“You don’t say?”
“I do say.”
Michael lifts his bike off the ground then swings a leg over the seat. He must not be paying attention to what he’s doing because he nearly loses his balance. I reach out and put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Suddenly, we are very close together again.
“Thanks,” says Michael.
“You should be careful,” I tell him.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” I say.
He doesn’t reply. I guess our conversation has become just too scintillating.
“I should go,” he says once more.
“Okay,” I say again. If only somebody was passing out hundred dollar bills in exchange for one word answers tonight …
He glances at his shoulder. “But you’ll have to let go of my arm.”
“Right.” I release him and step back.
“See you tomorrow, Lucy.” A couple of quick strokes on the pedals send Michael across the street. Heading into the house, he raises an arm and waves at me without looking back. I’m left standing alone in the grass. Inside, I feel a small, warm hope begin to glow.
15
Where Is Elena Going with That Ax?
When I get to the bookshop the next day, Michael and Elena are huddled near the store’s back wall. Mort looks up from his computer when I enter. “Have you heard about this I Kill the Mockingbird thing?” he asks me.
I hesitate, but then Elena steps up before the silence goes on for too long. “It’s been on the news.”
Mort grunts and points to his tabletop display featuring summer reading choices for all our local schools. “Why hasn’t anybody stolen my books?”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“This is an awesome publicity opportunity,” Mort continues. “I don’t want to miss it.”
“Well,” I say after an awkward silence, “it’s probably not over yet.”
Michael approaches the front of the store. “Shut up!” he whispers at me.
“What do you mean?” Mort asks.
“I—”
Elena interrupts me. “On the news they made it sound like it’s an ongoing thing. Maybe we’ll get lucky and somebody will break into our store.”
Michael grabs a random book and pretends to flip through it. “Where did you hear about I Kill the Mockingbird?” he asks Mort.
“Booksellers’ chat room,” Mort explains. “It’s on the computer.”
Michael tries to be nonchalant as he puts What to Expect When You’re Expecting back on a shelf. “What exactly are they saying?”
Mort waves his hand dismissively. “Everybody’s got a theory. It’s mostly nonsense. Some people are yelling that this is a blow against free speech. Others think it’s a conspiracy by e-book sellers. It might just be a simple publisher inventory problem, or it’s a publicity campaign that’s remarkably stupid or unbelievably brilliant.” Mort shakes his head. “A few people think it’s just a big practical joke, but I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“It’s too widespread. I think I’m the only store in Connecticut that still has To Kill a Mockingbird in stock.”
Elena shakes her head. “That’s not true.”
“How do you know?” says Mort.
“She means it CAN’T be true,” says Michael. “How could it be?”
Mort shrugs. “There are even reports from stores in other states that copies have gone missing.”
“Other states?” I say.
Mort nods. “I’ve heard that stores in Massachusetts and Rhode Island have been hit.”
It actually wouldn’t be that difficult for us to get to those states. It’s only about ninety minutes by bus from West Glover to Boston or Providence. Even New York City is only about two hours away. But we haven’t been anywhere outside of Connecticut.
Mort heads back to his desk and plops into the chair. “How am I going to get in on this?”
Michael, Elena, and I put our heads together. “What’s happening?” I say.
“Copycats,” Michael whispers. “People are talking about it online. They saw Mr. Dobby and Dontine Flora on the TV news. They’re trying to get their own local Mockingbird heists on TV, too.”
“Did you tell them they’re not actually supposed to steal the books?” I ask.
“How am I supposed to do that without giving us away?”
“What are you three talking about?” says Mort.
Elena turns to her uncle. “We think we can help.”
“We do?” says Michael.
Elena nods. “Follow me.”
A moment later, we’re dragging big, plastic bins from the shop’s back room. The boxes hold the holiday supplies that Mort uses to decorate throughout the year. “It’s already Christmas in July,” he reminds us.
