I doubt anyone will notice the book and want to buy it if it’s shoved under a mobile bookshelf, but if it would make you feel better to put a NOT FOR SALE sign on it, then by all means do so.
Fawn, Owner
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Mon, Jul 22, 2019 at 11:40 AM
To: Jack Grisby
Re: The Sale Cart
Jack,
Please don’t put the sign on the cart itself, as the books within it are most certainly for sale. I have moved the sign and placed it only on the book. Was it like that this whole time?
Fawn, Owner
Fawn Birchill/CuriousCatBooks/6m
Outdoor sale today on romance books! Come peruse the Love Cart! Always 20% off!
PSB Classifieds
1br—800-sq-ft GORGEOUS, ELEGANT, SUNNY Apartment—on Clark Park—$1,050/mo UTILITIES INCLUDED!!!!
Laundry in the unit! Small balcony off bedroom overlooking a tennis court!!! Can fit a grill!! Stays cool in summer! Antique hardwood flooring throughout! Beautiful appliances! Closet space! Great for college student or single person, or perhaps a couple that likes cozy quarters! Lots of sunlight! Dogs and cats allowed!
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Tue, Jul 23, 2019 at 7:00 AM
To: O’Hare Repair
Subject: Basement Flood
Dear Cahill,
Hello! Remember me? It has been too long—which is a good thing, I daresay, as I haven’t needed your services until now! How are the boys? I am requesting a quote for a basement flood. Do you handle those? The rain last night did a number on the basement and ended up saturating nearly every old book that I have stored down there. My employee, Jack, has been wading through five inches of water all day pulling the books out and dragging them up to the empty apartment adjacent to mine for the time being. The water smells terrible, so I wonder if all of it isn’t rainwater and perhaps Jack has been wading in some questionable fluids. Can you let me know what you would charge to suck up the water and reinforce the basement so that this does not happen again?
Many thanks!
Fawn, Owner, The Curious Cat Book Emporium
P.S. You must be making a lot of money this year! Philadelphia has been falling apart at the seams. Did you hear about my neighbor who lost his business in a sinkhole? Tragic!
From: O’Hare Repair
Sent: Tue, Jul 23, 2019 at 8:19 AM
To: Fawn Birchill
Re: Basement Flood
Hi Fawn,
Sorry to hear about your basement issues. I’ve attached a quote here, but it would probably be best to stop by and give you a quote in person. This estimate is probably on the low end of what it would be. I’d have a better idea if I took a look at it myself. Let me know if you’d like to schedule a time for me to stop by.
Cahill
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Tue, Jul 23, 2019 at 10:04 AM
To: O’Hare Repair
Re: Basement Flood
Dear Cahill,
That is simply out of my price range. Is there something else we can work out? Perhaps I can make you a delicious home-cooked meal? Do your boys like reading yet? I have many great books that they can just have for free. Please consider. I have very little to give, but this must be resolved. I believe every day that the water is sitting there, it is ruining the already questionable foundation.
Many thanks,
Fawn
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Tue, Jul 23, 2019 at 9:18 PM
To: Jack Grisby
Subject: Shop-Vac
Jack,
Thank you for offering to bring in your Shop-Vac from home. I fear it will be a lot of work, as the basement is enormous. If you are up to it, I would appreciate your effort, but please understand that I cannot pay you.
Fawn, Owner
July 24, 2019
I have left Jack to the mess downstairs, but I fear he will not be able to take care of it all. The books in the now-empty apartment have such a horrible, rotten smell to them. I am tempted to throw them out. It’s a minor blessing that no one has responded to my PSB ads for the apartment, since upon entering they would most likely turn around and leave due to the offensive smell. It is evident, even from the first floor.
