by Sarah Jio
I sigh. “Yes,” I say after a long silence.
I watch him eyeing the photo of us. I’m six, and she’s barely two. We’re both wearing floral sundresses. My arm’s draped around her chubby shoulder. He looks back at me, and I read his mind. Why can’t you forgive her for whatever she did? You’re family.
“Don’t,” I say defensively, plucking the frame from his hand and tucking it away in Ruby’s desk drawer.
“I didn’t say anything,” he says, a little hurt.
“But I know what you were thinking.”
“OK,” he says, “if you already know, then I’ll just say it.”
I rub my forehead.
“She’s obviously distraught that you won’t speak to her. Maybe it’s time to . . . move on? Put the past in the past.”
“It’s not that easy,” I snap. “Listen, can’t you just trust me when I say that I don’t want her in my life?”
He takes a step closer to me. His eyes are filled with concern. “I can, but I saw the way she looked at you. I’m just worried you may be making a decision you’ll regret one day, that’s all.”
“How can you even say that?” I counter. “You don’t know her. You don’t know what she did.”
“No,” he replies. “I don’t. But I know that you’re expending a lot of energy on whatever pain happened in the past. That’s taking a toll on you.” He sighs. “And her. I saw the pain in her eyes that day on the island. June, she’s—”
“She’s nothing to me,” I say quickly, turning back to Ruby’s desk. “Are we done here?”
Gavin takes a step back. He looks a little stunned, and I regret my choice of words as he moves toward the door. “Yes,” he says, closing it behind him. Ruby’s bells jingle, but they sound lonely and distant now.
I feel like a child who wants to throw herself on her bed and sob, but instead I look for comfort in another pair of Aunt Ruby and Margaret Wise Brown’s letters. I recall the mention of Baby Looks in their previous correspondence, and find the next set waiting for me in the first edition of a Little Golden Book with a plump, cherubic baby on the cover. I smile to myself as I thumb through the familiar pages, and I can almost hear Ruby’s soothing voice in my ear: “Baby found a buttercup, found a little clover. Leaned way down to sniff them, then he tumbled over.” I lean back in Ruby’s desk chair and read.
June 14, 1946
Dear Brownie,
I know you must be busy, because I haven’t heard from you this week. So, I will keep the torch burning and write to you again. I hope you aren’t growing tired of my letters!
Operation Sisterhood has been a miserable failure, I’m afraid. I invited Lucille to visit the bookstore, which I deeply regret, especially when Anthony walked in the door unexpectedly. He kissed me on the cheek, so I had to explain our relationship. It did not go over well. To make matters worse, apparently Lucille once worked at a nursery school where Anthony’s daughter, May, attended. So she knew about his marriage to Victoria. Imagine the look on her face when she put it all together. We’ve taken a giant step back, and, to be honest, I’m not sure if we can move forward again, and that is heartbreaking for me.
Anthony left on a business trip to Chicago, and I admit, I’ve missed him terribly. I’ve come to love our little routine. He comes over after work, and we have a late dinner together in the apartment above the bookstore. I’m getting better at cooking, too. I’ve been studying my copy of Betty Crocker’s Cookbook at night and actually trying to learn. It’s rather funny, actually. Imagine me, hovering over a cookbook! And, yes, it is all for a man (I may be struck down by lightning right this second).
Oh, but Brownie, he is a wonderful man. Gentle and kind, and he loves me so. He tells me, of course, but I also can see it in his gaze. I love to feel his gaze on me. We talk about the future, our life together. It is our unspoken understanding that our relationship will never be recognized by church or court, but I have his heart, and I believe I always will.
Last week, after I’d closed the bookstore, we were sitting by the fire together, and I asked him if he’d like to bring May to a story hour sometime. Brownie, you should have seen how the very mention disturbed him. He immediately rejected the idea. And he was angry at me for suggesting it. It was our first disagreement, if you could call it that.
