The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies

by Connie Spittler

  “Lily, please, Mr. Humphrey doesn’t have time for your convoluted explanations of nature.” Ms. Trummel looked grim.

  “No, go on, I’m interested,” he said.

  The director turned her back to adjust her perfect lapels as Lily continued, “In a way, the library functions as a literary chaos theory, words wending off in different directions, stimulating the ideas and imagination of others, the printed page verifying cause and effect, sometimes exploding with infinite ramifications.”

  “Sold,” he said.

  The director glared at Lily, then marched off with the president holding the book to his chest.

  In another minute, Ms. Trummel poked her head around the corner. “Lily, I need you to fill in for the readers’ advisor again. She’s leaving early.”

  Lily continued to unload her armful of books.

  Director Trummel scowled. “And stop cozying up to the board president. The budget and your attitude determined your bad fortune. Besides, I can’t believe you accepted that rare book tour without consulting me. Not a smart move.”

  Lily shrugged. “You told me to find something as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, but there are rules, which you chose to ignore. I should have been notified first. It’s already on the radio. Because of your cavalier attitude, do not expect a recommendation from me.”

  Lily adjusted her glasses and massaged her temples. “This discussion has given me a sincere headache. I can’t fill in for the advisor. I’m going home to rest and figure out what’s next for me and my sad little life.”

  The director held up her hand. “Stop right there. You’ll put me in a bind at the advisor’s desk. I order you not to leave the premises.”

  “Sorry, but my head hurts. I’m going home. ‘How much of life is lost in waiting?’ Ralph Waldo Emerson.”

  “A very literary way to continue your insubordination.” Ms. Trummel glowered. “I’m done playing games with you. If you leave now, don’t bother to come back.”

  “Then fare thee well, I guess.”

  Lily strode off to her office, grabbed the red butterfly flyer, shoved it in her purse, and hurried toward the arched exit. She slammed her palm against the carved Spanish door. Her flat heels clapped against the pavement on the way to her old Plymouth.

  On the way home, she stopped at a nearby drive-in, trying to regain control of herself. “Two soft tacos, extra hot sauce,” she murmured into the microphone. Her knuckles were white as she clutched the steering wheel. Like falling dominos, she thought, one circumstance striking another, finally knocking her down. Her surgery. Her disagreements with the library director over classic books. The unexpected envelope of dismissal. A roomful of people in Nolan who’d scared her silly because they wanted to read. She ate her tacos. One slight headache followed by her quick words of defiance. She didn’t know how to turn back.

  She squeezed the last taco bite. Minced lettuce coated with Tabasco squished out. How perfect, she thought. All I have to show for my library career is hot sauce dribbled down my front.

  Nerves jangling, she blew through a stop sign on the way home. A trucker honked and threw her the finger. Swerving to avoid a collision, she smacked her car into a temporary concrete barrier. The front of the car folded. “Yikes,” she yelled. “Not fair. Oh, dammit.”

  She coaxed the Plymouth to an off-road position and her examination revealed a dented fender, broken headlight and crushed grillwork. When the engine wouldn’t start, she clomped home to her cottage, called for a tow, and the favor of a quick estimate from the service station man she’d used for years.

  That evening, he called with the bad news. “Damage versus cost of repair equals a totaled vehicle. I’m sorry, Ms. McFae.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she mumbled. “Everything’s in shambles, but thanks for letting me know.” She hung up, sat down, and closed her eyes against the real world.

  In the goat barn, Aggie put the billie goat on the milk stand. Her swollen fingers cradled a hoof pick to clean the muck from his toes. The billie jerked away at first, then settled down to allow her to trim the sides of each hoof, slicing off the hard edges. She scrubbed the hooves down with a little toothbrush and finally, planed off the bottoms. When she turned the goat free, he galloped off and she started on the next one.

  Eventually, her energy flagged and she flopped into the disintegrating, wicker porch rocker, soaking her skin in sunshine to ease her perpetual goose bumps. Opening the anthology of poetry she’d taken from the club meeting, she decided to give a gent called Alfred Lord Tennyson the chance to break through her misery.

