The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies

by Connie Spittler

  Her crooked finger wagged. “I see your back is better. While the batter rests, the small barn needs cleaning. Food on the table after you finish your chores.”

  He grabbed his musty, dusty Homburg from the hook. “Someday you’ll find out that life is more than goat droppings, Auntie.”

  “How would you know?” Aggie shook her head.

  He tilted the hat on his head. “One day soon, I’ll be out of your hair for good.” He crammed the hat down around his ears, a crumpled end to the conversation. “The world awaits me.”

  The screen door slammed. His worn boots plowed a path through the gravel. Aggie saw the wind grab his hat and knock it flippety-loop. Griffo scrambled to catch it.

  The sky fed sunbursts to the goat farm garden. After breakfast, sitting in the front porch rocker, Aggie saw only gray. A car pulled up the farm lane and parked. She rocked on, eying the woman who got out from the driver’s seat and ambled over to the porch. Thoroughly covered, she wore a lavender long-sleeved shirt and slacks. Big sunglasses covered her eyes and a matching cowboy hat hid her hair.

  She reached into her pocket. “I’m looking for herbs for my university study.” Her voice was soft. “Here’s my list. Mint. Lovage. Would you have belladonna and monkshood?”

  They moved to the garden and Aggie pointed to some nearby plants with her arthritic hand. “Yes to mint and lovage.” She picked a few handfuls of leaves. “Not many requests for the other two.”

  “I heard monkshood was used to kill wolves. Though, if you’re worried, I don’t plan to kill any.” The woman kept her head down while she walked past the rows.

  “Long ago, soldiers put it in the drinking water of enemies. Armies tipped their arrows with it. But I don’t sell dangerous seeds or plants from my garden. I grow them only for family tradition.”

  “I desperately need a few samples for my research project. If you’ll do a one-time only sale, I’ll pay double and I always wear gloves when handling dangerous herbs. I promise not to kill any army personnel either.” She smiled.

  Aggie paused. “I’m sorry, but I never sell the ones that are dangerous.”

  “Then, I’ll take the mint leaves and sprigs of lovage.” The woman paid cash.

  A sliver of a chill slipped down Aggie’s back as the buyer left. No one had ever asked to buy poisonous herbs before.

  After the sound of the visitor’s car engine faded away, she went to the raggedy dark green book she kept in the kitchen drawer. Willed to her by her Mama Nanninski, it was filled with secrets handed down through the centuries, messages poured out in a language sweet as violin notes. Her stiff fingers slowly untied the twine that kept the treasure together, pages that condensed her family history of gypsy life into remedies and recipes in German and French. Written by ancestors as they traveled through Europe, many recipes now had English translations, but not all. She browsed through the musical language of her family’s past cooking. Schnitzels and dumples, oxtail soup, parsnip stew, yarrow salad, dill sandwiches, flower biscuits and pippin pielets.

  The next section listed herbal remedies for sore throat, flu, achy bones, constipation, nausea, palpitations, toothache, fevers, skin eruptions, nose troubles, and skinned elbows and knees.

  Toward the back, faint handwriting listed poisonous herbs, borrowed from the gardens of others or pulled from roadsides: Monkshood. Belladonna. Foxglove.

  She closed the book. Each syllable paid tribute to a time not many understood, the passages in her book as rhythmic as patched skirts swaying on a frayed clothesline.

  Even Griffo, from Camlo’s side of the family, was not allowed to read it. Though he helped out at the farm, Aggie did not trust him. He was seldom around anyway, sneaking off into the unknown with his schemes.

  After she changed the bedding straw in the barn, she collapsed in the porch rocker and picked up the poetry anthology again. This time she decided to give Christina Rossetti a chance.

  Remember me when I am gone away,

  Gone far away into the silent land;

  When you can no more hold me by the hand,

  She felt words of sadness slip over her like the worn cotton case on her goose down pillow. Tear stains darkened the page as she wept for her lost love, part of him gone to his own silent land, yet leaving his soul hidden in the closet. Gypsies held their secrets tight to their hearts and their ghosts did not let go easily. Years of the world’s misunderstanding kept them walking in a land of silence. Flashes of forgotten desire closed over her. Lost lightning. Romantic thunder now too distant.

