The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies

by Connie Spittler

  Cousin Vladislov often said, “Treat your luck well and it will never leave you.”

  In the bookmobile, Lily sat entranced by the global weather report on her iPad, possibly an example of the chaos theory. According to the Total Ozone Mapping Spectrometer, the cosmos stirred up dust in Chad, making it the dustiest place on earth. Strong winds funneled around the eastern slopes of the Tibesti Mountains, blasting minute pieces of earth and clay out of West Africa. The movement drifted over the Atlantic toward the Americas. A few bits of dust, a drift of wind, and you could end up with something big.

  When a young man entered her bookmobile, she flipped off the screen. “Hi, come on in.”

  He approached her slowly. “My name’s Anton Judd. Jeremy from the Hopper is my uncle.”

  “Do you like to read, Anton?”

  “Yes, I just graduated from college in Groverly and the newspaper there hired me as a reporter. When I told my uncle I needed an idea for a feature, he suggested your bookmobile.”

  Lily perked up. “Well then, let me give you the grand tour.”

  “Can I record you?” he asked.

  “Of course, to keep the facts straight.” She led Anton through the stacks, telling him about the Dewey Decimal system and showing him how it worked. She pulled out some of her favorite classics, but decided against opening up the closet of erotica.

  “Where’d you get the idea?” he asked.

  “It was simple. Books are my life. What could be better than spreading the love of books?”

  He snapped some pictures. “It should make a good feature. Sign the release, and I’m off to write my first newspaper story.”

  In the kitchen, a cold breeze washed against Aggie’s cheek. She stepped back and looked at the tightly shut window. A shadow seemed to pass by and she crept up to the glass to peer out. Was someone watching her? But there was no one. She remembered the words of Aunt Florista written in the family book, “In the hour of success can be sown your destruction.” Underneath it, the caution went, “To keep good luck, turn sideways in the wind.” Aggie sashayed sideways out of the room.

  Minnesota Fiddler, a middle age woman wearing gray sweats and a matching windbreaker limped out of the Groverly Prison after serving six months for reckless driving and road rage. Her more serious arrest for the burglary of a coin collection did not result in a conviction. The police were unable to find the loot. “My good fortune,” she murmured, hopping on a city bus.

  CHAPTER 18

  Griffo walked up the crest of the hill to find a place out of the dead zone that surrounded the Arts and Crafts Fair. He spoke the credit card number of Lily McFae slowly into his cell phone.

  “Please hold,” the voice said.

  Griffo shielded his eyes against a rolling wave of dust and waited until another voice came on the line. “Am I speaking to Griffo of Griffo’s Rare Gems and Jewels?”

  “Yeah, but speak up,” he said. “The connection’s bad.”

  “Your most recent charge came from a card reported stolen and it’s now over the credit limit. I will pass this purchase of eight thousand dollars from your store over to the Fraud Department. You indicate the sale was made to Lily McFae. Is that correct?”

  Griffo wheezed. “Yeah.”

  “Will you be able to describe the person who bought the item in question?”

  Only a shadowy image of Lily McFae emerged before him. “Tall, but not so tall. Big sunglasses. Hair maybe light brown. I don’t know. She wore a green hat with a feather and a skirt with a jacket of some kind.”

  “Hold on, the description is not for me. The authorities may ask you later, if they arrest a suspect. Unfortunately, that’s unlikely, but sometimes it helps to refresh the memory as soon as possible.”

  Griffo tried to regain the air just sucked out of him. “Damn blast it. How long before the person who owned the stolen card pays for the purchase and I get my money?”

  “They don’t. Insurance takes care of it. You will be contacted on the procedure for filing a claim. When a card is reported stolen, the customer is reissued a different card.”

  “What if that someone says it’s stolen, but it’s not?”

  “That is not our experience.”

  “Then your experience is different than mine.” He snorted. “I need my money now.”

  “We apologize for any inconvenience… proper forms must be… someone will contact you as soon as….”

  As the voice cut out, the wind whipped dust into Griffo’s eyes. “I need immediate retribution,” he growled.

