They looked at each other.
“Later, it says things about nights and luxury. What do you think, Aggie?”
“I’ll say this, I asked Lily for short. We got short.”
“But what do you think it means?” Piper asked. “Our luxury.”
Aggie shook her head. “I only know that goat farms don’t have any.”
“And neither do salons, but to tell the truth, Freddie and I sure had some wild evenings.”
“Even this old gypsy lady had her share of rowdy nights.”
The women stared into their laps.
“I guess we’re done for now.” Piper stood up. “We’ll try the second verse next time. Maybe we should meet more often to get used to discussing. What do you say?”
“I don’t mind coming to town,” Aggie said. “The change of scene perks me up.”
The door opened. Lily stood in the entryway with a tote bag. “I thought I’d stop by one more time. In case you had questions.”
Piper rushed toward Lily and hugged her. “You’re here. We’re here.”
“Your club is waiting.” Aggie patted Lily’s arm.
Piper pointed to the barber chair. “Hop up and I’ll trim your hair while we talk.” She wrapped the plastic cape around Lily’s shoulders. “We didn’t get very far on our own. Maybe we’re hopeless.”
“Of course, you’re not. Maybe just a word or two about getting organized,” Lily said.
“Our meeting was shorter than the poem.” Aggie twisted her long, gray braid.
Piper held up strands of Lily’s hair and started cutting. “We need to know more about erotica. The questions to ask each other.”
“Well, first decide what type of books you want to read. As I indicated, the kind of writing called erotica covers a blanket of subjects. Desire, consummation, frustration, danger, voyeurism, sin. Even self-love. You’ll think of others.”
Piper snipped away. “What about romance?”
“A definite oversight,” Lily said.
“Fantasy.” Aggie strolled over to the window. “And taboo?”
“Absolutely. Erotica is different from culture to culture, place to place, moment to moment, from beating heart to living speck. If you want to talk about men and women, you might consider certain books that include sexual acts, orgasms, orgies and the like. There is controversy about some of them. Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer was banned for twenty-seven years in this country. Decide if that kind of reading would interest you.”
“Maybe I’m not quite ready for that yet,” Aggie said.
“How about a classic tale of adultery and the town’s reaction to it? That’s the plot of The Scarlet Letter.”
“Maybe just more about a man and a woman. Forget what other people think.” Piper lifted and trimmed strands of hair. “Just two people in love, with problems. Who don’t know how to talk to each other.”
“Are the words in these books shocking or sweet or what?” Aggie tugged at her collar.
“There are plenty of romantic tales with euphemisms for love making. Bursting bosoms. Unbuttoned trousers. Flower of womanhood. Stalk of manhood. Are you up to reading and talking about that?”
“This may be more complicated than I thought.” Piper’s scissors worked their way around Lily’s crown.
“It’s odd, looking inside a writer’s mind and trying to understand what the words mean. Sex is everywhere on the farm, but we talk about animals in a different way.”
“Well then, nature is an excellent place to begin,” Lily said. “Fifty thousand endangered turtles crawled ashore on a small stretch of coastal land in India to lay eggs in their annual migration. A night that possibly saved their species. Imagine that beach. An orgy of turtle sex.”
“Yeah, I see that.” Piper ruffled and shaped the haircut. “The old story about the birds and bees.”
“Gypsies know things about such matters. When the male zebra finch is ready to mate, he does not seek out his love bird until it rains.”
Piper giggled. “So does the female finch spend her time praying for rain clouds?”
With her auburn locks strewn over the linoleum floor, suddenly Lily felt lightheaded. “Since we’ve talked of birds and turtles, sex and orgies, why not give the spinster, Ms. Dickinson, another try. In her poem, she writes about rowing and two lines later suggests mooring. What do you think Ms. Dickinson meant by that?”
Piper trimmed around Lily’s ear. “Knowing she was a spinster, it could mean she liked boating, but I’m pretty sure that’s not it.”
“Now you’ve got it. Look behind the words for other meanings,” Lily said. “How did the poem make you feel? Did the poem give you yearnings? Memories? Sensations?”
