The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies

by Connie Spittler

  They grinned and followed Boris to the office. It took only a few minutes for him to release the large ancient swords from the wall. “Watch carefully, the rubbing is like a caress.” He held the soft cloth and swabbed the blades with metal cleaner.

  The men worked with care and tenderness, shining each sword until it gleamed. Boris removed the delicate daggers from the gold cord, and the three cleaned the intricate crevices and designs of each handle.

  “Now we throw. My weapons are light, balanced, and deadly sharp.” Boris whipped a knife through the air with perfect aim. “Sax knows.”

  “Sometimes, Boris lets me throw a few.” Sax let his dagger loose with a slow and deliberate thrust. It almost stuck to the outer rim of the target.

  Boris thumped him on the back. “Much better.”

  Griffo laughed and threw his knife with savage intensity. It fell to the ground.

  “You need practice to do it right,” Boris said. “When we throw together, it forms a bond.” He touched his fingertip with the blade and waited for a small drop of blood to form, then placed his finger on the counter, marking it with a perfect imprint. He offered the dagger to Sax, who followed suit and pushed down hard on the counter to create a blob.

  “Gypsies don’t believe in leaving fingerprints.” But Griffo poked his finger and put his light bloody print next to the other two.

  After the goats bedded down in their straw nests, Aggie found the Bronte poem.

  Thought followed thought – star followed star

  Through boundless regions on,

  While one sweet influence, near and far,

  Thrilled through and proved us one.

  The corners of her mouth raised. She was quite sure she got it.

  In the spare room, Piper opened Delarivier Manley’s The New Atalantis at random.

  She placed herself by the Duke. His eyes feasted themselves upon her face, thence wandered over her snowy bosom, and saw the young swelling breasts just beginning to distinguish themselves, and … gently heaved ….

  She quit reading.

  In the Groverly Library, the display glowed and the Book of Cures rested unnoticed in the shadows of open, rare and famous volumes. The sealed cover leaned against a bronze stand at the rear of the display, next to the sliding door of the locked case.

  CHAPTER 12

  Goats bleated below in the nearest field, their inquisitive noses facing the morning breeze. Lily’s body was limp, her shoulders sagging against the back of the rocker. The night had dawdled impossibly into morning, leaving her eyes dry and scratchy.

  She looked out the window, then noticed a book on the desk. When she found Katherine Mansfield’s Leves Amores in the anthology, she read to the jasmine.

  Even the green vine upon the bed curtains wreathed itself into strange chaplets and garlands, twined round us in a leafy embrace, held us with a thousand clinging tendrils.

  A thump startled her. “Who’s there?”

  The door cracked open. “Only me, Aggie, with a pot of tea. I thought you’d be up. Or almost up. I have morning nourishment. Cumin seeds in tea give energy and peace.” Aggie poured steaming hot liquid into cups from Griffo’s cupboard.

  Lily held her teacup to her breast. “Do you know the Chinese poet Lotung? ‘When I drink tea, the cool breath of Heaven rises in my sleeves, and blows my cares away.’”

  “Lily, you talk like the books you carry around with you. And I have gypsy ancestors who might have talked like that, so even though I know no Chinese poets, we are more alike than you think.” Aggie’s form melted into a well-used bamboo chair. “I wait for the cup to warm my stiff hands. You wait for it to warm your heart.”

  “Here we are. Two women inhaling the aroma of amber liquor,” mused Lily. “The color of pale ponds in foreign lands.”

  “See there? You paint pictures and I tell you to sip the heat slowly to avoid a burnt tongue.”

  Slowly, they brought their bodies into the morning.

  For Lily, the minutes rolled over and under, the empty teacup resting warm against her body. “I’m taking a trip back to Groverly today to see some old books. To tie up a thread hanging over my heart. But I’ll be back by tonight.”

  “And I’d stay longer to visit now, but there’s work to do. Like a sign to take down from the mailbox. We’ll talk over tea again later.” Aggie closed the door.