  “Tis a morning pure and sweet,

  And a dewy splendour falls …”

  But Tennyson’s “Maud” couldn’t crack the ice that gripped Aggie’s every move. Mornings were not sweet. The dew no longer splendid. Her stiff fingers crumbled a fresh basil leaf in her apron pocket and she lifted it to her nose. No juicy green scent erupted from the pulp. Plum dumplings no longer tasted plummy. Tap water didn’t run hot. She shuddered. Life without her beloved only meant a samovar kept locked in the closet. A ghost haunting her. And a cold heart.

  “Taking a nice lazy break, Auntie?” Griffo ambled down the stairs of the garage, then down the driveway to the mailbox.

  Aggie watched him return, waving a bright red piece of paper.

  “Halleluiah,” he cried. “It’s from the Jardin Estate.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means a damn lucky break for me.” He tucked the paper in his pocket and got into his roadster. “I’m off to check something out at the library in Groverly. A chance to get rich.”

  When the dust settled, Aggie picked up the book to try again.

  In her salon, Piper finished two cuts and a perm. She needed a break, but faint marks on the mirror bothered her. She started at one end of the salon glass and worked her way down, spraying, wiping, spraying, wiping. Halfway there, she breathed on a difficult smudge.

  Her hand shook when she saw Freddie’s reflection in the glass, his long strides aiming for the shop, coming through the door, standing close behind her. She rubbed against an imperceptible spot with a towel and felt his warmth invade the back of her neck.

  “Look at me, Piper. I went home for lunch and found your note. I want to know what the hell’s going on?”

  She spoke to his mirror image. “If you give me a little time, I promise we’ll talk about it.”

  “You’re acting squirrely.”

  “Maybe I am. Maybe I have a reason. There are things.”

  “At least tell me why you moved out of our bedroom.”

  Her back muscles tightened. “Because I needed some time to figure something out.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong?” His voice was loud and angry. “Jeez, is it another guy? Who the hell is he?”

  “It’s no one. Please, go back to work. Give me a few days.”

  His hands reached out to grab her shoulders, but she stepped aside to evade him. “My next appointment will come in a minute, so we can’t get into it now. I’ve got something to figure out, Freddie. Some time, that’s all I’m asking.”

  “It had better not be another guy. I don’t understand, but if that’s the way you want it.” His heel marked a black streak on the linoleum when he swiveled to leave.

  She collapsed into her revolving chair and let the tears fall. Back and forth, around and around, she rocked.

  Lily took two aspirins, changed into sweats and pulled herself together before browsing the newspaper employment want ads. No job opportunities tempted her, but a full page announcement of a big auto auction caught her eye. The special box with information about a certain vehicle lifted her spirits a notch. A bookmobile.

  It took only ten minutes in the Groverly Library for the man in drab brown to gather his information. Sauntering down the hallway, he stopped at the long glass case that displayed local kids’ drawings of polka dot snakes, green cows and purple fish. He looked behind the safely locked cabinet
to see the screw tops that held the storage piece together. Near the back exit, he saw the stairs that led to the basement, then tried the door near the restrooms and successfully located the utility closet. He left the building.

  CHAPTER 7

  Lily stood on her sidewalk, looking at her mailbox. A symbol of expectation and dread, she thought, and wondered if the mail would contain ads or bills. Instead, she found the manila envelope from the Jardin Estates.

  She struggled with the tape, finally tearing a ragged edge to get to the contents. Envelopes of yarrow. Dragoncello. Lovage. Lively. She counted out the order, opened the corners of the packets and peered inside. Pods of monkshood. Seeds of belladonna and foxglove. She felt the infused magic of her Alsatian mystery living in these envelopes, in the embryonic bits of herbal life.

