The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies

by Connie Spittler

  Brow smooth, hands folded, the patient rested peacefully.

  “It’s about the way I act when I’m alone. I don’t think it’s what other people do. Since Cim died, I’ve gone all achy inside. I feel his ghost, and it scares me, yet consoles me too.”

  She took Lily’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “From the day he died, life without him left me cold. The first night after he passed, a sorrow appeared to me, like his ghost wearing the shape of his heavy, winter cape. I was supposed to have burned it, but I wore it on my shoulders night and day for weeks. A cape so heavy, it pulled me down, but it kept me from freezing. Later, I only wore it at night, and when I tried to stop, to fold it up and store it away, I couldn’t. Now, I’m still haunted by a vision of Cim. And since you can’t hear me, I’ll whisper his name, Camlo. My dear Camlo.”

  Aggie watched a fly buzz at the glass, its thin antennae beating against the window.

  “I keep his ashes in a jar I’ve hidden inside my samovar. When I hear the shutters rattle in the night, I think his ghost has come back for his cape and his ashes and I’m chilled to the marrow from the aching. Sometimes, I hold the jar and dance in the night. It’s a secret craziness. But now, Griffo has stolen the cape and oh, Lily, I am so cold.” Aggie crushed her face down into the covers of the hospital bed. “I don’t know what to do.”

  When Lily trembled, Aggie pulled the covers up. “You must get well, dear friend. Coma’s not a good thing. Still, it made your ear an easy place to tell my troubles. And we didn’t even talk about the stolen leaves of poison.”

  As Aggie bent down to touch Lily’s warm forehead, peace and resolve coursed through her old gypsy veins, and she felt rays of heat flow outward, warming the sadness inside her. Saying the words, letting them out, worked like balm for her soul. The feeling stayed with her all the way to the farm.

  The first thing she did was gather kindling, a rake and a broom and place them near the plum tree. Then, unlocking her bedroom closet door, she reached for the fedora and put it on her head. With great tenderness and tears, she took down the samovar and lifted out the Mason jar of chunky dust. Inside that glass jar rested the spirit of Camlo. It was a vessel filled with happy times and problems of their life together, a bond that tied them in a gypsy love knot. Gliding with steady steps, she carried the jar of ashes to the garden. The rake scratched away at the dirt around the plum tree as she murmured sweet, private words and gently scattered the remains. Then she moved the soil back in place.

  Near the garden, she chose a spot and lit a match. The felt hat burned with a smoke that swirled, and she let the strong smell envelope her. When the fire was done, she swept up the ashes from the fedora and sprinkled them under the plum tree. “That is as far as I go today,” she said. “When next I see Griffo, we will burn the vardo, like our ancestors did. Then it is finished. Your body gone, but mine still here to always remember.”

  On her way back to the kitchen, she noticed sprigs of mint poking through the cracks of the stone walkway. She stood absolutely still and felt the burn of the sun on her skin. The corners of her heart melted and uncurled.

  Griffo pulled into the Emporium and appeared at the door. He saw Boris unpacking DVDs and strolled over. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back and open up, because I need a favor.”

  “Of course you do.” Boris kept working.

  “I’d like to park my vardo in your parking lot. I almost parked it here while you were gone, but thought that might upset you.”

  “I meant to ask you, do you know anything about someone visiting this place while I was out of town? Did you break in?”

  Griffo nodded. “I did come by to get Aggie’s book. She needed it back, but that took only a few minutes. Lots of odd things happening around town, break-ins and worse. Did you hear about Maxine’s death?”

  “Yeah, damn shame. And the librarian’s accident.”

  Griffo nodded. “What do you say to my parking here? I could be your watchman.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

  “Hey, we’re friends. You rented me the sword. And I could do a practice act in your parking lot for the town. I’m up to an inch and a half on the sword and the adrenaline of an audience might shove it right down my gullet.”

  Boris filed the last DVD. “Okay, but I never know how long I’ll stay. I might plan to leave again for a while, but if your show happened when the store was open, I’d get customers out of it.”