  Lily put on her dark blue pants suit with matching pinstripe blouse and drove to Groverly. Along the way, she entertained herself watching seeds blow in fits and flurries through the crop rows, flying away on nature’s propellers, wings and parachutes. Hungry birds dipped down to snatch them up, then disappeared to colonize other ditches, fields and slopes. On the outskirts of the city, the wind wailed through the pines like a wounded animal, rattling the corners of houses, playing games on lawns, sending leaves and twigs tumbling across the street. And then she was near the library and the smell of the sea washed over her.

  She parked the bookmobile and hurried up the flagstone steps, past the marquee that announced the new exhibit of antique books. Resting her hand on the polished bronze door handle, she centered herself before she entered her old haunt. A crowd of people milled around the lobby and she rushed past them into the hallway that led to her cubicle. The space once hers was empty, but the supplies still waited in place for someone to use them. She tucked a chewed pencil with the library logo into her tan leather handbag, then added a little pot of congealed library paste. She snapped the purse jaws shut on her souvenirs.

  She paused before she threaded her way through the visitors waiting to reach the antique book display. Groups of people stared into the case at volumes locked safely behind glass, studying the condensed history of printing, illustrated with a variety of typesetting, bindings, and paper types. When she saw President Humphrey with his fancy cane and Director Trummel in her turquoise suit approaching, she slipped behind the marble column.

  Mr. Humphrey gestured to the crowd, then turned to Ms. Trummel. “What a great exhibit. A literary coup for our library, I’d say.”

  “Thank you.” She smoothed her upswept hairdo.

  “Don’t know why, but I assumed it was Lily’s idea.”

  “The show was my inspiration. I did order Lily to find it.”

  “Then I commend you.” He made his way around the crowd, tapping with his cane.

  Lily clenched her jaw. She watched the two drift down the hall toward the conference room for the monthly meeting of the board. She knew what she must do, but first, the beautiful, old books.

  She took her turn inching forward as the visitors crowded around the display, commenting on ornately illustrated manuscripts, pointing at pages with unusual formatting. She noticed that all the books were open, except for one sealed book in the back row.

  Suddenly her eyes widened. Her heart sailed. She almost shouted because the Book of Cures was there, in the case. When she’d arranged the tour, she’d read the list of scheduled titles chosen to travel. That book was not among them. Somehow, this extraordinary manuscript had found its way into the display. Entranced, she wedged herself forward to put her hand on the glass, to view the volume as closely as possible. The book radiated in the florescent light. If only she could touch it, even once, through thin, white gloves.

  She felt an impatient nudge behind her and moved aside, then walked deliberately toward the boardroom. The outside wind intoned a cadence with each step.

  She marched into the conference room, dragging the condensed aura of old pages and library paste with her, and took the open seat next to President Humphrey. She leaned over. “Since this is a meeting open to the public, I decided to attend. I hope to have some time to address the board.”

  “I could give you a brief moment.”

  She watched the board, a dozen well-dressed people, come in the private side door that led directly into the conference room. They entered without seeing any books at all, a privilege she didn’t understand, since the special entrance meant they missed
the idea that formed the institution.

  The president’s gavel knocked on the table for attention. “Time to begin.” He stood and glanced at Lily. “You all remember Ms. McFae. She’s assisted several of our library directors for longer than I recall.” He leaned on his cane. “In years past, Ms. McFae has exemplified the very word “librarian.” Helpful. Knowledgeable. Quiet and prompt. She’s here to give us her proper goodbye.” He sat down.

  She rose. Releasing her fingers from her bulky purse, she gazed into the faces of the assembled members she knew. She cleared her throat to chase away her fear of public speaking, but her voice still evoked the soft timbre of a broken bird.

  “Mr. President. Members of the Board. We are fortunate to be in this great place. It was Alexander Smith who said, ‘I go into my library, and all history unrolls before me.’ A library is an institution that connects our civilization, tied together in its own way by Melvil Dewey’s system. Bringing order from chaos, where the world’s offering of knowledge and imagination is numbered, put into place and made available to all. Life is rarely so well organized. Particularly my own.”

