The Bookshop of Yesterdays

by Amy Meyerson

  Dad said that Mom wanted to leave from the moment they arrived.

  Last one and we’re out, she had whispered to him while he waited in line for a ginger ale. I mean it. I want to go home.

  Dad agreed, and Mom disappeared in search of the bathroom. Dad got his soda and puttered around the crowded living room. Most of the partygoers were on their third martinis. The lawyers’ voices had grown louder. The wives had started to take off their heels. That’s when Jerry Holdsbrook showed up.

  “The man fancied himself George Hamilton.” Dad sat down, leaning back in his chair and resting his hands behind his head. Dad was a born storyteller, pausing at the right moments, glossing over the dry parts. He loved to reminisce, particularly about Mom, and I was thankful for the fact that he liked to tell stories so much he seemed to have forgotten the one he was telling me wasn’t one Mom wanted me to know. I was grateful, too, that Mom was taking her time in the bath, that she hadn’t resurfaced downstairs, bringing Dad’s story to a grinding halt.

  “That artificial tan, those bright white teeth,” Dad continued. He said it was just like Jerry Holdsbrook to turn up once the lawyers and wives were on their third round, once the forced conversations had given way to the loose talk of inebriation. And it was just like Jerry Holdsbrook to arrive with an ethereal woman on his arm, a woman much too pretty for him. She was tall and blonde, her white jumpsuit so unlike the wives’ dark cocktail dresses.

  Dad had watched Evelyn waft from the room like she was floating. He locked eyes with Jerry. Jerry tipped his drink to Dad. Dad tipped his soda to Jerry. That asshole, Dad thought.

  Dad searched the patio for Mom. After he didn’t find her outside, he checked the dining room and kitchen. He was walking toward the bedroom when he heard the distinct sound of female chatter.

  Mom and Evelyn turned in unison.

  Darling, this is Evelyn, from high school, Mom said, clutching Evelyn’s hand.

  “From then on, Evelyn and your mom were thick as thieves again,” Dad said.

  The weekend after Dad’s work party, Evelyn invited them to a reading at the bookstore where she worked in Pasadena. Saturday night was their date night—a predictable evening of dinner and a movie—but Mom had said, Let’s do something cultural for once, and Dad had relented, even though he’d been looking forward to the opening of All the President’s Men for weeks.

  Tall and blonde, dressed in a plunging red polyester dress, Evelyn was easy to spot. The room flowed around her.

  I’m so glad you came, Evelyn said, hugging them both. She looped her arms in theirs and guided them toward the writer.

  They stood in a circle around the writer, listening to him lecture on his influences—Thomas Pynchon, James Joyce, Bertolt Brecht and some other theorists Dad didn’t know. When the writer finished, the other writers lectured on their influences. They cataloged the novels that had recently been published, listing the ones that hadn’t gotten the praise they deserved, disparaging others whose success was hardly earned. Dad drank his ginger ale wondering if he hated all parties, not only those hosted by his colleagues.

  The next morning, Mom kissed Dad goodbye as she rushed out to meet Evelyn.

  So, this is how it’s going to be? I have to share you now? Dad joked. Mom didn’t laugh. Dad had stacks of files in his lap. Every Sunday he had stacks of files spread across their living room floor. What was she supposed to do, sit around while he worked? Fetch him coffee? Tell Evelyn I say hello, Dad said as he kissed her goodbye.

  “You didn’t like Evelyn?” I asked.

  “It was impossible not to like her. All those literary events she took us to, dinners with writers passing through town. She was the only one who talked about anything other than herself.” Dad walked over to the grill again. Pleased with the crust that had formed on the steak, he flipped it to cook the other side. “If I’m being honest, their relationship made me jealous. Your mom seemed to prefer Evelyn’s company to mine.” Of course that wasn’t true, and Dad knew it would be a mistake if he’d asked Mom to give up Evelyn.

  “So she and Billy reconnected through Mom?”

  “Your mom was under the misperception that she shouldn’t tell Billy that Evelyn was back.”