I am back from the lawyer’s office. Where do I begin? I wasn’t surprised to find the pastor sitting there with us, and he was among the appointed beneficiaries along with Florence, my mother, and me. Surprise, surprise, he made out with the jackpot: $14,000 to go toward that pristine church. The pastor, a very nice man who just happens to be wealthy, was humbled and grateful for my father’s generosity. I looked at him, hungrily, hoping that he would give the money to the family—the rightful owners, the ones who suffered through knowing Father for fifty-plus years—but alas, it was not in the cards. He just sat back and listened as Florence was bestowed Father’s gun rack, worth about $5,000, and I was left with his gold watch and high school ring, worth only about $300. Mother, of course, got the house and apparently a small but helpful IRA that none of us knew about.
I said my goodbyes to everyone and headed for the train station alone, trying not to burst into tears right there on the street. The watch was heavy in my shorts pocket, and his ring barely fit my slender thumb. None of us wanted these things. We didn’t want a gun rack or watches or even money. We just wanted a dad.
I’m not sure how I almost missed his store. I suppose I was thinking about too many things, so I didn’t notice that there before me stood the gray, decrepit, boarded-up old building—a building that I had walked to most of the years of my young life but hadn’t revisited in over a decade.
His sign had been left up, weathered over the years: BIRCHILL’S GENERAL STORE. The gray-blue paint that my sister and I slapped onto the building during the span of a few weeks over the summer when we were in middle school had nearly chipped completely off. Underneath was the rugged brown skin of bare wood. It almost looked as if it was leaning into the building beside it (a Domino’s Pizza), as if it were too weary to hold itself up anymore. And then, it hit me all at once like a stack of falling hardcovers: I wasn’t looking at a store. I was looking up at my father.
I touched the building, and the paint flaked off in my hand. I held my father, small and fragile. That flake of paint, this moldy building that had long belonged to the bank, this thing that no one wanted, was more an embodiment of him than his own skin, or perhaps now, his ashes. I went up to the front door and breathed in the stale air through the tiny cracks. My old life came flooding back to me: boots on the dirty front steps, the creak of the freezer unit door, the cold smell of the stone basement, the ding of the cash register, the distinct staccato laugh of the postman. I sat on the front stoop for a moment, the odor of decades past whirling around in my brain. Images of my father sweeping became so real I could almost see it. The early-morning odor of his cheap coffee wafting through the aisles and out the front door, hanging in my mouth, clinging to my hair. The slam of a new stack of newspapers each morning brought in by Smoking Joe, the delivery guy.
As I sat there, I realized that it wasn’t for lack of money that he became the way he did. It was simply the fact that we Birchills don’t know when enough is enough. We are too caught up in our memories of what was rather than our dreams of what could be. I certainly don’t want to end up with this as my legacy: this husk of a dream that once was, this monstrosity of peeling walls and warped floorboards, of broken windows and a waiting bed in hospice. All my life I’ve been proving to my father that I’m nothing like him and that I’m better in every conceivable way, but where has it gotten me? My god, I’ve spent my whole life in a pissing contest with my family. My whole entire life.
And the last thing I want is Florence’s little boys to grow up and come across my old building and say, “That Aunt Fawn, she had a nice idea, but can you believe she ended up going mad over it?” No, I don’t want to become Miss Havisham—clinging to t
he hope of a doomed dream.
And in the same way I have clung to this idea, I have also carried with me the heaviest burden of all: the inability to let the past stay in the past. If I’d had a car, I would have driven to Florence’s and then to my mother’s and asked if we could all start over again. Here I am, clinging to a bad childhood, letting it sully everything new. Right now, with all my bitterness, I am no better than Jane’s awful daughter.
When I returned, Jack had managed to break his mother’s Shop-Vac. Surely I’ll be paying for that. He thinks it’s simply clogged, but the burning smell gives me the impression that he has ruined the motor. I asked him if he was aware that he should be using a filter, and he just gave me that blank look again like he had forgotten something very important.
