my apartment in Rochester, in my building where nobody knows nobody. All my friends are gone now. And I thought about Margaret, and the fun she has. How much she loves her friends and how much they love her. She belongs to some kind of—club, I think she called it—and it sounded like a riot. They get up to all kinds of things. And there I am, sitting alone in my apartment. I go to the bars, and I don’t know anyone anymore. And finally, I said to myself, ‘Mabel, old girl, what are you doing?’ That’s when it came to me. I wanna meet the Club.”
Norbert pictured this meeting. It would create a sensation.
“What do my cards say about it?” Mabel wanted to know.
Norbert studied Mabel’s horseshoe spread. The Queen of Diamonds and the Queen of Spades regarded each other in a murderous stare-down, while other face cards gathered around.
The Queen of Diamonds was Carlotta’s card.
It seemed that the Queen of Spades had come to town.
The spread as a whole indicated a sharp personality clash and a merry adventure.
“I see here that you will have a lot of fun in Gibbons Corner, and make many new friends. There may be one person you have a little bit of difficulty with, however.”
“Ha! Only one person? If I only have difficulty with one person, that will be a nice change for me!”
“Well! I think you will be quite the surprise! You’re going to wait till Margaret comes back, and then you’ll present yourself to the Club, eh?”
“Eh?” mocked Mabel. “That’s cute, the way you say ‘eh?’—like a Canadian. Yeah. I’ll ‘present myself to the Club,’ as you say. After that—who knows? Maybe I’ll feel like I belong here, and stay. I love clubs. Every club I’ve ever joined—I’ve always wound up being the leader.”
Norbert put his hand to his mouth. He saw the future in a flash, and he felt a pang for Carlotta; he had come to like her so much. He shouldn’t smile. But he just couldn’t help it.
-17-
On this wet afternoon, Carlotta was at home, immersed in her literary labors. Her morning visit to Arnie at Butlers Books had inspired her. She cast her memory back over her life’s history and wrote:
The advantage of being in a loveless marriage is that you do have your independence. You can do as you please. No one cares.
She stopped and read this over. Did it sound self-pitying? She thought it might. She struck it out.
She instead turned her pen to those aspects of her life which showed her in her best light. Those aspects, naturally, involved the Club. Through the Club, she had been able to realize her potential, exploring new horizons and new worlds with her friends scrambling behind her, trying to keep up. She had learned the deep psychology of leadership, how to make each person feel valued and appreciated, and how to give them all the impression that she was doing an enormous amount of work behind the scenes on their behalf to keep them entertained. As she led them toward continual self-development, she developed herself. Indeed, the Club was so much a part of her, it was her primary means of self-expression. It was her mirror into her own mind. Just as a person in a beautiful marriage might feel at one with the spouse, Carlotta felt at one with her Club.
As long as I’m the leader, I’m needed. My place in the world is clear and secure.
The Club had been together since 1967. Through the decades, it had lost many members to death, desertion and exhaustion. Only the crème de la crème remained: those thirsty for novel experiences, possessing above-average energy, and a sweet willingness to follow their leader. Whenever she sensed they were about to get bored, Carlotta would switch to a new passion, and they would all come running after her. It had been very gratifying.
It’s easy to manage people. Just stay one step ahead of them, and give them projects they can’t resist.
Lately, however, the Club had shown a nasty tendency toward independence of thought. They’d been a little too enthralled with Norbert and his fortunes, and she’d been afraid for a moment that he would become their new guru. Luckily, Norbert didn’t want the position. They’d resisted learning French when she’d told them they had to. And then, without her guidance, they’d shown a stubborn interest in that odd woman Edith Butler at the Center for Deeper Understanding, and her past-life regressions. At the end of last January, Carlotta whisked her Club away to Quebec’s Winter Carnival, where she did all the French-speaking for everyone, because they found French “too hard,” poor things. (She had an app on her phone which translated for her. She was able to use it without their perceiving, relatively naïve to technology as they were.) They had returned, appreciative of Carlotta’s organizational and linguistic abilities. Thanks to Carlotta, the Club felt young and adventurous. Since their return from Canada, she had been keeping them busy with intellectual and cultural pursuits. She had them all back in hand now, and all was right in her world. But they would have to be watched.
-18-
Margaret, breathless with excitement, phoned them all: Carlotta, Lorraine, Birdie and Norbert, to announce she was bringing a guest to the watercolor class at the Art League on Wednesday afternoon.
“It’s not necessary,” Carlotta said, “to let us know in advance, Margaret. You don’t need permission.” Really, Margaret, at eighty-eight, was such a child, reflected Carlotta.
Margaret gasped, “I know! But this is a very special guest. You’ll never guess who it is! Oh! You won’t believe it!”
“Well, by all means, don’t tell me, then,” indulged Carlotta. “Let it be a surprise.”
Carlotta had smiled tolerantly, hanging up the phone. Who could it be? Some celebrity? One of Margaret’s far-flung grandchildren? An alumna of the Art League? Silly Margaret and her girlish excitement.
Carlotta, Lorraine, Birdie and Norbert had all arrived for class on time, and there was a bit of buzz in the air as they started to work, while anticipating the arrival of Margaret and her mystery guest. Norbert appeared to know all about it already, and was avoiding eye contact with everyone. He stood smiling and bent over the work counter, organizing brushes by size, as if it were a task that absorbed all of his attention.
Norbert had been one of the more successful projects of Carlotta’s Club. The Norbert Project had been her idea, and look at him now. The Club had brought him from retirement and poverty to a gainful second career as a psychic in Carlotta’s niece’s coffee shop.
Everyone was waiting now for Margaret Birch. Tiny at four feet, eight inches, and still retaining the sparkle of her glamour-girl youth, proud and emotional Margaret, thought Carlotta. Not the brightest crayon in the box, but her credulity had afforded hours of merriment for Carlotta and Lorraine.
Carlotta was just finishing putting her still life arrangement in order (fake oranges and daffodils), when there was a clambering on the stairs leading up to the studio from the gallery. It did sound like the steps of two people. Strangely, Carlotta felt her heartbeat accelerate. She was actually excited about Margaret’s little “surprise.”
“Close your eyes, everyone!” exclaimed Margaret. “Are they closed? No peeking, now! Are you ready?”
Around the doorframe appeared Margaret’s mischievous face. Just her face. She kept the rest of her hidden. What foolishness. And then, around the doorframe, appeared a second mischievous face, just like the first one.
Carlotta reached behind her for a chair, and sat down with a thump.
“You can open them now!” announced one of the Margaret-faces, to eight already wide-open eyes.
One minute, Carlotta would reflect later, you could be running your Club and have everything nicely in control. And the next, a crude woman wearing a baseball cap could burst into your world and ruin everything. It was what Norbert the psychic might call “a reversal of fortune.”
-19-
The two small Margarets came bustling into the art studio, smiling widely, eyebrows raised, and round, blue eyes taking in the astonishment they were creating. For one wild moment Carlotta thought they might begin singing “We represent the Lullaby League.” The effect was surreal.
One Margaret said, “Oh! I have to introduce you! Everyone, this is Mabel Paine!”
Carlotta, dumbstruck, said nothing, for once. The fictional character now had a last name. Paine. Why did Carlotta sense that this surname was to be prophetic?