  When they gathered at my grandparents’ house for dinner, Mom would sit across from Billy, talking about Interview with the Vampire or Ordinary People or Song of Solomon, whatever she was reading, always leaving out who had recommended it, who had gotten her a discount at an out-of-the-way bookshop in Pasadena.

  Don’t you think you should tell him you’re friends? Dad asked Mom as they drove home.

  You weren’t around then. You can’t understand, Mom said.

  He’s going to find out, Dad told her.

  I don’t want him to get hurt again.

  It’s best he hears it from you.

  “It didn’t take a crystal ball to see what would happen,” Dad said, resuming his storyteller position, elbows out, torso tilted back.

  Mom had a gig at a club near the Sunset Strip. It was her first show in the eighteen months they’d been living in LA. She’d auditioned for countless bands, returning from some auditions optimistic, others deflated. How could Los Angeles be harder than New York? But it wasn’t the early ’70s anymore. People didn’t want her sound, her look, whatever either of those things meant. Looks could change. A good voice was a good voice, yet the bands didn’t see it that way. Then, out of nowhere, she got a call. One of the backup girls had gotten food poisoning and the lead singer-slash-band-manager asked if she was free that night.

  She’d told her parents and Evelyn not because she expected them to come but because finally something was happening. Of course Evelyn would come. Of course her parents wouldn’t. They said they were happy that things were starting to fall into place, a notable hesitation in their voices, a reluctance Mom recognized as their disappointment that now she was married and had a successful husband she hadn’t grown out of this phase.

  Mom was tucked into the back corner of the small stage, beside the other backup singer who was taller and older than Mom. She’d spent the day with her, learning the choruses to the band’s songs, trying to remain optimistic as she realized how uninspired and derivative their music was. But a gig was a gig, and you never knew who would be in the audience, even at a club like this. She hadn’t considered that her parents might have told Billy about the show, that he might have been looking for something to do to entertain his girlfriend.

  After the show, they were all waiting outside for Mom. Billy was beaming as Evelyn spoke to him. Dad felt sorry for the girlfriend, who was standing beside Billy watching them talk. Dad glimpsed Mom walk out the door to the club, an alarmed expression on her face when she noticed them on the sidewalk.

  Suze, Evelyn called, waving to Mom. She ran up and hugged her. With Evelyn’s back turned, Billy slid his arm around the girlfriend, and kissed her cheek. When Evelyn released Mom and turned toward Billy, Dad noticed Billy quickly remove his hand from the girlfriend’s waist.

  Wasn’t she fantastic, Evelyn said to the group.

  My mic was too low. You couldn’t even hear me, she said.

  You sounded great, Billy said. Dad couldn’t decipher his tone. And what a nice surprise, having Evelyn here.

  Mom’s face turned ghostly.

  Where’s Jerry? Mom asked Evelyn. Dad shot her a look. Mom shrugged like it was an innocent question.

  I’m not sure, Evelyn said, peering over at Billy. Working, I think.

  They made pained small talk until the girlfriend announced that she was tired. Billy shook Dad’s hand, offered Mom a stilted kiss on the cheek, hugged Evelyn. Their embrace was mismatched. Billy tried to hold as much of Evelyn as he could. Evelyn merely patted his back.

  Bill, we’ve really got to be going, the girlfriend said once he’d been holding Evelyn for too long.

  You go by Bill
now? Evelyn teased.

  We all have to grow up sooner or later, Billy said, causing Evelyn to smile. Dad didn’t understand what Evelyn had read into Billy’s words, but he saw as plain as the girlfriend did that something charged passed between them.

  Your brother looks good, Evelyn said as they watched Billy and the girlfriend walk away. Billy turned once to smile bashfully at Evelyn. Happy, I mean. He looks happy.

  Let him stay happy, Mom said.

  Suze, I’m dating Jerry Holdsbrook. But she wasn’t dating Jerry Holdsbrook, not for very long.

  “Of course, with Evelyn back, the girlfriend was out of the picture.” Dad lifted the steak off the grill and held it over the glass bowl as he carried it inside.

  I followed him into the kitchen. Dad laid the meat on a ceramic plate to cool. I checked the timer on the oven. The potatoes had seven minutes left. My time was running up.