  Gently, she poured seeds of lively into her palm. An errant breeze arrived from distant shores and a few flecks, dark as pepper spilled onto the grass. Cupping her hand, she emptied the remaining seedlets back into the packet and retreated to her backyard, to the small, unused pots that leaned against the side of her garage. Hands deep in potting soil, she couldn’t shake a limping kind of aching as she planted, then dribbled fresh water over the dried bits. She stared at the clay containers, visualizing colorless pods opening underground, uncurling, transforming from the wet warmth she provided, green needles piercing through darkness, ready to unfold twisted leaves and flower buds. To Lily, the seeds were a symbol of a shadowed figure in an Alsatian garden, plucking herbs to create a remedy for loneliness, a potion, a tea of romance. Many years had passed since the days of the old Duchess, but perhaps the cure would be found in time to help a librarian in need.

  Hosing off her hands, she ended her daydream, checked her watch, and changed into an indigo blue pant suit. She sat at her desk and rushed through the morning newspaper, stopping to read the small announcement about the Global Antiquarian Society Book Tour scheduled to visit the Groverly Main Branch Library. She folded the paper and left to grab the city bus that routinely passed her street corner. As she rode through the stops and starts, headed to the auto auction, she wondered about the price and size of the offered vehicle. Would it be one of the smaller vans or one of the huge ones? Clutching her purse, she stepped out at a downtown stop and walked the few blocks to her destination.

  At the lot, she stood near the back of the crowd, listening to the auctioneer babble on.

  “What’ll you give? C’mon people, loosen those purse strings. This station wagon’s a steal at ten thousand. C’mon, mister.” The auctioneer cajoled the man who’d offered the next-to-last bid. “Okay then, if you’re all through, that’s once, twice, and the gentleman in the red tie’s got it at nine-nine.”

  She clutched her checkbook and eyed the orange vehicle next in line, with BOOKMOBILE spelled out on both sides. It was a size she thought she could handle.

  “Okay. Next up. Who will give me an opening bid on this fine, old van? C’mon. C’mon, people. Word is that this vintage piece of machinery was used in the next county as a bookmobile. Seventeen feet long. Comes with a six month warranty on the reconditioned engine. Back and front entryways with one little step. A few small windows here and there for light. Filled with shelves, shelves, and more shelves. Not much rust. Little storage closet near the back entry And hey, a built-in seating nook. You could use this van as a ….” He stopped and gestured wildly toward it.

  “Place to read.” A voice came from the front and the crowd tittered.

  “Why not? But it has other uses. Gimme an opening bid, someone. Anyone? Eight thousand dollars for this orange beauty ready to streak down the road.”

  Lily looked around. Not one bid. She opened her mouth.

  And the auctioneer continued. “How about seven…six…five…four thousand? Put it in the backyard. Store your tools. Make a playhouse for the kids.”

  People in the crowd shook their heads.

  “Thirty-five hundred? Anyone, anyone? A doghouse for huge pets? A storage closet for your light bulbs? Your knitting needles? Your dirty books?”

  A chuckle ran through the crowd.

  The auctioneer’s eyes swept the crowd. “I hate to pull this one off the market. Anyone?”

  “Thirty-five hundred dollars,” Lily said.

  “Now we’re on a roll. Who will up the ante? C’mon, this is a steal. Anyone? Hate to let this orange delight go for such a bargain basement price.” The auctioneer hesitated. “Okay, then. Going once, twice. All yours, lady. But you gotta tell us. What are you gonna do with it?”

  “I thought I’d use it as a bookmobile.”

  “Hell of an idea. Pay the man in back.”

  The cashier handed her a series of papers to fill out, and her pen wobbled as she wrote.

  “Where you planning to park this bookmobile? Maybe I can get you some customers, if you peddle a few of those porno pages the guy mentioned.” He smirked. “Loads of interest in that kind of stuff these days. Hell, any day.”

  Lily kept her eyes on the small print of the contract. “My plan is to offer intelligent material to those who hunger for reading. From my diverse and personal selection.”

  “Diverse, huh? So that’s what they call it nowadays.”

  Her chin went up. “They call it literature, and if my place of employment no longer wants me to offer it from their hallowed halls, I’ll start my own damn library.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “To hell with ‘em.”

  Dipping into her savings, she paid the tab.

  “Sign this last one and you’re on your way.”