  “I … your sale. But the … filed and you will … ask … patience….”

  “Patience is not something I abide,” he yelled. “I will deal with this thieving woman personally. I can spot a grifter a mile away. She has the jewel, dammit and I think she just told you the card was stolen.” Griffo snapped down the cell phone receiver just as his hat flew off his head.

  His boots skidded as he chased his Homburg down the hill. He grabbed it and locked himself in the wagon. Pouring down a slug of slivovitz, he let the clear plum brandy warm his gullet. He’d been screwed by a clever swindler and her name was Lily McFae. Using his own form of gypsy justice, he would find her and get even.

  His anger incited his itches. Spots demanding attention puffed everywhere in unreachable places. He lit the camp stove inside the vardo. From the page he’d taken from Aggie’s book, he began to stir together a batch of calming lotion. He grabbed vinegar from the cupboard and poured it into a pan, then added minced sage, basil, mint, thyme and a few fibers of milkweed. Once the mixture was warmed, he poured in oatmeal and stirred to thicken. Vinegar fumes crept into hidden spaces, filling empty fake jewel boxes and cubbyholes behind the desk and bed. He followed the words of the remedy to the letter.

  Warm ingredients gently over flame. Do not scorch. Read incantation and burn. Add ashes and cool. Smooth on skin and leave overnight to dry…Wash off by morning light.

  He moaned the words,

  Spirits of ancient herbs and healing. In the secret places of day and night, make my itches dissolve, never to return. Be gone, be gone, all itchiness from the universe.

  Then, he wadded the chant into a ball and threw it in the cast iron frying pan. Fire from his lit match gobbled the paper and reduced it to ash. Scraping out the flaky bits with a dented spoon, he slowly added it to the congealing mixture in the saucepan. After the potion cooled, Griffo lit a candle and rubbed the green paste over itchy body parts until the pan was empty.

  His misery subsided, replaced by revenge. He imagined McFae’s body sprawled flat on the ground, feather askew, her green hat crushed by his boot. To toast his revenge, he threw down a few more jiggers of brandy and mentally stripped the sapphire ring from her finger.

  Slowly turning the pages of his book of spells, Griffo sought a chant specific for his enemy. When he found it, he intoned the curse three times. His voice crackled with anger.

  Hass, Zorro, feel my anger each morrow. May the darkness overcome your soul. And your heart made of coal. Hass Zorro, feel my revenge each morrow.

  Now all he needed to do was find Lily McFae. Surprise would be on his side. She wouldn’t see him coming.

  When Aggie smelled wild carrots, even though they were not blooming in the fields, she knew for certain. The scent that blew through the murky air signaled that this minute, her magical tea time could begin. She collected ingredients from the herbal bunches in the garage, then picked a few leaves from Lily’s plant. Clutching them tightly, she dashed through the dust devils to the kitchen. Even though the book was gone, she knew the recipe by heart and recalled the exact order and amounts with ease. Her hands were steady as she assembled the necessary herbs before her.

  She bowed her head over the small, green leaves and whispered,

  Wise women of the past, please look kindly on what I am about to create from these lively leaves, sent to me with a sign from above. And so I begin, listening to the earth’s great voice, shouting outside my door.
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  The wind roared outside the window. Dust blew through the cracks. Stirring, sprinkling, she measured and poured until she had recreated the healer’s “Feel Good Tea of Love.” The bent teaspoon trembled as she brought it to her mouth.

  Her mind zigzagged. An unfamiliar taste attacked her tongue. Her body shook. “Sastipe,” she sang out. “Sastipe. To your health.” And clapped her hands above her shoulders. A crescendo of music streamed down through the centuries from hand-carved violins. The melody came from the depths of long forgotten Romany forests and touched her soul. A beautiful, mysterious feeling enveloped her. She felt good, oh, so good.

  In a gypsy forest, wolves howled. Foxes purred.

  In gypsy heaven, ancestors danced. Clouds turned to lace.

  In a gypsy kitchen, Aggie reveled in life’s sensuality and intensity. She’d tapped on a new and tantalizing doorway. And danced through its opening.