  She dried her eyes on a corner of her apron. She should eat, but she was too tired. Temptation flared. Should she open up the family book? Unfold her ancestors’ recipe for the lively tea of love? But if she did that, she’d spend a sleepless night wishing and yearning for the lost ingredient. There had been too many nights like that. She settled instead on warming up boiled parsnips mashed with fresh rosemary butter.

  Toward midnight, Aggie woke and looked out the window to see the light of Griffo’s lantern. The vardo cast a huge shadow against the garage. She watched her nephew attach the wagon to his green and yellow roadster. Then she heard the wheels of the decorated caravan thump down the driveway, bumpido, bumpido, onto the country lane. Apparently, Griffo was off and away again to find his fortune.

  After a cup of morning tea, she fed the goats. At the feeding troughs, the animals nuzzled their noses in oat bran and made noises of approval. Plodding back to the house, the empty garage loomed lonely in the early light. Oh, good riddance, she thought, without him to frazzle her, life might turn as easy as flapjacks. He was a gypsy in the wind. Unstoppable. Untrackable. Unreachable.

  The man clicked away on the Internet until he located the overseas phone number. The call went through from the United States to the Jardin Estates in Alsace.

  The static cleared. “Duke Quincy here.”

  “Your Grace,” he began. “I represent the Global Antiquarian Society. As you may know, ours is a prestigious organization, dedicated to the preservation of volumes of the past.”

  “I see.”

  “At this time, we are assembling a tour of fine old volumes for display in specially selected libraries in the United States of America. You may have heard of this tour of antique books.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m calling to see if you would consider adding a book in your possession to our prestigious book tour. I believe your volume concerns ancient cures.”

  “I’m sorry, that is impossible,” the duke said.

  “I understand your reluctance.” The low voice continued calmly, “My research tells me its contents are a mystery sought by many, but I’d like you to consider another possibility that does not include anyone looking inside the book. I am a scholar overseeing a study on ancient bookbinding techniques, and we would like to mention your manuscript. All I need to do is view it, describe it and give measurements. I would come to you.”

  “Our book cannot be touched.”

  “It can be measured using new technology, so not one finger would light on its valuable cover.”

  “Our book is sealed.”

  “As I said, I’d only view the binding exterior and its condition.” He heard the muted sound of a distant bell. “In addition, if you agree to my visit, our organization would make an exceptionally large donation to your winery.”

  “How much would that be?”

  “Because of the mystique surrounding your book, we’d be willing to offer five thousand euros.”

  “And exactly how would this information be used?”

  “It’s for historic purposes only. The information in our archive is only available to qualified scholars. It is kept under lock and key in our own vault. I would come to the Jardin Estate for a private viewing. You would be present for the inspection of the exterior. That’s it. Except for our donation of appreciation.”

  “Well now, this might work. Information in the study done for your prestigious archive might h
elp sell our wine. I will allow it. I see no harm in one brief visit as long as you don’t publicize it beforehand. I’m always here. Let me know when you’ll arrive.”

  “Excellent. One visit. No touching of the book. No publicity.”

  “Forgive me, the bell for teatime calls. I must go. Dill and cucumber sandwiches await.”

  Dipping an old sea sponge into a pail, Lily scrubbed down the used bookmobile to chase away her dark images, the thoughts of an ended career and a loveless, friendless existence. If she stayed in town, she foresaw a life of suffocation in her rooms, re-reading poetry and passionate passages, breathing air heavy with disappointment.

  Soapsuds trickled from her elbows, splashed on her jeans and melted on the cement. The one chance she had was her traveling machine. She could flee the cottage and the city and head into a world of promise.