  The Erotica Book Club for Nice Ladies moved its meetings to the hospital with Aggie and Piper taking turns holding Lily’s hand.

  “Today I brought safe sandwiches to eat. And tea.” Aggie brought out paper cups and poured. “We could toast to Lily. To her good health returning and to both of us remaining safe.”

  Piper lifted her drink. “To us.”

  A nurse scurried into the room. “I came to change the bedding.”

  “Can we stay? We’ve come from Nolan for our book club meeting.”

  The nurse nodded. “I’ll do it later, but I need to check the machines.”

  Piper brought out a book. “I thought I’d read aloud, like Lily used to read to us.”

  “Go right ahead. Don’t mind me.” The nurse went about her work.

  “The New Atalantis. It’s kind of suggestive.” Piper hesitated.

  “Better yet,” the nurse said.

  “By Delarivier Manley.” Her voice was low.

  He drew her gently to him, drank her tears with his kisses, sucked her sighs and gave her by that dangerous commerce new and unfelt desires.

  “It’s okay to keep reading.” The nurse charted Lily’s pulse and temperature and adjusted her fluid intake.

  “I wonder what the author means by ‘dangerous commerce,’” Piper said.

  “I don’t know, but don’t stop now.” The nurse looked at her watch and went to the door. In a minute, she came back in and sat down. “I’m on a break. Would you mind if I listened?”

  “That would be okay.” Piper read on, and soon another nurse slipped into the room.

  …she closed her eyes with languishing delight! Delivered up the possession of her lips and breath to the amorous invader; returned his eager grasps and, in a word, gave her whole person into his arms in meltings full of delight!

  A disembodied voice filtered through the transom. “Visiting hours are now over.”

  Doves called to duty, the nurses left with white flutterings, except for the first one who asked, “Exactly how does someone join your book club?”

  Piper smiled. “I guess Aggie and I could vote for hospital meetings with additional members. All in favor?” She held up her hand.

  Aggie raised hers.

  Piper gave a quick glance at Lily’s hand. She thought she saw one finger move. “Next time, we’ll talk about the amorous invader.”

  Aggie shrugged. “Without Lily, this gypsy and this beautician may stumble and stray a bit.”

  “I don’t think our patient cares about that,” the nurse said.

  For Lily, when the chatter stopped, the machines plodded on. Body unmoving, eyes closed, she heard words. Something about languishing delight. Lips, grasps, and meltings. But she couldn’t reach out.

  Piper stood by the doctor, waiting for his report.

  “Things progress slowly, nothing to worry about. I wonder if it’s too tiring for you and Aggie, staying with the patient, all through every day and every evening. You look worn out,” the doctor said. “Are there other friends to stop by?”

  Piper thought a minute. “If I passed word around town, there are people who knew her from the bookmobile.”

  “Let’s try a few visits from others. Only during regular hours, only talking quietly, not staying long. The nurse will monitor Lily’s vital signs to make sure everything’s okay.”

  “Great idea,” Piper said. “I’ll tell a few people.”

  The news of Lily McFae’s accident threw Fred Valerian for a loop. He downed a quick beer at the Hopper and conside
red visiting the hospital. One more beer and he found himself outside Room 3, carrying the photography books.

  “I can let you stay a few minutes,” the nurse said.

  “I won’t stay long.”

  “I’ll be down the hall, but I’ll look in to check.”

  Fred pulled a chair next to the bedside. “Ms. McFae, I came to tell you I’m sorry you’re here.”

  He opened the top book. “When you stopped to gas up the moped, I should have said how satisfied I was with our barter. I enjoy the car book a lot. And the model book too, matter of fact. All those beautiful bodies. You had me pegged. The fenders of a Rolls Royce, man.” He leaned closer. “But you know, the shape of curvy things makes me think about the shape of other curvy things and how they’re missed.”

  Lily lay still as a discharged battery.