  Mr. Humphrey touched her elbow.

  Her voice picked up speed and volume. “Before I leave, I want to say how grateful I am that through the years, I was given the opportunity to offer thousands of books to our community.” She raced on, looking at Ms. Trummel. “I’ll miss the arrival of new volumes overlapping old, the sense of literary decades passing. Miss it all more than I can express. As Jorge Luis Borges said, “I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.’”

  The president interrupted, “Thank you, Ms. McFae.”

  But she would not be stopped. “Truth be told, I didn’t want to go. I was asked to leave my books, my irreplaceable friends. In the end, I was fired. I’ll miss the people who work here. And those who come into this building to learn. Or find escape from reality. Even those who enter to get away from the cold.” Her voice cracked. Her eyes welled. “It’s been … uh ….” She tried to compose her face. “It’s been enough. But it is true, change happens.”

  President Humphrey cut short her faltering. “We wish you well, in spite of everything.” He rose and shook her hand. “Now, we need to discuss next year’s computer bids. Let me show you out by way of the private exit, so you can conveniently be on your way.” Taking her arm, he escorted her to the door that led directly outside. “Good luck and goodbye, Ms. McFae.”

  Lily paused. The pearl of a tear rolled down. “Sometimes, life sucks. I believe that would be attributed to ‘anonymous.’”

  The pearls on her cheek multiplied into strands and the door latch sealed her exile.

  She stood outside the closed door and continued the speech she’d intended to give. “No librarian is a stereotype. And I’m not the boring person you think I am. I’m not only pale and prompt and forgettable, but a woman with my own secrets of nonconformity. Beneath my dark suit, you would be surprised at the extraordinary tattoos. They would simply amaze you.”

  The heavy wooden panels of the door stood mute. The full force of the wind dried the regret that coursed down her cheeks.

  In the cool, antiseptic setting of a Groverly clinic, Piper waited for the doctor’s touch. She dreaded medical appointments and set her teeth together when he approached, looming over her, reaching for her exposed breast. His hand encircled her flesh. His words were soft and comforting, but she didn’t listen as his cool hand gently kneaded, then increased the pressure. She stopped thinking. His fingers probed her vulnerability as she stayed frozen through his examination.

  When the doctor was finished, he said. “Yes, you were right. There seems to be a lump.”

  She bowed her head. “Okay. And now?”

  “Next step, a mammogram. Call the office to schedule it. Your birth control prescription is waiting at the desk, but I suggest you wait with the pills until we get this sorted out.”

  She bit her lip. She wanted to ask another question, but the door was closing. As she stepped down from the exam table, she put a hand down to steady herself.

  Late in the day, the man slipped into the library, lost in a crowd of nursing home elderly who’d come to see the special display of old books. He separated himself from the group using walkers to wander near a far stack dedicated to engineering. Browsing away the time, he moved casually among the back shelves. If someone came near, he’d place his hand on a volume and withdraw it, then return it, once he was alone again.

  When the man’s watch indicated closing time, he moved down the hall with the dwindling number of visitors. After the corridor was empty, he slipped inside the utility closet, wedging his body against a cart filled with brooms and mops that smelled of pine oil. Once he sensed the library was empty, he crept to the bottom of the basement stairs near the furnace. Above him, he heard the noise of squealing wheels and clanging pail that signaled a janitor’s cart roving the corridors. He listened to the workman’s soft humming and imagined the wide dust mop sweeping up and down the terra cotta tile halls. When footsteps approached the top of the stairs, the intruder barely breathed. Silently, he stepped back further into the darkness. Finally, the janitor and his sounds faded away and the place was silent. The man inhaled deeply and climbed the stairs to settle on the floor of nearby stacks.

  As Lily drove back to Nolan, she replayed her library farewell. She was glad she’d mentioned Melvil Dewey, the man who published the Dewey Decimal System in the United States in the late1800’s. She marveled at its invention, a four-page pamphlet that expanded into multiple volumes as the years went by. She gave a big sigh over the new ways of categorizing books now discussed, debated, and utilized.