From: Florence Eakins
Sent: Sat, Jul 27, 2019 at 11:26 PM
To: Fawn Birchill
Subject: Will reading
Fawn,
It has taken me since the will reading to find the words to tell you that I think your behavior was awful. That pastor and his church have been a beacon of light and happiness for our dad for many years, and if he wanted to give him his money then let him.
I don’t understand why you never liked Dad. He was a good dad to us. I loved working back there, balancing the books, doing my homework (which I was allowed to do), talking with friends on the phone, and just being a kid. I’m sorry you found the work to be so awful, but you always took things too seriously. Maybe if you had relaxed a little more, you would have seen that he was only showing us important life skills? I know it was probably harder being in the front and dealing with all those customers. I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t have it easier, and I know he could be tough on you at times, but he meant well, Fawn.
He did the best he could. I’m sorry that was never good enough for you.
Flo
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Sun, Jul 28, 2019 at 10:30 AM
To: Florence Eakins
Re: Will reading
Dear Florence,
I’m sorry I didn’t accept the invite to go to lunch with you, Mother, and the pastor, but I just couldn’t be around that man for another minute. Mostly my anger was and is directed toward him and not you and Mother, innocent pawns in the game of exuberant and unnecessary monetary gift giving.
I’m a little surprised Father let you talk on the phone with friends and goof around, but I suppose I should have known better. He was always infinitely harder on me for some reason. And yes, I’m sure his intentions were noble—and maybe you were mostly spared the brunt of this—but overall he was about as warm to me as a block of ice. Hardly the definition of a good dad.
Fawn
July 28, 2019
I just ended a phone call with my mother that concluded, oddly, with her apologizing to me. It’s a new feeling, being apologized to. It’s not something that normally happens for me.
Florence and I both struggled in school due to our respective lack of sleep, but she always struggled more than I did. It was known in our immediate family that I was smarter and worked harder, but I never thought Father paid much attention to this fact. To him, I believed his daughters were faceless, soulless workhorses put on the planet to better him. Little did I know. Florence remained in the back goofing off because Father knew that she’d actually study if put in a boring office with books all around her. And to an extent, it seemed to help. She was rewarded with comic books, candy, and games, while there were no rewards for me. According to Mother, Father believed that I was the one who would make something of myself, and so I was the one who learned how to count inventory, run the cash register, handle the orders, and work with people both face-to-face and over the phone. According to my mother, I was his favorite. I was his pride.
And it hurt him immensely that I never visited as an adult—that I saw those years in that store as pure torture and not a necessary foundation to building work ethic and business acumen. Mother told me not to blame myself because it was his fault he never told me “how special you are” and “how much he loved both of you girls.” Though he might have loved me, it would have taken nothing for him to tell me this. I wonder how different things would be now if he had only said the words. If he had embraced me and said he was proud.
I sit here too emotionally drained to bring a glass of wine to my lips. And so instead I’m lying in bed, angry with my father but sad for him too—sad for the man that, because he couldn’t open up a smidge, lost his eldest daughter and caused her to lose a father before he was even gone from this world.
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Mon, Jul 29, 2019 at 9:29 PM
To: Mark Nilsen
Subject: Idea
Dear Mark,
I’ll begin by admitting that I have probably started this email about ten different ways before resorting to this confession, because I truly have no idea how to put any of this into words. And here I am, usually well armed with an arsenal of adjectives and hyperbole! What I can say is that my decision yesterday has made me a bit speechless. Yes, speechless over my own decisions. I find it comforting that even at fiftysomething, I can still surprise myself.
Here goes! Mark, I would like to sell you my store for indefinite use. No doubt you have insurance money for such a venture elsewhere; however, I believe the reason you haven’t bounced back so quickly is that it isn’t a buyer’s market right now. I can imagine that you have been scouting for vacant businesses all over Philadelphia to move into so as not to lose further revenue. I understand how hard it is to go a day without making money, and even though we started out on rather unsavory terms, I can empathize. I will give you my store at an excellent price. I won’t lie to you: it needs work. We recently had a basement flood, our heating unit is broken and needs to be replaced, the customer bathroom is a nightmare, and the foundation is questionable. And I admit that there is in fact a rodent problem, but I believe with five cats you can easily take care of it. Bert was helpful in that regard, but he is only one cat and a rather lazy one at that. I’m sure you know of the cosmetic problems with the building: the ruined hardwood flooring, the broken windows, and the chipped paint. You certainly wouldn’t be buying perfection. But if you are interested, are you free to meet over coffee, perhaps tomorrow, to work out the logistics?