  Freed from layers of dust, her escape vehicle glowed, a behemoth mirroring the vibrant color of the setting sun. Inside, the van was gray, with empty shelves for books, a nook with frayed seating for three, a little fold-up table and a small storage closet. She threw a few striped scarves over the drab seating to liven it up. She sprayed citrus scent up and down the center aisle.

  Back and forth, forth and back, she trekked carrying stacks of books from the house to the bookmobile, literary classics she’d acquired through the years. Moby Dick. Last of the Mohicans. The Scarlet Letter. Several works by Dickens. She worked until she’d emptied the main shelves of her cottage. After she remembered Piper’s request, she climbed up to the attic to look for books from college reading explorations of erotica. Her armload of classics stretched along the illusive borderline between erotica and pornography, debated by scholars and judges for years. Boxed up in the corner, she found the faded, brown leather collectibles she’d bought in used bookstores bordering the edge of the campus. She lugged them out to the bookmobile: Villette. The Decameron. Candide. Casanova’s The Story of My Life. After some thought, she put the books from the erotica category on the shelves in the small storage closet.

  A vague future lay ahead. The six month guarantee on the van engine provided a deadline for her traveling experiment. Shoved from the dim safety of the Special Collection Room, she was about to enter the direct sunlight of other people’s lives. She closed her eyes, then opened them slowly. After the time was up, if another library position did not surface, if the bookmobile did not give her a life worth table salt….

  Picking up a few smooth stones from the driveway, she dwelled on the final solution found by Virginia Woolf. Saddened by life, with rocks in her pocket, that author had walked to the bottom of the river. Emulating Virginia, she slipped a few pebbles into her jeans, then rested her damp hand on her engraved chest. Her hidden away, intricate tattoos surfaced, exposing a pattern through the threads of her damp, thin T-shirt. No man except the tattoo artist had seen her chest since her surgery. She didn’t have the courage to survive another episode.

  She changed clothes and drove away in the bookmobile to scour the city’s new and used bookstores for classic erotica. For hours, she let herself fall under the spell of books again, pulling out favorites and sitting on readers’ stools to browse literary memories. In the end, she pulled into her driveway with a few boxfuls of delight: The London Journals of Boswell. Venus in India. The Lustful Memoirs of a Young and Passionate Girl. Marcella. The Spy in the House of Love. She also bought works by Colette, Virginia Woolf, George Sand, Jean Rhys and Gertrude Stein. She assembled a short list of other qualified classic erotic authors: George Eliot. Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Wordsworth. Edna O’Brien. And why not Elizabeth Barrett Browning?

  In her bedroom, birds chirped outside her window and her mind strayed to the erotic possibilities before her in the books she’d brought home. She opened up a tattered book of love poems she’d found in a budget bin and fell head first into Elizabeth Browning.

  We paled with love, we shook with love,

  We kissed so close we could not vow;

  She skimmed the poem, haunted by images of past pleasure.

  And through his words the nightingales

  Drove straight and full their long clear call,

  Like arrows through heroic mails,

  And love was awful in it all.

  The nightingales, the nightingales!

  She remembered a night spent in the mountains with a man she loved in college. They’d walked hand in hand through the woods, listening to the rustling of creatures around them. Suddenly, he stopped and turned her toward him. In a black night with no moon or stars, he kissed her until she trembled. And a bird sang loud and clear.

  She sighed and took her time, browsing the stack of sensuous reading she’d purchased. Eventually, the books found their place on a special shelf in the closet of the bookmobile. There was room for more. Always room for more books, she thought.

  The next morning, she showered, splashing warm water over her body to remove any last bit of uncertainty, then toweled herself dry. She carried out two packed suitcases and stowed them by the main back door entry. Early fragments from the east streamed onto the bookmobile, her perfect getaway ride for a librarian on the loose. She picked up the tray of potted straggly herbs and deposited them next to her baggage.

  At her desk, she wrote checks for two utility statements and filled out the official post office form for held mail. She left the end date blank and signed it. Then, the urge to amplify made her write a few words along the bottom of the card for her postman:

  If you wonder why I left, it’s because people should care more about books. Now, I do what I can. If others ask where I’ve gone, tell them destination unknown.

