by Dalya Moon
Inside the Jeep, I say to Julie, “Why no help? Why didn't you come out and give her a swoopy ballet kick or something? If you're strong enough to give piggyback rides to James, feel free to help out any time, you know.”
She blinks. “You looked like you were having a lovely time.”
“Oh, I TOTALLY WAS Julie. I was totally enjoying getting my ass beat.”
She tsk-tsks me. “You were eating cucumber sandwiches. Don't tell me you weren't have a lovely time.”
I think for an instant about having a bee sting Julie to snap her out of her delusion, but quickly flick the thought away before anything that bad happens. I sink down in the back seat.
“Did that nice Heidi lady have any more information?” Julie asks.
“She's a bully.” I rub my sore elbows. My whole back aches, but I bet I'll feel worse tomorrow.
“Oh, Zan, don't overreact.”
I sternly tell myself, DON'T think about bees stinging Julie.
“Let's hotwire the Jeep and leave James here,” Julie says, but she pulls out her phone and calls him instead.
Something moving catches my eye and we both glance up to see James, running at full speed away from the funeral home. Julie reaches over to pop the door open for him. Puffing, he jumps in, starts the engine, and squeals the tires of the Jeep speeding out of the parking lot.
“What happened in there?” I demand.
He blows through a red light.
“Now what have you done?” Julie demands. “You better not have punched her in the face. That is so not cool, whatsoever.”
James starts to laugh. “Nothing, I didn't do anything. You guys looked kinda down, sitting in here like slugs, so I wanted to give you a thrill.”
We both punch him on the arm.
“Hey, go easy,” he cries. “I was doing some serious James Bond work in there. Some Sherlocking. On your behalf.”
“Is that what you're calling it?” Julie asks.
“The sisters weren't even in town last week,” James says. “They were in Arizona. They only got here today for the funeral.”
I punch the back of Julie's seat in frustration. There go my prime suspects.
“On top of that, there was no inheritance to be had,” James says. “The guy had about nine grand in the bank, and he owed fifty on the business. I'm no estate lawyer, but nine minus fifty does not equal bang bang bang in the chest.”
“You did good work,” I admit to James. “But you shouldn't have given us that scare. Don't be the boy who cried wolf.”
“But it's fun.”
“Promise you'll never do it again,” I say. Inside my pocket, I slip the ring on my finger. A power that's not unfamiliar flows through me, like white-hot rage, but sharp, focused.
“Screw you, nozzle,” he says.
I cough, once, and James yowls. “What did you do? Was that a Zan-bee?” He rubs his arm.
Julie turns, her mouth open in awe. “Did you do magic? You made a Zan-bee?”
“Your window's down, it must have flown in,” I say. “Serves you right, boy-who-cried-wolf.”
James rubs his arm. “That actually hurt.”
My hand jerks up, seemingly of its own free will, pointing to something. My eyes follow, finding something extremely interesting on the street we're driving down. “Stop the CAR!” I yell.
James slams on the brakes. “It's not a CAR it's a JEEP.”
I open the door and jump out, despite the fact that we're in the midst of traffic, and I bound across the street, holding a hand up for people to stop their cars for me.
We're about ten blocks from Chesapeake Avenue, in a part of town I've been to many times because of the dollar-slice pizza place. I can't believe I've never seen this interesting store before. Of all the times we've driven up and down this street, I never noticed.
I look up in awe at the faded awning.
Spiritdell Books. Specializing in Out-of-Print and the Occult.
This is exactly where I need to be. I slip the ring off and into my pocket before reaching for the door.
Chapter Eleven
When I step inside the book store, a white cat stretches on its folded red blanket, pointing all of its toes to me and presenting a tempting white belly. A computer-printed sign next to the cat reads: I BITE. Consider yourself warned.