“And Santa will continue to lead the way,” Elena tells him. She directs us toward the display area where Jolly Old Saint Nick is sitting beside his tree. “Who’s got the Halloween box?”
Michael points at a skull and crossbones label on the side of a bin. “Is this it?”
Elena pops the lid off the container. She reaches into the box and pulls out a huge fake hatchet that’s covered in Halloween blood.
“What is that for?” Michael asks.
Elena pulls the ax out of the bag, holds it above her head, and shouts, “I KILL THE MOCKINGBIRD!”
Michael shakes his head. “I am seriously worried about you.”
“This will be great publicity for Mort.” Elena lowers her voice. “And it lets us hide in plain sight.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says.
“Michael,” I whisper, “she knows just as much as we do.”
Michael sighs. “We are so doomed.”
“Mort,” Elena calls to her uncle. “Do we have a hardcover version of To Kill a Mockingbird?”
“I saw one yesterday,” I say. “I’ll get it.” I head to the used fiction section and browse the shelves until I find the book I’m looking for. The cover is old and wrinkled and mostly gray. The author’s name—Harper Lee—appears in bold, white letters above the title. Below, a pen-and-ink drawing of a dead mockingbird lies on its back. It’s surrounded by blood-red strands of ivy.
I return to Elena and hand her the book. “Perfect!” she says.
“For what?” asks Mort.
“You’ll see,” she promises.
“Where is Elena going with that ax?” Michael mutters.
“Very funny,” Mort tells him.
We follow Elena into the display area where Santa, still squished into the school desk, stares blankly out the window. Red and green Christmas lights decorate the tree and the walls around him. Several stacks of old books and magazines rest neatly at Santa’s feet.
“You’ve got to trust me,” Elena says to Mort.
“Okay,” he says. “I trust you.”
“Here we go then.” Elena takes a quick step toward one of the book piles and kicks it into the wall. The books scatter everywhere.
“Hey!” Michael hollers.
“What are you doing?” I shout.
“Decorating,” Elena explains. She tips over a nearby bookshelf then yanks the Christmas lights off the wall. She lifts a pile of old National Geographics and throws them into the air. The magazines flutter around us like giant, yellow moths. In just a few seconds, Elena has turned Christmas in July into the aftermath of a home invasion. But she’s not done yet. “Give me the book,” she instructs me.
I look at the disaster around us then hide the novel behind my back.
She points at me with her ax. “Hand it over, Lucy.”
I love To Kill a Mockingbird, but I’m not the sort of person who says no to a bloody hatchet. I give Elena the book.
“Thank you.” She turns away from me then heads to Santa. Somehow, she secures his black-mittened hand to the hatchet’s handle. From there, she props To Kill a Mockingbird on Santa’s school desk. Then she sinks the
Halloween blade into the pages of the book so that it looks like Santa is trying to dismember the great American novel. “HO HO HO!” Elena says in a big deep voice. “I KILL THE MOCKINGBIRD!”
Michael glances around at the chaos Elena’s made. “This is like Disney meets dystopia,” he says.
Elena ignores him and points at the walls around us. “We’ll make copies of that ransom note they showed on TV. We’ll tape them to the walls so that people will get the point.”
Mort looks around at the mess. “And what exactly is the point?”
“To get people’s attention,” explains Elena.
I stare at the bloody hatchet, and the Christmas lights and the ruined books that are piled up around Santa. I can only imagine what it looks like from the sidewalk. “This will definitely get people’s attention.”
“I’m not sure if that will be a good thing,” says Mort.
“Listen,” Elena tells her uncle, “right now, everybody is talking about I Kill the Mockingbird. You said so yourself. With this display, it won’t be long before they’ll be talking about you.”
Mort gives a little laugh. “You’re right about that.”
“So what do you think?” she asks.
Michael just shakes his head. I can’t take my eyes off the blade that Santa Claus is plunging into the pages of my favorite novel. “I thought it was a sin to kill a mockingbird,” I offer in a tiny voice.