I’ll never forget what he said. “Don’t you understand, Ruby? I must keep these two worlds separate, for your sake, and mine. And for May.”
I could not understand his reasoning, and I felt hurt that he wanted to keep me away from his “other” life. “But don’t you want me to know your daughter?” I pleaded.
He shook his head, and then he said the thing that made me understand, finally. “No, Ruby, I don’t. Because she’s a smart little girl. And she’ll see the way I look at you and she’ll know that I love you in a way I will never be able to love her mother. And I worry that will break her heart.”
I understood then. And this is why I will never get to know May. Still, I mourn the loss of this relationship that is never to be. I saw the way she behaved when I first met her at Elliott Avenue Books, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she might soften a bit if someone took an interest in her. I could have done that. But I will honor Anthony’s wishes.
I try not to think about his life outside of the one we’re building together. I know he goes home to Victoria. I know they share a bed, and every night when I set my head on my pillow, alone, I think of him lying beside that woman. I try not to think of her undressing in front of him, or her hands on his skin. But what right do I have to protest when their union is legally binding?
No, this is the arrangement I agreed on. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I went into it with eyes wide open. I did it for Anthony. Because I trust him. I just need to remember that.
I don’t see him as often as I’d like. His life is busy and full, but he makes room for me. I’ve come to view myself as a little mouse, happy to take a found crumb here and there. Oh, but they are such delicious crumbs!
Before he left for his trip, I got a shipment of new books in, and he helped me unpack them all onto the shelves. Afterward, we had dinner on the rug by the fire, like a picnic. We had this moment where we just looked in each other’s eyes for a long while, and then I asked him, “Why did you do all this for me?”
He reached up his hand to my cheek and said, “Because I knew it would make you happy.”
And I am happy. So terribly so. Sometimes I look at him and wonder if my heart might burst. And yet, I wonder if I’ll always feel this way. I wonder if years will pass and I will grow discontent with our arrangement. I wonder if I’ll gradually want more and more. What if I’m not satisfied until I have all of him? This is the human condition, you know, to keep yearning for more. But with Anthony, there will never be more. This love he offers is constrained.
So that is my dilemma, my great paradox. Brownie, what would you do in this situation? I’d love to know.
Well, I’ve been going on and on, and I haven’t even asked how things are in your world. Writing? Love? What are you dreaming about these days? You always have the most amazing dreams. I wish my mind entertained me the way yours does. When I close my eyes, it’s as if the curtain closes on my imagination and I’m out like a light.
Brownie, I will sign off now. Please write soon.
With love,
Ruby
June 29, 1946
Dear Ruby,
I’ve been holed up in Maine for a few weeks writing. How your letters cheered me, though, when I returned to New York and found them waiting.
First order of business: Your cooking. I don’t know whether to be shocked or amused that you have become a proficient cook. In any case, I hope when I do finally make a trip to see you in Seattle that you’ll make me a nice pan of biscuits like the ones my mother used to make in the cast-iron skillet. Do you wear a red-checked apron, to
o? (I’m only teasing.)
Next, dear, I am so troubled about this upset with Lucille. Don’t give up on Operation Sisterhood just yet, though. You have experienced a significant setback, yes. But think of it this way: Lucille now has seen all of your “faults” and can accept you as you are, if she chooses, rather than the false, idealized image of you. And isn’t that the ultimate goal? To love each other through all of our flaws? And to do that, we must show each other who we really are. Give her time; I bet she’ll come around. It’s 1946, for crying out loud! It’s silly to think that relationships between men and women should be so scripted, when in actuality, our world has become so very complex.
In slightly better news, Roberta and I are considering making a trip to Europe together. Maybe you and Lucille could join us? Don’t lose heart.