  Her hands firm on the unfamiliar wheel, she lurched the bookmobile down the road toward home. Gears jumping. Brakes squealing. Vroom. Vroom.

  Llewellyn leaned back from his desk in a corner of the pharmaceutical sales room. He answered his cell phone. “Blanding here. Who’s this?”

  A low voice answered, “A friend, wondering how your big plan’s going? Getting that Book of Cures.”

  Llewellyn frowned. “Sometimes I get loaded and shoot off my mouth. Who’s this?”

  “Never mind that. It’s an offer to buy that book from me, not the family. When I have it in my possession, I sell it to Neubland for a million dollars. Or to a higher bidder. I need to know if your company is interested in such a purchase.”

  Llewellyn gulped. “Absolutely, but I need time to get the money together. Don’t contact anyone else.”

  “Fine. You’ll hear from me when I have it.”

  At the window of the goat farm, the curtains flapped to and fro, a dance of forlorn netting that matched Aggie’s gypsy shawl. Her spoon beat the bowl of batter in a cycle of circles, while Griffo drank coffee at the weather-beaten table, reading a newspaper.

  She stopped stirring. “Better close the window or the draft’ll blow us both away.” She set the bowl down. “Are the accounts ready?”

  He put down the paper and pushed up from the surface of the table to stand at the screenless window. “Not yet. My back’s out of whack. Sitting on that damn kitchen chair did it.” He shoved down hard and the window shut. “Ow! That hurt. I thought you called me for breakfast, not bookkeeping.”

  “I worry about you dipping into the farm money for your own dealings.”

  “Look, I help with the chores and the accounting, whenever I can.”

  “And you get free room and board.” She poured molasses into a bowl.

  “I’m busy picketing. And a new gem business.” He slumped back down to the table. “Besides, other opportunities arise.”

  “More gamboozles. Griffo, you bring dishonor to our family.” Agitation dripped like syrup from Aggie’s bent spoon. “What jobs have you had? Illegal cab driver. Tricky card dealer. Old books sold as valuables. All your plots hold the promise of jail time. Are your jewels fake or real?”

  “They’re called synthetics and customers can’t tell the difference. Now this one’s real. Worth several hundred bucks wholesale.” His pinkie finger wiggled and flashed, then scratched his chi
n. “Purple is an unusual shade for a sapphire. Worth big money.”

  “And how do you fund this grandness?”

  “I deal. Sometimes I steal. Whatever is necessary to succeed. And you, dear Auntie, live in the past, hoarding and pinching. Scraping the bottom of every bowl. Stirring up recipes old as the book they come from. But speaking of recipes, my skin allergies have been kicking up lately. I could use one of your salves.”

  “I offer goat milk at an honest price. And seeds and herbs for an amount that’s fair.”

  “Bingo. Bango. You hit it. Honest and fair don’t hack it. That’s dinky piddles.”

  “Goats are my income. Dinky though it be.”

  Griffo gave her a hard look. “You’re getting old. And frail. Maybe you should sell the goats. And the farm. I’ll handle the sale. Save you the trouble. We divvy up the proceeds.”

  “Not to worry about my health yet, Griffo. Do you want me to look for a remedy for your skin?” She pulled out the green family book.

  “Now here’s a real idea. You translate all the gypsy recipes and I’ll sell them. Folk remedies are the rage these days.” He reached for the volume.

  Aggie hugged the book close. “Listen to me. The remedies are never to be sold, but to be passed on, generation to generation. That’s why I learned words of the languages from my family, so I could read the recipes not translated.” She stared at him. “Nothing from it ever sold.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “I meant to ask, have you stopped selling those old books in the garage? How much would each book be worth?”

  “Different books, different prices. I’d have to go through the stacks. Why?” He juggled three brown onions from a basket on the counter, moving around the kitchen to demonstrate his skill.

  “If there were any spicy ones, could I borrow them? Or maybe trade for the herbal salve.”

  An onion dropped and bounced. “Holy goats, Auntie, you’re a stitch. Spicy, huh? Go ahead and take a look at the books. Call me when it’s time to eat.”