  Sincerely, L. M.

  In a final gesture, she dialed the phone company. “Please temporarily cut off my service. I’ll call if I decide to make it permanent.” When she put the receiver down, she felt disconnected from the city she’d known for years.

  She picked up the folded newspaper on the edge of the desk. A disturbing photo caught her eye, part of an article about monarch butterflies. More than 200 million butterflies had rained down from their roosts in the towering fir trees of a Mexican forest. She visualized the monumental amount of flapping wings now stilled and melancholy enveloped her. As she read the article at the bottom of the page about the antique book tour coming to Groverly, the gloom lingered. It was only a squib written from the press release she’d sent out, but it represented one of her last duties at the library she loved. She marked it with a red pen and underlined the headline three times. Then, she circled the article on lost butterflies. The newspaper remained on her desk, a red inked commentary on leaving.

  Lily took the utility payment envelopes and post office notice to her mailbox and flipped up the red flag. Gas tank full, engine revving, the wheels of the bookmobile met the pavement. Her literary flight stretched out before her. After a quick stop in Nolan, she’d fly down the road again to find adventure.

  With DVD sales stalled at the Emporium, Boris was bored with the flinging of knives. Regular store hours, shelf stocking, and bookwork rubbed against his action mentality. Finally, his wild and restless spirit triumphed and he closed up shop, turning the sign to “Temporarily Closed.” With that one gesture, he could hide in the back apartment and no one would bother him, while he worked on whatever plan the fates suggested for him next.

  At three a.m., a car coasted down the country road and parked. A man glided down the goat farm driveway and invaded the garden. After picking leaves of certain plants, the figure crept back to the car and drove on.

  The next morning, Aggie stood outside the Used Stuff door, looking at a sign that read “Closed.” Although it meant she couldn’t deliver goat milk to Maxine and Sax, she didn’t fret. She understood the value of such announcements. Signs like this popped up often on local shopkeepers’ doors in Nolan. Owners had the right to come and go, and customers dealt with it.

  Zooming down the highway, Lily worked to stay optimistic as the macadam’s yellow line led her to
ward an unsuspecting reading public. She would work to find people she didn’t know, who yearned for books they didn’t realize they wanted to read. Random influence with limitless possibilities, she thought.

  In her quick exit, Lily left a paper trail of information that would follow her, mile after mile.

  If a butterfly flaps his wings ….

  CHAPTER 8

  It was his bullet-point plan. The man studied it and nodded. After detailed investigation and the proper amount of money, he’d obtained a fake passport. Next, he’d constructed an ID card with his new name and identification as an American representative of the Global Antiquarian Society. Then, he’d acquired the proper herbs.

  Rows of wilting plants and seeds lay in a line on a small table. “Lovage. Yarrow,” he mumbled as he double-checked the ingredients. “Foxglove. Monkshood. Belladonna.” He knew which herbs killed, but needed more information on amounts, so fired up his laptop. When he was satisfied, he minced fresh leaves and maneuvered a rolling pin over seeds. He poured boiling water over smidgeons of pounded ingredients. With a careful hand, he added yarrow and lovage for a bright spiciness and honey to provide a touch of sweetness for any who imbibed. After he was satisfied, he hid the completed vials in the closet and drove several miles to buy small laboratory animals.

  Back at his quarters, he took out his mixtures. One at a time, he invited the purchased lab creatures to his perilous tea party. After each experiment, he logged the result. When the winning subject showed little apparent pain and transformed quickly from furry mammal into stiff body, he adapted the recipe for human consumption, according to his Internet research. Finally, he wrapped the small corpse in a towel and placed it in the corner with the other misfortunates. After dark, he set the remaining live animals free in a nearby field and buried the dead. Everything went off without a hitch. He emptied all the liquid from his vials, and put the correct amounts of pounded herbs in a well taped envelope.