  “Where was I?” Dad asked.

  “Evelyn and Billy had just reconnected.”

  “That’s right.” Dad said Billy turned up alone at the next family dinner. Throughout dinner Mom tried to engage Billy. He wouldn’t meet her eye, let alone respond to any of her questions.

  Mom asked Billy to help her with dessert, and he reluctantly followed her into the kitchen.

  A year? Billy said. You’ve been back in touch with Evelyn for an entire year, and you didn’t think to mention her. Not once in a year?

  I was trying to protect you, Mom said.

  I don’t need protecting. You need to stop thinking you know what’s best for me. He stormed out of the kitchen.

  “Did Mom do that a lot, try to protect him?” I asked.

  “Your mother always has the best intentions, but no one wants to be mothered by their sister.” Dad handed me three plates and sets of silverware.

  “We hardly want to be mothered by our mothers,” I joked. Dad raised his eyebrows, a warning to not push my luck. “So after that, Billy and Evelyn were back together?”

  “A few weeks later, Evelyn turned up with Billy for family dinner.”

  She had a bouquet of flowers for Billy’s mother and a bottle of Scotch for his father. They tried to hide their surprise as they thanked her for the gifts. Mom had seen Evelyn the day before. Evelyn hadn’t mentioned that she was coming to dinner.

  Mom pulled Evelyn aside while she was fetching Billy a beer. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?

  It wasn’t planned. Evelyn said they’d gone for a drive, and Billy hadn’t wanted the drive to end, so he invited her to dinner.

  So you’re back together?

  I don’t know.

  Mom could see that she did know. What about your boyfriend?

  Jerry was never my boyfriend, Evelyn said.

  “Poor Jerry Holdsbrook,” I said, setting out the three plates.

  “If you knew him, you wouldn’t feel sorry for him.” Dad tossed three napkins to me, the superior folder. I set to work on Mom’s masterly technique.

  “I don’t get why Mom had a problem with them getting back together. Was she worried Evelyn would break his heart again?” I laid the napkins beside the plates, the silverware on top of the napkins. Dad sat across from me.

  Dad shook his head. “It was more that Billy and Evelyn had this energy between them like no one else in the world mattered. I think your mom felt shut out.”

  Sure, they saw Billy and Evelyn regularly for dinners, for the author events Evelyn hosted. Where Mom had talked freely about the piano classes she was taking, then guitar, then bass, Billy’s stories filled the space.

  Evelyn would put her hand on Billy’s. Tell them about Peru.

  They don’t want to hear about Peru, Billy teased, as if the entire country, the entire Andes region, was their inside joke.

  Sure they do, Evelyn insisted. You guys want to hear about Peru, don’t you? Evelyn smiled, oblivious to the fact that Billy had already spent the appetizer course talking about his lab, the problems with short-term predictions and other things that Dad had tuned out.

  Sure we do, Dad said. He put his arm around Mom, and she smirked at him as if to say, Here we go again.

  Billy proceeded to tell a long, convoluted story that lasted throughout the main course and dessert about some American seismologist who had predicted that a massive earthquake was imminent in Peru, provoking unwarranted panic across the globe.

  He’s completely reckless, Billy said, speaking with his hands and almost knocking over a glass of wine.

  Completely, Mom said mockingly. Billy was too busy steadying the wineglass to notice her tone. If Evelyn heard the sarcasm in her best friend’s voice, she feigned ignorance.

  During those meals, Billy never asked Dad about the studio and his legal team. He never asked Mom about the songwriting classes she was taking or the potential manager she’d met. Still, they saw Billy and Evelyn regularly because, to Mom, the alternative, the possibility that she wouldn’t get to spend Saturday nights with her best friend, was far worse.

  In Dad’s story, I recognized the same quality John Cook had noted, how Billy never completely grasped that other people were as real as he was.

  “At some level he was still pissed at your mom for keeping Evelyn a secret,” Dad said.

  “That’s understandable,” I said, wanting to defend Billy. “Even if Mom was trying to protect him, he deserved to know.” And now Mom was trying to protect me, too. “No one likes being lied to.”