The cat tilts its head upside-down, beckoning me to take a chance, but I pass by. Normally, I'd take my chances to pet a kitty, but today I am on a mission. Several people are browsing the shelves and swaying to the music of flutes, ocean waves, and whale calls. All of the other customers, men and women, have long hair and long skirts—or flowing pants—it's hard to tell.
A person with a light mustache and gold, tinkling earrings asks if she can help me. I think she's a woman. Yes, her name tag says Greetings, fellow sentient being. My name is Moira.
“I don't need any help. Just direct me to your occult books,” I say.
She bows down, takes my hand, and rests it on the nearest book. “The books don't believe in any sort of order. We don't impose our human ideas of rigid containment in here. Let your spirit be your guide.”
My mouth opens as I gawk around at my surroundings. The walls must be twelve feet high, and they're covered in books. I count three rolling library ladders from where I stand.
“Maybe I do need some help,” I say.
She bows down again and takes my other hand, this time holding it to her cheek, which is a little furry for my liking. There's a mole with a wiry black hair. I will myself not to shudder.
Her eyes roll up, showing only whites, and she makes a noise, “Loo-loo-loo-loo-loo.”
“Perhaps I'll browse on my own for a bit,” I say, pulling away.
“I've got it!” she says.
Something scratches at my leg—the white cat, now systematically climbing me as though I'm a carpeted kitty-cat jungle gym. I don't want to be rude, so I hold very still and let him or her climb. The cat stops at my hip and transitions to the table piled with books next to me, and from its perch, the white cat reaches a paw into my suit pocket. I whip my hand in along with the paw and quickly palm the ring.
The cat's sharp claws pull something out, and fluffy bits of deceased bee body scatter to the ground. The cat jumps to the floor, pouncing on the bits of bee and gobbling them down.
Moira says, “You want something on ...” She points to the cat on the ground, then to me, then to the stacks of books. “Love potions.”
“I'll look around on my own for a bit.”
She puts her hands over her chest and tells me to follow my heart.
“Organization by general subject might be a good long-term plan,” I say, which garners me some dirty looks and one shush from the other long-haired shoppers.
I head for the back corner, figuring they must keep the weird occult stuff back there, and probably up high, where younger kids can't grab them. The ladder squeaks as I roll it over and climb up.
The air is hot and stale up here on the topmost shelves, with that musky paper smell that only exists in used book stores. I find some 1970s-era sex manuals and other art books with naked people, including one with women wearing animal masks. The lady in the raccoon mask is not unappealing. I make a mental note of the location of these books, for future reference.
I've read, in some of my science books, that men are better at visual-spatial tasks such as locating things using a map, but women are better suited to remembering where specific objects are found. I draw a map in my mind and place a mental X where the sexy books are, but Julie would probably remember without having to make the effort. Some people find it politically incorrect to note the differences between the way men and women think, but I find it fascinating. I'm not saying all men think the same and all women too, or that one way is any better than the other, just different, like how some people are more natural at singing, or dancing. I'm a pretty epic dancer, but my moves make Julie giggle.
The twins haven't come in the book store, so they must
have gone home. It's been a long day, with the big drive from the lake, plus the funeral, so I can't blame them. I, however, feel invigorated, as though I might never sleep again. Maybe it's the little gold ring in my pocket, or this book of naked ladies demonstrating how to crochet. The beginning chapter is a lot better, before they don their crocheted garments. I slide the book back between some others before I embarrass myself.
I take a step higher, where the dust is even thicker, but the books are less interesting. The top row holds Economics textbooks, which promise little in the way of nudity.
Below me, a stack of books moves autonomously. How can that be? Actually, the stack is attached to a young boy cradling the books in his arms, but he's wavering and the whole stack's about to fall over.
Without forethought, I pop up and move my feet to the outside edges of the ladder's sides, skimming down by sliding, just like a tap-dancing guy in a musical, or some of the old pro house painters James and Julie worked for over the summer.
At the bottom, I reach out and catch the kid's stack before it topples over.
