Confessions of a Curious Bookseller

by Green, Elizabeth

  I sit here in the afternoons, listen to the somber groaning of this building, and eat my ham sandwich lunch to the sobering melody: groan . . . creak . . . groan! Sometimes I put on Mozart. Sometimes a customer falls in through my doors (I call it falling these days because that’s the way they now appear to me, as if they’ve been sucked through a multidimensional wormhole, baffled and horrified to have found themselves here), but mostly it is just the wind I hear, howling through the cavernous empty aisles of my fallen empire. And then, to that terrible groaning, I crawl into bed and hope that I have paid all my bills for the month and that nothing has slipped by. Not exactly the stuff of Nabokov or even Dickens—certainly not Faulkner!!

  I have enough left in my savings account to sustain me for three more months.

  No one wants to live life ignored. I admit that it is much easier to deal with when it is coworkers or fellow business owners than when it is my own family. But I don’t care. I don’t care at all. I have learned to accept it and pretend I don’t see it and wear it as an invisible cross and lug it around at family functions while everyone fawns over Florence and never me, never me, it’s never ever going to be me.

  From: Jack Grisby

  Sent: Fri, Jul 5, 2019 at 9:32 AM

  To: Fawn Birchill

  Subject: Book Shelf Collaps

  There was a book shelf collaps this morning. All the books fell. I can’t find you what do I do? Also can’t find Bert hopefully he’s not underneath.

  Jack

  From: Fawn Birchill

  Sent: Fri, Jul 5, 2019 at 9:39 AM

  To: Jack Grisby

  Re: Book Shelf Collaps

  Jack,

  For now, please stack the books in a pile until I find a solution. Please take the broken shelf outside for trash. Bert is with me, so nothing fell on him, thankfully. And collapse is spelled with an e.

  Fawn, Owner

  THE CURIOUS CAT BOOK EMPORIUM

  Blog Post #7

  Did you know . . . ?

  In this blog entry, we will go through a typical day at the Curious Cat Book Emporium!

  At 7:30 I awake, and after a brief beautification session, I have toast, yogurt, and orange juice. I then feed Bert, the cat, and head downstairs to the bookstore. Jack usually arrives at eight, and together we turn on the music (classical) and open the windows if it’s a nice day. Jack rolls the discount books onto the sidewalk, and when that’s done, he counts inventory. After lunch Jack chooses a section and makes sure it is properly alphabetized while I assist customers. Sometimes I will help Jack with memorizing his lines for a play he is in if we are having a slow moment, though slow moments are quite rare. Toward evening Jack wheels the discount books back in (those that haven’t been sold), then we lock up the store and close the windows. Sometimes, when we are feeling extra energetic, Jack and I will do a quick dusting and cleaning, occasionally breaking into raucous dance—twirling through the store, dust flying, Jack careening down the spiral staircase while I pirouette and sashay through the aisles laughing and singing like a child. I doubt many stores have the kind of fun that we do. We may not be rich, but at least we have a blast surviving!

  From: Jack Grisby

  Sent: Mon, Jul 8, 2019 at 7:23 AM

  To: Fawn Birchill

  Subject: Coyotes

  Hi Fawn,

  Omg did you hear the coyotes last night? They woke me up and then I couldn’t sleep so I just watched Big Bang Theory under my blanket because they are so scary omg.

  Jack

  From: Fawn Birchill

  Sent: Mon, Jul 8, 2019 at 8:40 AM

  To: Jack Grisby

  Re: Coyotes

  Jack,

  No, I don’t think you were hearing coyotes, especially if you live in Center City. Have you ever heard of Occam’s razor? Most likely, there were just a few wise guys having fun last night outside your apartment.

  It’s a nice day, so please wheel out the cart for the sidewalk sale. Include the romance novels. They smell a bit like urine, but it’s harder to detect outdoors.

  Fawn, Owner

  From: Jack Grisby

  Sent: Mon, Jul 8, 2019 at 8:45 AM

  To: Fawn Birchill

  Re: Coyotes

  Fawn,

  Maybe they were coy dogs or just half wild dogs though I don’t know the difference between them and then also wolves do you? I’m still freaking out a little today from it sorry if I seem adgitated.