  “True,” Dad said. Above our heads, the floorboards whined. We both looked up. “But Billy let it turn into resentment.”

  “So is that why they stopped talking?” That didn’t sound right. Even if he’d been mad at Mom, even if he’d resented her, he and Evelyn had gotten back together. The timer beeped and I rushed into the kitchen to take the potatoes out of the oven. The top had browned without burning. I didn’t need to taste the gratin to know it would be perfect.

  Upstairs, the bedroom door shut without slamming, loud enough for us to know Mom was coming downstairs.

  “What did Evelyn have to do with their estrangement?” I sat back down across from Dad.

  “Nothing directly. Like I said, she was always this tension between them.” Dad peered over at the steps, waiting for Mom to appear. “Let’s keep this conversation between us?”

  “Sure, it will be our secret,” I promised, feeling farther from Dad than I had before he told me about the past. He hadn’t told me anything that got me closer to understanding Mom and Billy’s fight. But with the clues Billy had left for me, I would uncover the stories, with or without my parents’ help.

  “There she is.” Dad turned to marvel at Mom as she descended the stairs. She’d washed the makeup from her face. I didn’t realize just how much makeup she wore until I saw the sunspots streaking her cheeks, the pale peach of her lips. She pulled her satin bathrobe tightly around her waist, and walked carefully downstairs.

  “I know Billy’s death is bringing up a lot of questions for you,” Mom said as she sat across from me. “And if I thought I had answers that would be productive, I would give them. But all that lies in the past with Billy is pain. It was incredibly hurtful when he stopped talking to me. I never wanted that. He created this rift, and I refuse to validate it by talking about it.”

  “So that’s it, you’re going to pretend like he never existed? Like Evelyn never existed?”

  “Who’s pretending like they never existed?” Dad asked exasperatedly, justifiably so. He’d spent the last twenty minutes bringing them to life. Yet one pronouncement from Mom, and all conversations of Billy or Evelyn were off-limits again.

  “What are you hoping you’ll learn?” Mom asked me.

  “It’s pretty natural to be curious about where you come from,” I said.

  “You know where you come from,” Mom said, and Dad put his hand on hers. They stared at me from acros
s the table, two against one, always an uneven battle.

  “What do you say to a little Dodgers tonight?” Dad asked, piercing the silence. It was his way of defusing tense situations, talking about baseball or history. But he wasn’t going to talk about history, not now. “I was hoping we could all watch the game tonight?”

  “I’d like that,” I said even though I’d stopped following baseball when I’d moved east. Fighting with my parents wasn’t going to encourage them to let me in, to unite us as a team.

  “Me, too,” Mom said even though she’d never watched baseball with us when I was a kid, never made the long drive across LA to Dodger Stadium.

  We finished eating, leaving our plates on the table—something unheard of in the Brooks household—and piled onto the couch. I sat between my parents. Dad turned on the game. It was a blowout, the Dodgers’ pitcher throwing strike after strike. By the bottom of the eighth inning, Dad’s head fell back. The rise and fall of his breath grew steadily into snoring. Mom and I both startled at particularly loud snort, then laughed. It felt good, laughing together. I wanted to rest my head on her shoulder. I wanted to tell her I was sorry—I would stop asking questions about Billy, I would stop hurting her. And I wanted her to say that she was sorry, too—she would tell me about Billy, she would stop hurting me. Only, she couldn’t. Neither of us could. I still didn’t understand why. I wouldn’t understand until I knew what Mom was keeping from me.

  By the time the game ended in the middle of the ninth, it was almost eleven. Mom stood and held her hand to me, helping me off the couch. “Want to stay here tonight?” she asked hopefully.

  “I should be getting back.” I didn’t mention that “back” meant Billy’s apartment, and with that, Billy’s name was banished again, any conversation of him whisked off to the land of the unspoken. “Traffic will be a nightmare in the morning.”

  “Sure.” Mom dropped my hand. “I understand.”

  I followed her toward the foyer. When we reached the door, Mom smothered me in one of her suffocating hugs.

  “I don’t want to fight,” she whispered into my ear.