“Thanks, Mister,” he says, which is not something I've been called before, not without some sarcasm. I'm a Mister? I guess I can thank my dapper black vintage suit.
“You must be a real speed reader,” I say to the kid. He's wearing a jaunty woolen cap, like an English school boy from a Charles Dickens story.
He looks up at me with what I first interpret as extreme surprise, but seconds later realize is a completely hairless face—no eyelashes and no eyebrows. “I'm not buying these, Mister. I'm organizing. Sorting.”
“Ah, you work here.”
“No.”
“You don't work here?”
“I'm ten. They don't give jobs to ten-year-olds.”
“Of course not. Not in this country. So why are you organizing?”
“I find the process relaxing,” he says. “They let me organize whenever I want. Which is often.”
“So ... you probably know where they keep the occult books.”
The boy's eyes bulge, and even though I know he has no eyebrows to be raised, I can't shake the feeling he's EXTREMELY SURPRISED.
“All over,” he says, blowing up his little pink cheeks with air then letting the air out audibly. “What a nightmare.”
“If you could point me to any books on magic, I'd appreciate it. Or bees. And if it's not too much to ask, magic bees.” I reach for my wallet, pull out a ten, then push it back in and give the kid a twenty.
“Wow!” he says, sounding as surprised as he looks. He dashes off at top speed, down the aisle, and straight out the front door with a bang.
Understatement: that was not the most effective manner in which to spend twenty dollars.
I ask my heart what to do, and my heart suggests chasing down the little bald kid and giving him the noogie of a lifetime.
The front door chimes again, and the kid's running in toward me, probably to steal my whole wallet this time.
My noogie-primed fist relaxes when I see he's got a book in his hands, which he thrusts at me. “This was in the dollar bin out front,” he says, puffing. “It's really old, like with weird writing and spells and stuff.”
I read the cover. The Care of Bees, Real and Unreal.
“Hey, not bad,” I say. “Still, I was sorta hoping for one of those books that are really accessible. You know, Magical Beekeeping for Dummies.”
The boy's smooth forehead furrows. “Never heard of it.”
I tell him I'm joking and pull out my wallet, giving him another five bucks. A good detective pays his sources. For a moment, I see myself as an outside observer might: a sharp-minded young man in a smart suit, throwing a little cash around to grease the wheels of the universe. Generosity looks good on me.
Up at the front counter, which seems to be made of stacks of books and twine, and moves as though alive, I pay Moira for my one-dollar book. She hands it back to me in a bright pink recycled shopping bag, still crinkly from the drawer where she had many others that were decidedly not pink.
“I don't need a bag,” I say.
She snaps her fingers as lightning flashes outside. “Rain on the forecast.”
A woman behind me says, “Just in time for the school week, right, Zan?”
I turn to find Ms. Mikado. Her arms are behind her back, as though she's hiding her book purchases from me.
“Hi, Ms. Mikado. You must be figuring out Spiritdell just fine, since you found this place.”
“I confess, this bookstore has become my second home,” she says. “Well, third, after the school.”
Ms. Mikado is so pretty. I want to say something to impress her, perhaps using my knowledge of the town. I've learned a few tidbits during my murder investigation, combing through the town's newspapers.
I say, “We've had two murders downtown this year so far.”
She shudders and tucks her chin against her shoulder, as though repressing a gag.
Moira, behind the wiggling counter, whacks my hand with a ruler. “Why would you say such a thing? Horrible boy.” She points to a sign on the wall above her: No discussion of horrible things.
I mutter an apology to both of them and scurry out, into the rain.
* * *
I don't have an umbrella, so by the time I get home, my dapper black suit smells like wet animal. Must be the wool. I hang the jacket and pants separately to dry and change into my warmest sweatpants before I settle down to read the book.
The first page has tiny type that makes my head spin and my eyes hurt. Taking a break, I go to the kitchen, investigating an aroma drifting through the house. Gran's not around, but she's left a note next to the slow cooker, saying my dinner's in there and she'll be home late.