  Jack

  From: Fawn Birchill

  Sent: Mon, Jul 8, 2019 at 9:01 AM

  To: Jack Grisby

  Re: Coyotes

  Jack,

  Coyotes are coyotes, and coydogs are the children of coyotes and domesticated dogs. Don’t quote me on that, but I’m fairly certain it’s true. I grew up in the suburbs, and we sometimes heard them at night. I promise you: they are neither in Center City nor in Philadelphia at all. Are you this scared of regular dogs as well?

  Fawn, Owner

  From: Jack Grisby

  Sent: Mon, Jul 8, 2019 at 9:05 AM

  To: Fawn Birchill

  Re: Coyotes

  Yes because when I was three a mastiff bit me on the face when my mom said I should say hi to it. That’s why I have the scar on my chin which I hate but my dad says it makes me look like Harrison Ford.

  Jack

  From: Fawn Birchill

  Sent: Mon, Jul 8, 2019 at 9:10 AM

  To: Jack Grisby

  Re: Coyotes

  Jack,

  The mastiff was probably just as scared of you as you were of it. The only reason it bit your face was because you frightened it. I don’t understand why your mother thought it was a good idea to have a three-year-old crawl up to a full-grown mastiff, but that’s probably why I am not a parent.

  That scar makes you look tough, by the way. I wouldn’t be shy about it.

  Fawn, Owner

  July 8, 2019

  Jane’s daughter just left. Needless to say, she paid me only a brief visit, announcing that thieves have been robbing her mother of her belongings. Of course, Jane and I acted shocked the entire time. The woman can be quite the actress when she needs to be. I talked her daughter out of calling the police, stating that it’s hard to say how long ago the criminals were here. I wanted to tell her that this is what happens when you live thousands of miles away from your helpless mother and never visit, but I decided to keep it civil. Jane is a most excellent liar because the only thing she lamented missing were her aloe plants. I could tell that it was a manipulation to make the whole thing more believable and to distract her daughter from the greater losses, like the furniture. Her daughter became angry with this and rightfully so. I managed to get two hundred for the end table, and she decides to focus on a few crummy plants! I could barely contain my laughter. Clearly she was getting a lot of joy from seeing her daughter like that, so I just stood back and tried not to burst out laughing. Another thing: her daughter, ever the detective, wanted to know what robbers wanted with aloe plants and Richard Simmons tapes. I told her that maybe it was a band of geriatric thieves from the nursing home on Market Street. Perhaps they sneak out at night, don black eye masks, and steal the elderly’s pills, VHSs, and whatever else old people like. Her daughter said that I had been watching too many cop dramas. I actually don’t own a television. I watch everything on my Dell desktop downstairs, and I’ve never been interested in cop dramas. Needless to say, the tension wasn’t broken by any humor.

  One thing I did tell her was that if she was so concerned about her mother, then she should take care of her in Hawaii—an idea I quickly regretted communicating, as her rent is the only thing saving me from bankruptcy and, admittedly, I have grown to like her company very much. Nearly every night when I’m not too exhausted, I’ll poke my head in to check on her and sometimes end up sitting with her for a couple of hours, playing games or watching television. We don’t talk much, and I think we both prefer that.

  I haven’t seen Rainbow in a few days. She insists on no i
nterruptions while she perfects her most “shocking and inspiring illusion to date.” Still, I knock to see if she is at least alive, which she is always quick to confirm. I don’t want to annoy her, but with all the fire tricks, limb removal, and orifice extraction, naturally I worry.

  Ian McEwan is officially not interested in coming to my bookstore, but his representative said he might stop by if he has time. I will have to send out an advertisement letting people know just in case he stops by that week. That should lure in a few wallets.

  July 8

  Dear Fawn,

  Enclosed please find the invitation for Dad’s funeral, and please RSVP so that we know how much coffee and food to purchase for the wake. I hope you are doing well after the news of his passing. It has been hard for us all here. Charles and Little Joe won’t stop crying, and Joseph and I are struggling in general. This only seems to make things worse. I don’t know if I told you, but we are seeking the help of a marriage counselor. It’s been a lot of work, and when things like Dad’s passing happen, it really tests what work we’ve done.