I am flattered that you think my sleep life is appealing, but I assure you, when you wake up for the thirteenth time in a month with a dream of a white rabbit sailing on the high seas, with sharks in hot pursuit, you will wish you could dream like normal people do. The truth is, my mind never shuts off. I think it’s wearing me out, actually. The mind needs rest, just as the body does. I fear that my imagination only knows how to go, go, go. It’s so tiring, really. I don’t suppose someone who has an active imagination burns through their years faster than ones who do not? At this rate, I fear I’ll be dead by fifty.
A new experience has descended upon me without warning. I’m absolutely fixated on my mortality. Will I die on my walk to the café? Will I slip into a manhole on my way to a business meeting? I’m plagued with thoughts of my death, as if it’s near. Does this happen to you? Am I off my rocker? (I suppose we both already know that the answer to that question is yes.)
Frankly, I’m frustrated with my lot in life right now. Yes, I’ve cobbled together a career (fell into it accidently, I should say), and I’ve seen some success. I ought to be grateful, I know. But why am I not? I’ve come to see that I won’t be able to rest until I write my first real book. A book for adults.
I’ve shared my concerns with you before that the literary crowd, which includes the group of publishers, writers, poets, and other artists of my acquaintance, finds me amusing, at best. “There she is, Margaret Wise Brown,” they say, “the baby book writer.” Nobody thinks of me as a real writer. At parties, they simply smile and ask, “What new nursery rhymes are you working on, Margaret?”
I would be lying if I said this didn’t hurt me. It does. And I long to be taken seriously as a writer. I long to walk into a room and have people think, “There she is, Margaret Wise Brown, the novelist.”
Regarding Anthony, I hope you will remember that no two love stories are the same. Each plays by its own rules. Each takes different twists and turns, has different joys and challenges, different heartaches. There is no perfect story, just as there is no perfect man or perfect woman.
Society tells us that we must do this, or do that. Sign this paper, or that. Vow this or vow that. But none of that matters, not really, not from the perspective of the heart.
I have come to believe that the truest expression of love is when two people can come to each other honestly, and simply love. That is what you and Anthony have, no? My advice is that you celebrate that, live in that, become drunk in that love. For it’s more than most people get in a lifetime. And you should consider yourself the luckiest of women to have found it. After all, I’m still looking.
I should add that I do not mean to diminish your concerns. All that you have shared is valid. And yet, I want to remind you that there is a downside to every good thing. Our challenge is to not let the bad corrupt the good.
And maybe this is why I’m so fixated on my mortality these days. After all, life is short. We must pursue the people, places, and things in life that bring us the most joy. This is the challenge I’ve given myself of late.
To explore it fully, I’m going up to Maine again soon. It will be just me and the frogs, for a month, maybe more. I’m hoping I will be able to hear myself think a little clearer up there. Maybe I’ll finally begin the novel I’ve been dreaming up.
Though this will be my last letter for a while, when I return, I hope to find a letter from you waiting.
With all my love, your friend,
M.W.B.
When I set the letters down a great sense of clarity comes over me. I eye my laptop on the desk, then open it up and pull up my e-mail. I know what I need to do. I know what the next chapter holds, but taking that first step, oh, it’s hard. Buoyed by Margaret’s words—After all, life is short. We must pursue the people, places, and things in life that bring us the most joy—I write the words I should have written years ago:
Dear Arthur,
Please accept this letter of resignation from my position at Chase & Hanson Bank. You took me under your wing and showed me the ropes of the bank. You made me who I am, and my success in our profession is owed solely to you. But, speaking frankly, Arthur, I don’t like who I’ve become. I don’t like the woman who’s learned to feel no emotion, the woman who can sell a beloved business on the auction block without blinking an eye. Yes, positions like ours are integral to the success of business, to capitalism, to the world, even. I just don’t want to be the one who carries out that work anymore. It’s time for me to turn the page. You’re a good man, Arthur. You’re the nicest asshole I’ve ever met.