I lift off the lid, wondering what the heavenly aroma might be. It smells like parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, like that song. Coq au vin!
I don't know if you've ever had coq au vin, but it's magnificent, and you should try it at once. The chicken is slow-cooked in wine, and it's sweet and savory and unbelievable.
I load up a bowl, chow down over the sink, then load up another bowl. Two course meal.
I turn on the lamps in the living room and try again with my one-dollar book, The Care of Bees, Real and Unreal. This old thing reads like someone who doesn't speak English wrote it. Crazy. And I thought our textbooks at school were dry.
This is on the third page:
The bee bread is akin to food resources that are typically not like bread one normally eats by mouth as a human person, for it is of the nourishment of the animus, leading from the origin of what is the sky inasmuch as the soul leads from heaven and the ground calls up for life returning as a constant.
Partaking of the bee bread; that is the breaking of the bread of the bees, the honey of wisdom; is to take a contract not unlike that of a marriage or a child to its mother's bosom, or the fire to a field of wheat dried by three summer suns.
It is this power that corrupts, for there is no man alive who can withstand her regal majesty and her domain over all that is living and all that has lived, though the spirits of the young and the naively ignorant do not know the sins they commit and shall not be held responsible inasmuch as the beetle does not love to fly, but does because to not fly he cannot.
The objects of control shall seek the user, the controller, as though having wings ...
I slam the book shut. This stuff is worse than Shakespeare! At least Shakespeare has a few dirty jokes thrown about, if you know where to look.
I toss the book across the room in disgust. What a waste of a dollar plus twenty-five dollars. Twenty-six dollars! I grab the book and chuck it in the kitchen trash, on top of the coffee grounds and chicken bones. Good riddance.
My hands are restless. I'd love to be punching or kicking something, but my karate class isn't until Tuesday, so I put on my running shoes to go for an early evening jog.
The rain has stopped, and the grass is still glistening with moisture, but it's black out
side, completely dark. Are my eyes no longer working at all? It's only half-past five.
I stretch my calves on the front porch and try to make sense of the universe. Oh, right, Daylight Savings Time ended today, so a whole hour vanished.
With the sun down, the air is chilly, yet the weather's still warm for November. I should probably go inside and put on something reflective for safety, but I feel cool and ninja-like in my dark tracksuit.
I lope out to the sidewalk and get started. My shins are finicky the first few blocks, as I alternate between a slow jog and a fast walk while warming up, but pretty soon they're functioning as they should and I'm enjoying the sounds of my shoes rhythmically striking the sidewalk, punctuating my breathing, which is strong and steady.
At the crossing of the busy street, I jog in place waiting for the light to change. People driving by stare. Yes, I'm that guy, who jogs in place waiting for the light to change. Yes, I know I look “like a tit,” as Rudy would say, but it's better than coming to a dead stop, cooling down, and having to start again. Speaking of calling people tit, what does that even mean? I don't look anything like a lady's breast. The light changes and I jog across while a woman runs my way. I don't know what she looks like—she could have a swirling ball of yellow energy for a face for all I know—because I can't take my eyes off her chest, which looks so nice in her jogging top.
Zan, don't be a creeper, I tell myself. I run faster, until my pulse is pounding in my temples. I think about the twins with the braids back at the lake, and what James did with them, and how badly I wish I could have traded bodies with James for one night. I think sadly of Austin. If I saw her more, and more of her, I wonder if I'd have these bothersome thoughts about breasts and the other women who have them. I miss my girlfriend. I guess I'm not one of those guys who wants his space. As an only child, I've spent way too much time on my own, enough for a lifetime, and now I prefer to be with my friends or Austin.
She won't be back in town until Tuesday, which feels like an eternity. Oh, Austin. When you're seventeen like me, four days is forever. Maybe it doesn't seem like as long for her. Maybe that's why our age difference might be a problem.