  Fred held up a page toward her. “I know you can’t hear me or see me, but here’s a ’27 Chrysler. With a rumble seat. I wanted to show you.” He came close to Lily’s ear and whispered, “And tell you about my married life with Piper. I don’t have anyone else to tell how I work my butt off at the station, but zone out at home. I suppose that bores her.” He flushed and put the book back on his lap. “Are you sure you can’t hear me?”

  Her mouth was sealed shut.

  “Piper and I are not so close of late. She probably told you at a club meeting how she moved into the guest room.” He opened the other book. “But I have something to run past you. If I tell her these books came from you, wouldn’t she see we have something in common? Maybe I’d become a more interesting guy.”

  Her chin tilted half an inch.

  He buried his nose in a photographic spread. “Wow, look at that great rack. If you were awake, it’d knock your socks off.” He quickly turned the page. “Well, maybe not, but it reminds me of Piper. She’s got such great — hey, never mind. Tell you what, when you open your eyes, I’ll treat your bookmobile to a full tank of gas.” Fred closed the book and whispered. “But one thing for sure, Piper has the greatest duo in town.”

  Lily’s mind moved to his words, but her lips couldn’t speak. The image of Fred dissolved, and the focus changed to the pink and white curves of a woman’s body with words skipping out from Upon the Nipples of Julia’s Breast.

  A red rose peeping through a white?

  Or else a cherry (double graced)

  Within a lily? Centre placed?

  The tender, erotic words of the poet flowed like a sorrowful river through her mind. The man named Hugh leaned to kiss the red rose. To nibble at the cherry, let his long tan fingers pluck a lily. But instead of her breasts, he found a flat field of flowers and greenery and birds.

  One word, soft as the flesh he described, formed on her lips. Unfortunately, there was no one there to hear her whisper “Herrick.” The machine jumped with increased brain activity and made a few little beeps.

  Inside her head, an age old question surfaced: If there is no one in the forest, does the falling tree make a sound? If there is no one in a room to hear a whisper, has it actually happened? Do machines count?

  Small scenes of the countryside filled the Verkie farm yard. Goat tails whisked. Leaves wobbled. Lizards slid from under rocks. Bird feathers ruffled. Gnats whizzed by. And a beetle sneezed.

  Detective Jamison’s car shot down the road toward the Verkie Farm. He saw the owner sitting on her porch and drove in.

  “What a nice place. Do you remember me, Detective Jamison?” He presented his badge.

  “Yes, and I’m Aggie.”

  “I have a few questions for you. Only a few.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “To begin, are you acquainted with Boris Ratchov?”

  “A while back, I stopped by the Emporium to see if he wanted to carry goat milk from my farm. He didn’t.”

  “Does your nephew Griffo know him?”

  “He did temporary work there for a while, but Griffo’s not living at the farm now. You could track him down and ask him.”

  “In town, I heard your garden is a copy of one on the Jardin Estate in Alsace.”

  “But it’s not. Mine is a tribute to ancestors, taken from my family book.”

  “Would you let me see your book?”

  “It’s in the kitchen. I don’t show it to people. But since you have a badge, I’ll show you. Follow me.”

  At the table, he paged through Aggie’s gypsy remedies. “Not much in English.”

  “Some in German, lots in French. Some recipes in Romany, but it’s mostly a spoken language. For forty years in Central Europe, my people were not allowed to speak in their native tongue. The language was not written down, but secretly passed on. See there, the page where an ancestor drew a picture of the plot my husband used for my garden. It has the names of the herbs I grow.”

  He looked closely at the faded writing on the page. “Does it say monkshood? Have you sold any of that to Neubland Pharmaceuticals?”

  “I don’t know that company and I wouldn’t sell them that herb.” She pointed to a page. “Here are the names of plants with poison. Ones that are dangerous to eat. They are separated from the other herbs in my garden, so no mistake will be made. I cook like an old gypsy, like Romas did for centuries, with things I grow. But I never use those.”

  “Did Lily McFae spend much time reading your book?”

  “My book is private, used only by me. Only a few things in English anyway. Only because I do not want trouble do I show it to you.”

  “So again, about your connection to this fellow Ratchov.”