That makes Mort laugh again. “I tell you,” he says, “I think the bookselling business gets more exciting every day.”
16
The Mockingbird Manifesto
Elena, Michael, and I continue our meetings in the bookshop after the store is closed. We use Mort’s computer to post anonymous comments on Twitter. We also share photographs I’ve taken of hatchet-wielding Santa Claus on Facebook and Instagram. I use my real name when I upload the shots.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Michael asks me.
“People know that the three of us work here,” I tell him. “If we post the pictures anonymously it will look like we’re trying to keep a secret.”
“We are trying to keep a secret,” Michael reminds me.
Elena covers her face with both hands. “A veil of truth conceals a web of lies,” she announces.
“Who said that?” Michael asks.
Elena uncovers one eye. “I did. Just now.”
“And anyway,” I say, “we want people to know where Kris Kringle the Book Murderer is located.”
“Why?” asks Michael.
“We promised Mort that we’d get him some publicity.”
Not surprisingly, the Internet decides that Santa with an ax is a topic worth trending. It doesn’t hurt that a couple people almost as famous as Wil Wheaton mention us online, too.
“Who’s Chuck Wendig?” Elena asks one evening.
“You’re kidding,” says Michael.
“What about Cory Doctorow?”
Michael’s head shoots up. “No way.”
“Neil Gaiman?”
“You guys,” says Michael, “this is getting out of control.”
Pretty soon, Santa Kills the Mockingbird is not just the buzz of the Internet, it’s also the talk of the town. People drop by to take their own pictures of the display window, and soon, Mort is selling To Kill a Mockingbird faster than he can keep books in stock. “It’s still strange that nobody has stolen a single one of my copies,” he says on an afternoon when it’s just Elena and me in the store.
Elena flips through a bunch of old vinyl singles that Mort sells out of a wooden crate. “West Glover is not a high crime area,” she says without looking up.
“And the shop is very small,” I add. “It would be difficult for anybody to get away with it.”
“We could leave the store unlocked at night,” Elena suggests.
“Let’s not,” says Mort just before he heads upstairs to get some lunch.
As soon as the door closes behind him, Elena and I rush to the computer. Bookstores around the country are reporting I Kill the Mockingbird activity now. It’s become almost impossible to find copies of the novel in New England or in any of the mid-Atlantic states. Several stores in Colorado, California, Oregon, and Georgia say they’re missing books, too.
“This is insane,” I say.
“This is awesome,” says Elena.
In the meantime, we’ve posted a statement on our web page to hopefully control people who might think that stealing the books is a good idea. We call it THE I KILL THE MOCKINGBIRD MANIFESTO. It says:
WE SUPPORT ALL ACTIONS THAT LEAD TO THE JOY, THE FUN, THE REWARD, THE CHALLENGE, AND THE ADVENTURE OF READING. WE DO NOT CONDONE THIEVERY, VANDALISM, OR CRIMINAL BEHAVIOR. WE ENCOURAGE THE USE OF RESOURCES SUCH AS WIT, COURAGE, HUMOR, AND FORBIDDEN FRUITS. TRICKERY, DISRUPTION, CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE, MILD CHAOS, AND COMMUNITY ACTION … THESE ARE PERMITTED, TOO. WE FIGHT FOR THE BOOKS!
Elena added the last sentence. She wanted to add a sort of Braveheart feel. To me, it sounds more like The Lorax, but that’s not a bad thing.
“We know people are talking about the book,” I say to Elena. “I wish we could be sure that they’re reading it.”
“How about we go online and start a rumor that To Kill a Mockingbird is violent and lewd?” she suggests. “That would get people to read it.”
“The story’s got rape, murder, lynching, and rabies,” I remind her. “There’s also a man named Boo, an old lady drug addict, and a kid dressed up like a pork chop. How are we going to top that?”