  CHAPTER 19

  Lily parked the bookmobile outside the Cut & Curl. She examined the books on the closet shelves that housed her worn collection of erotica. She pulled out a deep brown cover with gilt lettering, Venus in India. She opened it, turning thin pages of passion that awaited willing readers. She gathered other books and stacked them in a column on the table.

  Dipping and turning, she tangoed through the dust to the beauty shop entrance, carrying Venus in India. She noticed the pulled blinds. When she rattled the doorknob, it resisted. The door was locked. Coughing from dust, she tapped on the windowpane.

  Piper cracked open the door. “Come in. What a crummy day. I locked the door because I didn’t want customers bothering us.”

  The farm pickup pulled up, and Piper helped Aggie struggle in with a large brown paper bag.

  Lily brushed off her jeans and put down the book. “Did you know that dust blown from the deserts of western China takes less than two weeks to circle the globe before it comes to rest atop the French Alps?”

  Piper’s eyebrows went up. “Should we be worried?”

  “Maybe. I get the feeling there’s something in the air, besides dust,” Lily said.

  “And I had a premonition the other day that someone was curious about me, just a car driving by slowly.” Aggie shook her head. “But we must deal with that another day.”

  Someone knocked on the salon glass and Piper peeked out the door. “Sorry, I’m closed today.” Piper turned to the book club members. “How about that? Customers when you don’t want them.”

  Aggie took a mason jar out of the sack, then her old teapot and three little teacups. “Today, we sit down, nice ladies, and mark the beginning of drinking lively tea for our refreshment. Prepare yourselves.” She poured green liquid into the teapot, then into the cups.

  “This ancient gypsy recipe was passed down from a special healer. Its most magical ingredient comes from our friend, Lily. I warn you, it is best to sip slowly for the most pleasure.” She rose and lifted her cup in the air. “Let this ancestral tea flow gently down the chalpa mum.” She sipped. “Sastipe. To your health.”

  “Sastipe.” As the taste of the tea met Lily’s taste buds, she couldn’t keep herself from jumping up.

  Piper sipped. Eyes wide, she sat frozen in place.

  Aggie watched the women and grinned.

  “Good grief, that’s uh, refreshing.” Lily walked to the window blinds to hear the sparrows twittering operatic arias behind the slats. “Uh, stimulating. Uh, intense.”

  “Cool, cool, cool, cool color.” Piper rolled a drop around her tongue, then closed her eyes and giggled. “This stuff curls my insides.”

  Suddenly the wind died down and Lily could hear gears shifting inside her body. “Provocative, that’s it. A provocative taste. Exactly.” She moved a slat to peek out. On the other side of the glass, an explosion of sensuous butterfly wings moved up and down, up and down. Like a man and woman in an ultimate embrace. “Ah, Eros,” she shouted, “And Aphrodite too.”

  As each club member took a second sip, the world snapped into sharp focus. Electric currents jolted the air, and each woman felt like she’d placed a wet finger into a socket. Flashing arcs shook them down to the tendons of their ankles. They sighed with twitchy satisfaction and dissolved into themselves.

  Aggie dreamed of dancing with her beloved in the moonlight, their nude bodies rhythmic to the beating of their hearts.

  Piper savored the flavor of her tea, intent on Freddie’s hands caressing her throat, her arms, her legs and the rest of her body.

  Lily sank down to pull herself together as her thoughts dwelled on a man’s throat. Tan and smooth. Lips bending to find hers. She tipped her head to see if it would help her focus. “Aggie, is your tea, by chance, high in alcoholic content? Or drug related?”

  Aggie chuckled. “No. No. Only herbal. Serve hot or cold. And enjoy.”

  “This tea makes me think now might be the time to explore the literary delights of erotica. I say we adjourn to the bookmobile where we can lock ourselves away, surrounded by literary temptations.” Lily grabbed the book she’d brought and handed it to Piper. “If you carry this, I can get the door.”

  Piper giggled. “I’m for that. I can’t stop thinking about men and their … bodies, and what they do with them.” She giggled again. “Aggie, don’t forget the magic teapot.”