For decades I fought a cold war with my father, trying to show him that I could excel in business far better than he, but I realize now that if one goes into business out of spite, insecurity, or a selfish drive to be admired, then it will end up in heartache, as it did for me. I had something to prove, Mark. And for many years I felt that I succeeded in that—that is, until you came along and showed me what it looks like to open a business out of love.
I must apologize for the way I behaved toward you this past year. I don’t understand why we, who have such similar appreciations, must be enemies. We should not be pointing cannons at each other across seascapes but in fact should be a fleet, sallying forth into the uncertain waters of the business world. So please, consider my offer. I feel fortunate that I can finally see the good your store has done for this community.
As a side note, I know you couldn’t have caused a sinkhole to take your store on purpose, but I must admit that in the darkest of times I have fantasized about setting my building on fire for insurance money. I imagine you get a nice chunk of change and that it is worth it if you don’t get caught!
Sincerely,
Fawn
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Sat, Aug 3, 2019 at 3:14 PM
To: Albert Collins
Subject: Mr. McEwan’s visit
Dear Mr. Collins,
I understand that the reading had to be postponed due to tragic events at the Grumpy Mug; however, I would like you to know that Mark Nilsen has agreed to buy my establishment and will move into my store very soon—in a matter of weeks, I believe. So I am writing to request that you please add the Grumpy Mug back onto Ian McEwan’s schedule. Mark does
not know that I am writing this to you, for I believe he has given up hope that he could convince such a busy writer to change his schedule under such short notice, but I had to try.
To turn down this opportunity now would almost be adding insult to injury after Mark lost his store to the terrible sinkhole. I know that removing the Grumpy Mug from the tour list would not be an intentionally malicious move; however, I wouldn’t be able to see it any other way. Can we all agree that the poor man has lost enough as it is?
Please reconsider,
Fawn Birchill, Owner, The Curious Cat Book Emporium
From: Mark Nilsen
Sent: Mon, Aug 5, 2019 at 8:37 AM
To: Fawn Birchill
Subject: You and Jack
Hi Fawn,
I am officially offering you the job of store manager, if you want it, when you return from your trip. We can work out the details if you are interested, when you get back. For now, don’t answer but think about it. There is no rush on the decision. We’d all be really happy to have you. We are also looking forward to fostering Bert while you’re away. He will be a sweet addition.
How would you feel about us hiring Jack as well? Would you recommend him? We’ll interview him, of course, but I want to get your thoughts on how he is as a worker and as a person.
Thanks so much,
Mark
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Mon, Aug 5, 2019 at 2:12 PM
To: Mark Nilsen
Re: You and Jack
Mark,
Thank you very much for the offer. I’m not sure exactly how to respond, be it yes or no, so for now I will simply say thank you. If I return to this fine city, we can take it from there. Also, thanks ever so much for watching Bert while I am away. No doubt he will get along famously with the other five cats, as he is not territorial at all. In fact, he moves so little that sometimes customers confuse him for a throw pillow.
In answer to your second request, yes, it would mean a great deal if you would hire Jack. I am not sure what he will do once I close for good and hand the building over to you. There is a dedication and kindness to him that I cannot explain. It is as if he has no concept of how filthy rich he is, an excellent quality in an employee and in a person. He is very willing to do almost anything to help. He even went through the garbage for me once without hesitation—mind you, it was not to retrieve your posters!
Confessions of a Curious Bookseller Page 28
