The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry(31)

“Dear Amy,” the book is inscribed, “Mom says this is your favorite writer. I hope you won’t mind that I read the title story. I found it a bit dark, but I did enjoy it. A very happy graduation day! I am so proud of you. Love always, Dad.”

A.J. closes the book and sets it back against the lamp.

He writes a note: “Dear Amelia, I honestly don’t think I could bear it if you waited until the Knightley fall list to come back to Alice Island. —A.J.F.”





The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County


1865 / Mark Twain

Proto-postmodernist story of a habitual gambler and his bested frog. The plot isn’t much, but it’s worth reading because of the fun Twain has with narrative authority. (In reading Twain, I often suspect he is having more fun than I am.)

“Jumping Frog” always reminds me of the time Leon Friedman came to town. Do you remember, Maya? If not, ask Amy to tell you about it someday.

Through the doorway, I can see you both sitting on Amy’s old purple couch. You are reading Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison, and she is reading Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout. The tabby, Puddleglum, is between you, and I am happier than I can ever remember being.

—A.J.F.





That spring, Amelia takes to wearing flats and finds herself making more sales calls to Island Books than the account, strictly speaking, requires. If her boss notices, he does not say. Publishing is still a gentleperson’s business, and besides, A. J. Fikry is carrying an extraordinary number of Knightley titles, more than nearly any other bookstore in the Northeast corridor. The boss does not care whether the numbers are driven by love or commerce or both. “Perhaps,” the boss says to Amelia, “you might suggest to Mr. Fikry a spotlight on Knightley Press table in the front of the store?”

That spring, A.J. kisses Amelia just before she gets on the ferry back to Hyannis and says, “You can’t be based from an island. You have to travel too much for your job.”

She holds him at arm’s length and laughs at him. “I agree, but is that your way of asking me to move to Alice?”

“No, I’m . . . Well, I’m thinking of you,” A.J. says. “It wouldn’t be practical for you to move to Alice. That’s my point.”

“No, it wouldn’t be,” she says. She stencils a heart on his chest with a fluorescent pink nail.

“What hue is that?” A.J. asks.

“Rose-Colored Glasses.” The horn sounds, and Amelia boards the boat.

That spring, while waiting for a Greyhound bus, A.J. says to Amelia, “You couldn’t even get to Alice three months of the year.”

“It would have been easier for me to commute to Afghanistan,” she says. “I like how you bring this up at the bus station, by the way.”

“I try to put it out of my mind until the last minute.”

“That’s one strategy.”

“I take it you mean not a good one.” He grabs her hand. Her hands are large but shapely. A piano player’s hands. A sculptress. “You have the hands of an artist.”

Amelia rolls her eyes. “And the mind of a book sales rep.”

Her nails are painted a deep shade of purple. “What color this time?” he asks.

“Blues Traveler. While I’m thinking about it, would you mind if I painted Maya’s nails the next time I’m on Alice? She keeps asking me.”

That spring, Amelia takes Maya to the drugstore and lets her choose any polish color she likes. “How do you pick?” Maya says.

“Sometimes I ask myself how I’m feeling,” Amelia says. “Sometimes I ask myself how I’d like to be feeling.”

Maya studies the rows of glass bottles. She selects a red then puts it back. She takes iridescent silver off the shelf.

“Ooh, pretty. Here’s the best part. Each color has a name,” Amelia tells her. “Turn the bottle over.”

Maya does. “It’s a title like a book! Pearly Riser,” she reads. “What’s yours called?”

Amy has selected a pale blue. “Keeping Things Light.”

That weekend, Maya accompanies A.J. to the dock. She throws her arms around Amelia and tells her not to go. “I don’t want to,” Amelia says.

“Then why do you have to?” Maya asks.

“Because I don’t live here.”

“Why don’t you live here?”

“Because my job is somewhere else.”

“You could come work at the store.”

“I couldn’t. Your dad would probably kill me. Besides, I like my job.” She looks at A.J., who is making a great show of checking his phone. The horn sounds.

“Say good-bye to Amy,” A.J. says.

Amelia calls A.J. from the ferry, “I can’t move from Providence. You can’t move from Alice. The situation is pretty much irresolvable.”

“It is,” he agrees. “What color were you wearing today?”

“Keeping Things Light.”

“Is that significant?”

“No,” she says.

That spring, Amelia’s mother says, “It isn’t fair to you. You’re thirty-six years old, and you aren’t getting any younger. If you truly want to have a baby, you can’t waste any more time in impossible relationships, Amy.”