Aggie clasped her swollen hands. “I’m thinking, just not saying. Maybe I could save it for next time. The ‘wild nights’ part anyway.”
“What if, in our club we read the books you suggest, but didn’t talk about them.” Piper whipped off Lily’s cape.
“That wouldn’t exactly be a book club, but it’s your call. If you don’t want to discuss, stay inside your minds. It’s a private place that belongs to each person alone,” Lily said. “And speaking of privacy, maybe Dickinson meant private moments between two people, a close affection that lasted through the night, like a boat snug in a harbor. Two people with the luxury of time to spend together.”
“I see.” Piper whisked Lily’s shoulders with a little broom. She went to the closet and pulled out another folding chair. “Let’s sit down and think about that.”
As a silence heavy with romance drifted into the room, the women remembered and fell into rich, inner thoughts, long as tunnels, deep as caverns, dark as the secrets of their own inner hearts. For a long while, they did not speak.
And Lily didn’t expect them to. She sat quietly until a bicycle zoomed past the window, the ching of its bell singing a pure Zen note. “Okay. Forget erotica for today. Talk about something else. Anything come to mind?”
Piper rose and paced around the circle. “But what I’m thinking about is not happy. When I can’t talk or I start worrying, I get busy. I know I should learn to talk about things.” She stopped. “And I need to tell you something.”
“Well, here we are,” Aggie said.
“I moved into the spare room, so in a way, Freddie and I are separated. There are reasons I can’t deal with now, but I thought a book club, if we read erotica might chase away the blues, until I sorted things out.” She dropped back into her chair. “There, I’ve said it and now that I’ve said it aloud, I feel better. Maybe since I don’t know either one of you very well, you won’t judge me.”
Lily bit her lip. “No judgments at all, Piper. Is there anything we can do?”
“You listened,” Piper said. “That’s all I wanted.”
“It will work out for you. This gypsy feels that.” Aggie stood up, gripping her hands together. “And I have something to ask Piper. Do I belong in this club? In this town? Romas have a troubled past. To the townsfolk, I wonder if I’m a suspicion. Do they think I’ll steal their silver? I worry about that all the time.”
“Oh, Aggie, they are wary of Griffo, but not you,” Piper said.
“When Cim and I traveled, I yearned for our gypsy wheels to stop, to have a home and a garden rooted firmly in the ground. Now, with him gone, I don’t know if that was wise.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here in this town and in my shop and in the club right now. So there.”
Lily sighed. “Looks like you two have formed a club.”
Aggie nodded and dropped to her seat. ‘I hope so. If I can figure out how to understand what the writer means.”
Lily lifted her chin. “They do say that sharing lightens the load. So, here goes.” She took a breath. “What I didn’t tell you, was that I was fired by the library.”
“Oh no,” Piper said.
“Oh dear.” Aggie’s finger traced the design in one of her skirt patches.
“In one moment, my temper flar
ed. I lost all those books at the Main Branch and worse, those in the Special Collections Room.” Lily made two fists and touched them together. “I snapped, even though I’m usually a calm, patient person.” She lifted the book of poetry on the table. “Through the years, books were my passion. Not just the words, but even the white spaces between someone’s thoughts. The expanse of the author’s mind.” She leafed through the pages. “I mean the whole package. The paper. Fonts. Edges. Glue.” She closed the book. “Although I’ll always have reading, I no longer have an endless supply of literature surrounding me, a multiplying supply of volumes at my fingertips.”
Aggie reached over and took Lily’s hand. “But now you’re free to do anything you choose.”
Piper jumped up. “And you’re here with us. We barely know each other, but we’ve found a place to talk about our troubles. Who’d have thought we all have secrets.” She grabbed a broom and swept hair from under the barber chair into a dustpan. “Telling one of mine made me feel lots better.”
“At your next meeting, you may decide to read some erotica and discuss it,” Lily said. “Or not. You could change the name of your club to make things simpler.”