  As she lay in bed that night, her face softened with thoughts of Argentinian Jorge Luis Borges, famed poet, essayist and short story author. She was partial to him because he’d worked as a librarian, so he deserved mentioning.

  As she nodded off, she thought of the Scottish poet Alexander Smith, who’d written, “To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Quiet. Dark, dead quiet. The three a.m. kind of quiet that fell like fine dust between the spaces of the bookshelves at the Main Branch of the Groverly Library. The man moved from the stacks into the corridor. Like an errant moth, his flashlight beam flitted from wall to wall. No one heard his footsteps echo down the hall.

  Scritch. Scratch. He took out a pointed tool and jimmied the newsbox in the lobby, then snapped the lid shut. Minus one newspaper. He’d researched the special glass case that featured antique books and he was confident of his skill. Briefly his light flickered on the aged volumes, then he moved behind the unit. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. A few fumbles later, the back of the case swung open and his gloved hand darted into the display. One red covered manuscript disappeared from the rear of the exhibit before the door fell softly into place again. His shadowy form folded the newspaper around the stolen object before he tightened the screws back into position. Then, the darkness of the back stacks absorbed him once more and he sat silently on the floor, the Book of Cures tucked safely inside his shirt.

  The next morning, he listened for early library workers to arrive and settle in their places. When the first patrons chattered in the corridors, he slipped out of the stack and quietly joined those who browsed the popular display of best sellers. He worked his way to the nearest exit, left the building and hurried toward his car, parked one block over.

  Safe in his room, the man laid the parcel on the desk. Unwrapping the newspaper bundle, he examined the loosened red wax seal. He pulled on the gloves he’d saved from his library visit and his fingertip traced the seal’s impression of a leaf, now broken. His heart beat as he opened the book. Its brittle pages were covered with outlines and drawings. He puzzled over unfamiliar symbols and a language he couldn’t read. Eerie with the darkened patina of age, the inked line map showed a garden of seven beds, surrounded by animal sheds and other buildings, but his interest lay primarily in plants
and ways to use them. He could only guess that some of the writing involved the cures.

  When he reached the end cover, he saw the sealed parchment pocket. A line of sweat formed along his hairline. His mind raced. Tapping at the bulk within, he guessed that the long hidden remedies might lay folded under the second seal. A broken seal, however, might lead the pharmaceutical company to suspect that the recipes were not real and the authenticity of the book questioned. No need to lose a million bucks being overeager.

  The warm air closed in. One drop of sweat and then another landed next to the manuscript. Afraid he’d drip on the pages and damage them, he closed the book, wrapped the package, tied it with twine and placed it in the desk drawer.

  A tall man with an athletic frame strode into the Main Branch Library. He wore an oxford shirt, navy blazer and khaki trousers and his classic profile with graying hair at the temples gave him a distinguished look. Three men filed in behind him.

  In the lobby, the elegant old man waved his cane at the visitors. “I’m Humphrey, Board President. So grateful you came quickly. This is Library Director Trummel and Global Tour Representative Durand.”

  The tall man held out his hand to Humphrey. “Detective Hughbert Jamison of the Groverly Police, in charge of major theft.” He gestured behind him. “The forensic team.”

  “We’ve closed the library and set up in the conference room,” Humphrey said.

  “First, show us the display case where the book was stolen. We’ll start there.”

  President Humphrey, Director Trummel, the tour rep and the detective marched down the hallway, with the police team following.

  At the empty display case, Detective Jamison tapped on the glass and frowned. “All the books are gone. What happened? I thought only one had disappeared.”

  Tour Rep Durand stepped forward. “It was critical that we pack the exhibit up and ship it off to our next destination. And so we did. The transportation was ready and is waiting for me now at the airport. The most important thing for you to understand is that the stolen book was not part of the tour. The Global Antiquarian Society knows nothing about it. Nothing at all.”