  Anyway, sorry if this is TMI. It’s just a tough time right now. Hope you can make it to the funeral and the wake afterward.

  Flo

  From: Fawn Birchill

  Sent: Mon, Jul 8, 2019 at 7:10 PM

  To: Florence Eakins

  Subject: Funeral

  Dear Florence,

  Of course I will be at Father’s funeral. I didn’t know I needed to RSVP, being his eldest daughter.

  I am sorry to hear that you and Joseph are having issues, but I’m sure that things will work themselves out. Two people who are as busy as you don’t have time to mope about and wait for things to improve. You will just have to make them. You two should go out on a date. When was the last time you did that together?

  Did I tell you Butterscotch died? You and Mother never ask about him, and it isn’t like me to bring things up unprompted, so I’m not surprised if I haven’t yet mentioned it. I briefly considered bringing his ashes and doing a combined funeral, but I don’t think Mother would allow it. It’s a shame how animals, which are sometimes closer to us than any humans, rarely get the same amount of pomp and circumstance upon their deaths.

  Regardless, I will be there. See you Sunday.

  Best,

  Fawn

  P.S. I don’t have to go up and say anything, do I?

  July 8, 2019

  Jane has passed.

  They say death happens in threes, so I hope that is all I have to endure this year. She did not deserve to be so alone. But then again, I suppose she wasn’t, not at the very end. I had gone in as I usually do in the evenings with a bottle of wine and two glasses (her glassware is never cleaned very well), looking forward to a game of gin. I found her in her chair, eyes closed, while a televangelist screamed on the television. I touched her shoulder to wake her, but she didn’t wake up. So I put my hand on hers, and it was cold to the touch. I stood there in disbelief for some time, the televangelist shouting in the background about how when you are in heaven you are never alone. Your loved ones surround you, and you will never know sadness. That didn’t sound very comforting to me, for what’s the point of existing, even in heaven, if you don’t feel anything aside from bliss? And without the compass of sadness, how do you even know what real happiness feels like? I shut off the television and just watched her for a little while, profoundly shaken. I poured myself some wine and called the ambulance as well as her daughter, who will be flying in from Hawaii first thing tomorrow. I didn’t cry because I thought she didn’t want to die, but instead I cried for all the time she sat here alone. Being alone isn’t bad unless you don’t want to be alone, and I don’t. I don’t think she did either. And that is why I sat there and wept.

  It’s funny how, when people die, you think about all the things you didn’t get to talk about. Not necessarily what you never said—that’s something entirely different—but rather what conversations you never had. For instance, my father and I never discussed penguins or architecture or the Berlin Wall. Not once. If we had, I wonder how different things might have been between us. We never discussed astronomy or politics or literature. Never paintings, never opera. I must admit that he was so wrapped up in getting through every terrible moment, or cherishing the time he could close his eyes and shut us all out, that I have a difficult time mourning him. However, in a funny way, it makes me miss him more. One could argue that it’s hard to miss what was never there, but I disagree.

  I wish I had gotten to know Jane sooner so I had the opportunity to know her longer. I miss her so much.

  From: Florence Eakins

  Sent: Tue, Jul 9, 2019 at 7:30 PM

  To: Fawn Birchill

  Subject: A few words

  Hi Fawn,

  It would be great if you could say a few words at our father’s funeral. After all, you are his eldest daughter.

  Flo

  From: Fawn Birchill

  Sent: Tue, Jul 9, 2019 at 9:08 PM

  To: Florence Eakins

  Re: A few words

  Florence,

  As far as many funerals go, they tend to be on the verbose side. Most people want to get in and out as soon as humanly possible, as they are simply too difficult to withstand—especially if you liked the deceased. So I’m smart to the idea of someone asking me to say “a few words,” as you well know you’d rather have me give a speech. Yes, I am quite eloquent, being surrounded by literature each day; however, I wish not to participate in the morose proceedings. Not only do I bristle at the idea of public speaking, but also I quite honestly have nothing to say about Father. I can say literally a few words (as you requested), and they would go something like this: “As fathers go, he was an interesting one.” And I would leave it at that. Surely you do not want me to speak, for, given our childhood history (something you’ve managed to squash down into the recesses of your brain), there is little good that I can talk about.