  Lily led the stumbling members to the van. She opened the door and took the book from Piper. “Let’s begin with some Charles Devereaux. This is Venus in India.”

  “All right then, Charlie.” Piper grabbed the edge of her chair. “Hit me.”

  As Lily read, their eyes widened and they fidgeted back and forth.

  Pressing her swelling bosom to mine, and letting me pull her to me until our bodies seemed to form one, not denying me the thigh I took between mine.

  “Hold it.” Piper stood up. “Splash me some more tea, please.”

  Aggie poured.

  Lily pointed to the stack of reading material on the table. “You can see I have classics with intriguing passages waiting for you. The London Journals of James Boswell, Mansfield Park, The Handmaid’s Tale, A Spy in the House of Love, The Wide Sargasso Sea.”

  The room was spinning around Lily’s head. “The closet is filled with books from my own collection and others I just bought recently. I lost the Groverly Library. So what? It’s only a building, right? What about more important things, like romance? In the night, I drown myself in the game of why. Why am I alone? Why no husband? No lover? Why are there no dark-haired men to kiss me senseless? ‘Would I could be with you.’ But who, I keep asking?”

  “Men came into your library, didn’t they?” Piper asked. “Didn’t you meet anyone there?”

  “I suppose men stood before me, hoping to find a like-minded friend and I opened the door to knowledge, quoting poetry and prose, then pointed them off to the library shelves.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Forgive me for fussing over supposes.”

  Aggie put down her tea and rose. “Isn’t that why we’re together, besides the reading? To prattle of this and that, to talk about ourselves and our troubles, our loves and passions?” She twirled and her full skirt spiraled. “The power of the tea makes me remember. And loosens my tongue enough to tell you of a wondrous night with my husband. On a beach. Before we married.” Her face flushed, her skirt tangled in a twist of color. “There was a summer moon sending out humid vapors and we lay down on the sand for love, then ran into the lake after.” She stopped dancing. “And bound ourselves together again in the water. Later on the beach, the wind brushed past and dried our bodies. We stayed all night curled together on a ripped old quilt, listening to the music of lapping waves.” Aggie stopped. “So hard to describe. It makes me dizzy to remember.”

  “You did pretty well.” Lily leaned back.

  “Afterward, I asked Cim if we would sleep in moonlight after we wed?”

  Piper looked down. “Or make love according to schedule? On weekends. Is that the way with most couples? I thought I’d find the answer to that in erotic
books.”

  “He said we’d fallen into each other’s hearts so deeply that we’d always find love under the stars.”

  “And did you?” asked Lily.

  “We loved wildly and well, but mostly on our bedsprings. Like most others, I suppose.”

  “But you have the memory.” Piper downed the last drop of tea in her cup.

  “Painted in moonlight,” Lily said. “Wait a minute, I know an author who agrees.” She found a book, located a passage and handed it to the old woman. “By anonymous.”

  Aggie pulled the book close, her eyes adjusting to the print.

  O would I were the salt sea-wind

  And you upon the beach

  Would bare your breast and let me blow

  Upon your heart I reach.

  Piper lightly touched the buttons of her shirtwaist. “Would bare your breast. Yes.”

  Aggie put down the book and did the same, her hand on her ample bosom. “Your heart I reach. Yes,” she murmured. “Yes.”

  Lily lightly touched her own chest, then reached for the volume on Aggie’s lap. “Translated from the Greek by F. A. Wright, from Erotica: Women’s Writings from Sappho to Margaret Atwood. Think of it. A poet more than two thousand years ago wrote about the same emotions you and your husband discovered on your own sandy beach. Which only proves love is eternal.”

  Aggie chuckled. “We were young. We thought we were the only ones to make love in such places.”

  Lily closed the book. “There are as many images of love as there are couples, I guess. Sappho said, Love shook my heart like the wind on the mountain rushing over the oak trees. That was from a Greek lyric poet from the Isle of Lesbos in 500 BC.”

  “And love is exactly that way, isn’t it?” Piper said. “Different, but the same. Love is love.”