“No, I love the name,” Piper said, “although Fred might object, if he knew what it was called. He’s against porno.”
“But pornography is different from erotica, if not in subject matter, then in style. There are subtle and not so subtle differences. A matter of taste and hard to explain. Anyway, good luck.” Lily picked up the poetry anthology Aggie had brought back to the meeting. “Look inside and try Ah! Why, Because the Dazzling Sun by Emily Bronte. I’ll bet you get the idea of what she’s saying.”
She pulled out a book from her tote bag. “Piper, give The New Atalantis a whirl. It may get you started.”
On her way to the door, Lily tipped her head this way and that in the mirror. “Thank you for the fringy haircut. It makes me look different.” She stared at her image.
“Sexy. With a definite come-hither look,” Piper said. “The sweat suit makes you look younger too. Not so sexy, but you never know what might turn a guy on.”
“Are you rushing back to the city today?” Aggie asked.
Lily pulled her fingers through her new coiffure. “No, I’m not going back. The lavender fields up the road are calling to me. I closed my house in Groverly and turned into a rover with a traveling bookmobile.”
Aggie grabbed Lily’s arm. “Then lucky I have an extra room. If you’re a gypsy, that makes you a kindred soul. Follow me to the farm in your magical, orange-colored bookbus.”
A friendly ember flared inside Lily. “I could do that.”
Out of sight, the man waited near the loading zone at the Global Antiquarian Society. The delivery van pulled up and the uniformed driver entered the building. Casual and quiet, the man bent down to fumble with the truck’s rear tire on the driver’s side. Then, he hurried back to his hidden vehicle to wait and watch the loading of a wooden crate into the back of the van.
As the truck moved down the lonely lane toward the main artery into Strasbourg, he followed a distance behind. When the van pulled over and the driver inspected his flat, the man pulled up behind and jumped out of his car. “Need some help, mate?”
“No, thanks. I called and help will arrive in less than an hour.” The driver bent over and fiddled with the tire.
It took only a few quick steps before the tire iron grazed the back of the driver’s head, and he crumpled like a puppet. Another snappy move and his billfold disappeared into the intruder’s pocket.
He swung the back truck doors open to locate the crate. With a state-of-the-art screwdriver, he pried open the top, undid some of the packing material, and slipped in an envelope containing the sealed manuscript. Next to the packing list was a small, separate sheet about the addition of the Book of Cures. He screwed the crate shut, removed the money from the driver’s wallet before pitching it into the ditch.
At the airport, he breezed through his baggage inspection and reviewed his plan: The serviceman who came to fix the tire would call the authorities. When the driver was roused, he’d describe “a man who pulled up behind.” The freight company would verify that all packages and crates remained secure. With a new driver at the wheel, the van would speed off to the airport.
Snug in the cool freight section, the crate flew across the ocean on its long voyage, carrying ancient remedies written in the hand of a sixteenth century duchess. Her simple garden book nestled next to illustrious, collectible manuscripts saved by antiquarians, whose work documented the history of books and the way they’d evolved through the ages.
From the large plane that landed in the States, the crate was transferred to a smaller airline, then loaded onto a delivery truck. The crate moved toward the first tour stop, a small library added at the last minute.
Without a butterfly whisper. Without one note of melancholy birdsong, the secrets of the ancient book moved to the sounds and fumes of the diesel truck engine. After hundreds of years, the fragile old pages edged closer to the light.
CHAPTER 11
Lily grabbed a book of poetry and her small overnight case from the bookmobile, then followed Aggie into the garage. Above the uneven stacks of Griffo’s used book supply, herbal bundles hung from an old rope tacked to the wall. She walked by them, breathing in the smell of lovage and rosemary, mint, dill and basil. The scents of the earth carried up the narrow staircase that hugged the side of the building and led to a small room on top.
Aggie opened the door and pointed at the depression age furniture. “Bed, chest, rocker, desk. Sink, hot plate, and small refrigerator. Plumbing’s over there. Not fancy, but useful.”