  I could mention that after Aunt Tilly took us shopping at the King of Prussia mall and bought us high-end clothing that fit us, Father made her return all of it so we would “stop walking around like little prima donnas.” Or the time you had a friend over for dinner and Father wouldn’t let her leave the table until she had finished all her peas. Do you remember how she cried afterward? I believe you consoled her by taking Father’s toothbrush and rubbing it around inside the toilet bowl. Or all the times he prayed in the checkout line at the grocery store “just to kill time” instead of talking to his daughters like a normal person would. Or the time our cousin from Wilkes-Barre (the smelly one) took me to prom, and when he tried to kiss me and I called Father to pick me up, he didn’t believe me and instead left me there with him. Or that time the young marine kept coming around to take you out and Father chased him off with a shotgun. He was actually a decent-looking man. Or, perhaps worst of all, how he made you sit in the back room of the store for years doing the books instead of letting you do your homework while he forced me to clean, run the register, and take deliveries. It’s a shame how you forget these things, Florence, and act as if none of it ever happened.

  All that said, clearly I have come up with a litany of phrases for his funeral, so if you are in dire need of a speech, I suppose I am your huckleberry.

  Fawn

  From: Florence Eakins

  Sent: Tue, Jul 9, 2019 at 9:41 PM

  To: Fawn Birchill

  Re: A few words

  That’s fine, Fawn. You don’t have to say anything.

  Flo

  July 11, 2019

  I have an update on Rainbow. This morning I awoke to find her door ajar. Careful not to disturb her, as I know her work is very sensitive, I snuck over and gently knocked with only the tip of my finger. When she didn’t answer, I called to her, but still there came no response. I waited a few breaths and informed her in a kind tone that I was coming in. I only wanted to see if she was all right, as she has had this door securely shut for days and has only emerged to use the bat
hroom, find food, and dispose of Jellybean’s poo.

  Ever so carefully I eased the door open, and what I saw nearly knocked me over. I stood at the threshold of her small bedroom to find it completely emptied of her belongings. There was no trace of her and Jellybean; it was as if she was never there to begin with. My heart sank. At first, of course, I thought that she had left in the night, upset with me over something, but she was never the kind of person to take offense to anything at all—a quality about her that I found both rare and refreshing.

  So, feeling rather dejected and still reeling over the loss of Jane, I steadied myself on the doorjamb and took some deep, cleansing breaths. I couldn’t understand how I managed to lose her, this ray of sunlight in my life. I should have told her sooner how much she meant to me; perhaps then she wouldn’t have left. Immediately I thought of Jack and how he wouldn’t take her sudden disappearance very well. I walked into her room and stood with my back to the window, trying hard to find a clue—anything that would tell me what the hell had happened—when I noticed an envelope taped to the wall beside the outlet.

  Hungrily I opened it to find a letter and one hundred dollars cash enclosed. I would have included the letter verbatim in my journal, but soon you will understand why this was not possible. Unfortunately, I am forced to re-create what I read within. Here is the best my memory can do:

  Fawn,

  It was such a pleasure staying with you in your lovely home. I enjoyed the time we spent together, as well as meeting and getting to know the late and fabulous Jane. But it is with a heavy heart that I must perform my last great vanishing act and leave this fine place behind. Please know, Fawn, that though we have reached the end of our time together, though the rainbow must eventually fade, there is always another to be admired elsewhere. This rainbow is thrilled to announce that she is currently headed to Atlantic City to perform in her very first casino show. Because of your support and willingness to take me in for not much money at all, I was able to perfect my craft in a way that fits AC’s standards. I am closer than ever to reaching my Vegas dream and will forever count you as a dear friend who played an important role in that. I hope my last two months of rent will help as you find another occupant.