  “There is none. But I knew his uncle.”

  “Okay then, can I take a close look at your garden?”

  “Follow me.” She led him to the plot and watched him bend over to examine a plant. “Someone took some of my herbs recently, without asking. Go ahead, take some dill, if you want. Will this take long? I have goats to tend.”

  He moved on to a far bed. “Is this one parsley? I don’t garden.”

  She started toward him. “I’d stay away from there. Beware of those plants. That’s monkshood and belladonna. Foxglove, too.”

  He moved away from the bed. “Tell me about monkshood.”

  “Some say it came from the saliva of a mad dog.”

  “And you grow it?”

  “For sentiment only. Never used.”

  “You’re some sentimental lady, Mrs. Verkie, growing poison in your garden.”

  “I’m a transplanted gypsy, and the plants were grown by my people.”

  “And how did they use the poisons?”

  “They didn’t. They were grown because of tradition.” Aggie picked some tips of feathery green. “It’s dill and it’s safe to eat.”

  He brushed it against his nose. “I must ask. Do you have the stolen Book of Cures?”

  “On my gypsy oath, I do not have it.” She crossed herself.

  “Are you sure you did not get that book from Boris or Lily?”

  She stared at him. “I did not.” She turned on her heel and left the garden.

  He followed behind. “I expect we’ll talk later, after Lily regains consciousness. Stay close by. Thank you for the dill.”

  In his car, Jamison wrote Aggie’s name in his notepad, followed by the words “garden” and “poisons.” On his cell phone, he called for an officer to shadow Mrs. Verkie.

  Worry about the biopsy kept Piper awake all night and pushed her to the beauty shop earlier than usual. She yawned and turned the key to open up the salon. Inside, she twisted open the blinds. In the slatted light, next to the barber chair, stood a stranger. He wore coveralls, goggles and a baseball cap. Magazines were scattered over the linoleum. The floor was littered with broken jars and bottles. The intruder’s hand rummaged in the drawer of clippers.

  “What are you doing here?” she yelled. “What do you want?”

  “Can’t you guess?” the low voice said.

  “If you’re the same man who ripped up the house, you know my stuff isn’t worth scoot.”

&nb
sp; “I came for the Book of Cures, the one you took from the Used Stuff Store. It has a red cover.”

  “All the books I bought there went to the bookmobile. Every single one.” She leaned against the counter as her knees turned to liquid.

  “It’s gotta be somewhere.” The man yanked open another drawer and pulled out a straight edge barber’s razor.

  In that instant, Piper reached in the drawer for her own weapon and clutched a handle tight. He grabbed her with one arm, strong enough to hold her against his body. She felt the scrape of the razor against her face, the metal cool and rigid. She could imagine it slicing into her skin.

  His voice was harsh. “Tell me where you hid the damn cure book.”

  She struggled against his hold, feeling faint. “I don’t know anything about it. Let me go.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to breathe.

  Splat. Her eyes sprang open and she saw a sparrow had collided with the front window. “Look, the eye of the sparrow,” she shouted. She looked down at the handle in her hand attached to the vibrator and hit the intruder on the head with it, whacking him over and over with the instrument. As he jerked away, the razor slashed the side of her face. Blood slid down her cheek, falling bright red on her pink blouse.

  Free from his grasp, she rushed for the door, turned from the side of the salon, and ran into the alley. She fell bleeding through the delivery entrance of the Hopper next door.

  When she came to, the sheriff was holding a towel to her cheek. The white cloth turned red as he pressed down to stem the flow. “You’re all right, Piper. Tell me what you remember.”

  Dazed, she looked around. “Freddie likes to sing the hymn, His Eye is On the Sparrow, but he wasn’t around, and the sparrow was. Then it flew away. So did the intruder, I guess.”

  “Who was it?” the sheriff asked.

  Her voice was weak. “I didn’t recognize him, but he wore a janitor suit and goggles and a baseball cap. It looked like the same guy who left our house after he trashed it. He asked if I had a book of cures and I said no.”