Lily gravitated to the rocker by the open window. Cottonwood leaves grazed the pane. A jasmine vine twined up the drainpipe toward the roof. “It’s perfect. The smell of growing greenery above me, the scent of drying herbal bunches and stacks of saved old books beneath.”
Aggie puttered around, tidying up. “I hope you find it comfy.”
“How much is the rent for a night or two?” Lily looked out the large window toward the goats rambling in the field.
Aggie paused. “The room is empty. Friends stay free, but only if you promise to nudge Piper and me, squeaking and creaking, into our book club for foolish women.”
“I can manage a push or two. Thank you, Aggie.”
“I’ll call Piper and tell her. You can drive the bookmobile into town and back, or you can ride with me.”
“Or I can walk. It’s only a couple miles and I liked walking to the library when the sun was shining and I was in the mood.”
“If you miss your library books, try Griffo’s downstairs, or visit the Used Stuff Store. They have a few shelves of old books there.” She moved to the stairs. “I’ll leave you to settle in and later, put a plate of cheese and fruit outside your door. If you are still hungry, stop by the kitchen.”
Lily heard Aggie’s footsteps retreat down the stairs. She knew the Global Antiquarian Society Book Tour was arriving at the library. She thought about the unpacking of the wooden crate. A tour representative would supervise Director Trummel as she unlocked the glass case and positioned the books. When the display was perfect, the lights would be set to highlight the old manuscripts. Then, the case would be locked and the alarm set. Everyone would leave.
Depressed, Lily stared out the window. She’d missed out on arranging the most beautiful book display ever to visit the Groverly Main Library. Beyond the main house porch, grew Aggie’s garden, with its odd mix of beds. Farther on, a stream flowed and fields undulated like unwound bolts of green silk. The ghost of Virginia Woolf slipped into the room as Lily thought of running through the wild grass outside, finding rocks, rocks next to water. With enough rocks and deep enough water, she could plunge into its cold wet cave and disappear.
She got up to pick up the books scattered around the room and randomly immersed herself in a tattered copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. She thought she he
ard a sound and when she peeked outside, found the plate of food. She ate a few bites, then pulled the red flyer butterfly from her purse, and undid the folds. Its bright color under the bed lamp cheered the dim setting. After she unpacked, she pulled on a soft, white nightshirt and climbed into bed. She couldn’t keep a dark loneliness from wrapping itself around her. She couldn’t forget her surgery. Or forget the firing. Losing her job and her books, with only an uncertain future ahead. Would traveling give even a modicum of pleasure? And if not?
She shivered. With her head flat on the mattress, she tried to relax, but the bedsprings creaked with every move. She whispered an old Zen phrase, “Be like a damp stone.” She repeated it over and over, then edited it. “Be like a stone. Be like. Be like. Be.” Be like Virginia. The haunting by Virginia Woolf surfaced again, the tortured writer with stones in her pocket, walking into the water to die. “Be. Be. Be.” Lily pushed thoughts of the author aside. She burrowed into the comforter and got through the night the best way she could. A toss. A turn. A warm pillow flipped to the cool side.
At the Craft Market in Groverly, Griffo waited for customers to visit the vividly painted gypsy vardo. He’d parked near the road to catch the eye of any passerby, certain his place would be hard to miss, with its wild-eyed griffins, gargoyles and dragons. Each morning, he rolled up the yellow awning and flipped down the back counter. He expected his hand-lettered sign “Griffo’s Rare Gems & Jewels” would draw in the crowds. Each day, he counted change and pulled out his credit card machine in preparation for rich customers. His sales pitch sold a couple bracelets for a couple dollars, but the place was dead. Finally, he locked up the vardo and drove to the Emporium in his roadster.
“Looks like you could use some picketing today,” he said.
Boris shook his head. “Sorry, the picketing stunt’s worn out. Care to sample the latest DVD trailers?” He hit the play button.
When Sax walked in the door, Boris beckoned to the two men. “Tell you what, things are slow. Why don’t you guys join me with the ritual polishing of the knives?”
The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies Page 9