Yours,
June
I stare at my in-box for a while. It’s after seven New York time. I know that Arthur’s still at work, combing through paperwork, thinking about what restaurant he’ll order in from. I know he’s reading my e-mail right now. I know he’s seething. But I don’t predict his speedy response. The chime of my in-box makes my heart rate quicken. I feel the familiar numbness in my hands, and I realize I haven’t taken my medicine. Don’t be afraid, I hear Ruby say then. Don’t let anyone stop you from being your true self. My true self. Is that who Ruby saw? Amy? I know one thing for certain: This person sitting here in Bluebird Books is the real June Andersen. But that person, the VP of Chase & Hanson Bank, who’s she? I don’t know her. I take my medication, then exhale deeply before opening up Arthur’s e-mail.
June,
You’ve let me down.
Arthur
He’s right, but the thing is, I’m no longer willing to let myself down.
Chapter 12
The next morning, I hear a knock and see a mail carrier standing outside. “Hello,” I say, unlatching the door so we can talk.
“I’m Jim, the neighborhood postman. You must be June.”
“How did you know?” I ask.
“Your aunt told me you’d be taking things over.”
“She did?”
Jim nods. “She talked an awful lot about you. She was proud of you. Very proud. It’s sad to see her gone now. The street isn’t the same without her.”
My eyes sting. “The world isn’t the same without her,” I say.
“You’re right about that.” He hands me a large stack of mail. “Well, I saw the lights on in the apartment yesterday, and I figured I should restart the mail service. After I learned of Ruby’s passing, it didn’t seem right to let the mail pile up. So I kept it until you got here.”
“Thanks,” I say, eyeing the stack of catalogs and various hand-addressed letters.
“There’s one for you in there too.”
“For me?” I shake my head. “But no one knows I’m here.”
He shrugs. “Well, good luck with the bookstore. Ruby would be happy you’re here.”
“Thanks,” I say, turning back to the store.
Inside, I sit down at Ruby’s desk and sort through the mail, mostly publisher catalogs of new books, which I make a mental note to look through later. I set a few personal letters from friends of Ruby’s aside. They probably don’t know she died. I’ll have to write to let each of them know. Later.
Beneath another catalog, I see a card addressed to me. I recognize the name and address on the envelope immediately—May Magnuson—and I tear open the envelope with anticipation.
June, thank you for coming to see me last week. I found this old photo of your aunt with her baby in my files. Given that the chances are small we’ll ever find him, I thought you’d like to have this picture. —May
Beneath the front fold of the card is the photo, which May wrapped in a sheet of white paper. I pull out the grainy color photograph, wrinkled and weathered over the years. The background is the interior of the bookstore, but the shot is distant, perhaps taken by someone standing on the other side of the street. Ruby didn’t like to be photographed, and given the secretive way she handled the adoption, I could guess that she was probably unaware the camera had captured her image. I squint to make out the scene. There’s Ruby, holding an infant swaddled in a blue blanket. They’re sitting near the dollhouse. I can’t make out the baby boy’s face, just Ruby’s. She’s smiling—beaming, actually. She cradles her infant with such love, whoever was looking through the lens must have felt it. I feel it now. And I know in my heart I must find this boy. I must find him and I must tell him what an extraordinary person his mother was. And no matter what sort of life he’s had, no matter what pain he felt when his adoptive parents told him about his past, he’ll see this photo and know that his mother loved him, with all her heart.
I sigh to myself and set the photo down, which is when I notice a familiar logo on the corner of a stark white envelope addressed to Ruby, one I’ve come to know well over the past eleven years. I tear open the flap in anticipation, and pull out the letter inside.
Dear Ms. Crain,
We regret to inform you that your bookstore, Bluebird Books, will enter foreclosure on August 1, if you do not remit the outstanding balance of your delinquent payments. I’ve enclosed a detailed payment sheet to show the amount owed. If you cannot cover this debt, we will proceed with foreclosure and seize your assets and sell them at auction to recoup what is owed.