Elena shrugs. She grabs a handful of records from the wooden crate and stacks them onto the record player. She hits a switch, and one by one the records drop onto the turntable while we sweep and dust the store. Mort returns from lunch just as a new song begins. The tune opens with a couple sharp drum beats then rolls into something with a flute and a jangly guitar.
“What is this?” Mort hollers over the music which is turned up way too loud.
I’m standing near the turntable so I glance at the record. “Sugarcubes,” I shout.
“Is that the song or the name of the band?”
“I have no idea!”
“Don’t worry,” Elena calls before her uncle can respond. “Ignorance has not held us back yet.”
Over the next few weeks, we continue visiting local stores and libraries. We hide books whenever we can, but it’s becoming more and more difficult. At several locations, there are signs explaining that To Kill a Mockingbird is now kept behind the counter and is only available upon request. At Millrace Books, a tiny store in Farmington, the owner has the novels stacked inside a fancy brass birdcage secured with an antique padlock at the center of her store. “That’s good,” Elena says when we find the display. But the three of us still like Santa better.
The next day, Dad corners me in the kitchen. I made some hummus for lunch, but Mom doesn’t want to eat it. “Lucy,” Dad says when he sees me, “we’ve got to talk.”
Mom is in the backyard taking photographs, so Dad and I are alone in the kitchen.
“About what?”
“Stephanie Buskirk is coming to visit me in my office tomorrow.”
“Michael’s mom?”
Dad nods. “Officer Buskirk.”
“What does she want?”
Dad looks toward the back door. It’s clear that he’s checking to be sure we won’t be interrupted.
“Mom is outside taking pictures of bugs,” I tell him. “She didn’t eat any lunch.”
“She’ll eat when she’s hungry.”
“I don’t think she’s getting enough sleep,” I say.
“She’ll sleep when she’s tired.”
“Have the doctors—?”
“Lucy,” Dad interrupts me. “I’m trying to tell you something.”
“What?”
He leans toward me and speaks in a low voice. “I think there’s a detective on your trail.”
I don’t reply.
Dad grabs a spoon, scoops some of my hummus onto a to
rtilla chip, and takes a bite. “I’ve been spending some time on I Kill the Mockingbird dot com.”
“Oh?”
“Nice photographs.” He takes another chip. This time, he digs right into the bowl. “And I like the I Kill the Mockingbird Manifesto, too.”
“That’s good.”
“So what should I tell Officer Buskirk?”
“Tell her I said hello.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Hello!” Mom calls from the doorway.
Dad jumps back and so do I. “There’s still hummus!” I blurt out.
Mom makes a face and heads toward the refrigerator. “Do we have any ice cream?”
“You should be eating healthy foods,” I tell her.
She turns to face me. She looks annoyed. “Are you free this afternoon?”
“For what?”
“Simple photo shoot,” she says, “but I could use an assistant.”
“Sure.”
“You don’t have other plans?”
Michael is playing baseball all day, Elena is working at the store, and Mort doesn’t need me. “Nope.”
“Good,” says Mom. “Meet me at the car in ten minutes.” She grabs a handful of chocolates from a wooden bowl and leaves the kitchen.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Dad says in a low voice.
“No answer is an answer,” I tell him.
“Is that what I should give Officer Buskirk?”
“That works for me.”
17
What I Want
A half hour later, Mom and I are standing in the cemetery across the street from St. Thomas United Church of Christ. The church, all worn red brick, is located in the far west end of West Glover. Mom parks the car beneath a big weeping willow, and then we wander among the battered grave markers.
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
“Location shots.” Mom kneels down, balances her camera atop one of the headstones, and points the lens at the bell tower above the church’s double-door entrance. When there’s time, she likes to drive around and take pictures of local churches in all kinds of different light and weather. That way, she always has extra photos to add to couples’ wedding albums. But this church hasn’t seen a wedding—or any other kind of service—for a long, long time. The windows are boarded up. The doors are chained shut, and the front steps are covered in dirty brown leaves that look like they’ve been here for years.
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