Confessions of a Curious Bookseller(65)
May I ask: Are you being paid for the tour? I imagine so. And if you are used to expecting a stipend for your time, I only find it suitable to treat you as the Grumpy Mug would, if not a little better, as we are a small and personable store and not a business that is all about the bottom line. Would one hundred dollars be fair? You may scoff at first, but please remember that the pleasure may very well be all yours. You will be treated like a king and will have very little to do except to run your pen over a few of my used books (I of course cannot promise that these books will be yours). Think on it, and let me know before your tour!
It must be so perpetually romantic to be from England. I believe it is the same for those from the Mediterranean or Switzerland—such beautiful landscapes! I have never been to England, but just like you, my family’s heritage is British. It is my goal to one day see London. Did you know I have never been out of the country? My parents never took us on trips besides horrible camping excursions in Pennsylvania where at least one of us would end up getting bit by something or burning ourselves in the campfire. We have never been a graceful family. I always thought the nicest part about the camping trips was packing up and leaving. I found great joy in pulling the tent from its place, seeing the squashed leaves and writhing worms underneath. It was the one shred of proof of what I had endured over a weekend, besides the smoke inhalation and spider bites. However, I had always wanted to do more to leave my mark on that most terrible place. It didn’t seem enough to merely leave a burned circle of char and a few squashed worms. When I was thirteen, I actually considered trying to light that camping spot on fire, but I came to my senses when I realized that my father would just have us camp somewhere else. There are a lot of woods in Pennsylvania. In fact, the name of our state literally means “Penn’s woods.” Did you know that?? Here I am, going on. Long story short, despite my lack of worldly experience, I believe you will find me to be quite worldly and intelligent, and I think we will get on very well.
Do consider, and let me know as soon as possible!
Many thanks,
Fawn, Owner, The Curious Cat Book Emporium
April 13, 2019
In an interesting turn of events, my mother showed up out of the blue. Apparently she is “worried” about me. Unfortunately I answered the door in my bathrobe at about 3 p.m. with my hair in a horrible state, empty wine bottles everywhere, and my breath smelling as stale as old fish left out in the sun. My immediate reaction—a terrible one in hindsight—was shutting the door in her face. I shouted my apologies, threw on some clothing, pulled back my hair in its usual noble bun, and hastily chewed on some Tic Tacs (I must have looked like a rabid squirrel to the nosy neighbor across the way). I may not have been a new woman, but it was close enough. (Thankfully Rainbow was out performing in Clark Park and missed this display.) As usual, my mother didn’t say much, and also as usual, I caught myself taking on bits of Florence’s flighty and bright personality just to survive the two hours she occupied my home. She sat at my kitchen table while I heated up some old V8 soup and asked me if I had been keeping a journal—and of course I said I wasn’t. She told me about Florence and Joseph and how they are going through marriage counseling—something that I wasn’t made aware of in her emails but wasn’t surprised to hear in the least. I told her about Butterscotch. As usual she sat on the subject for literally two seconds, offering her tepid condolences, and moved swiftly on to Father. Apparently for Christmas one of the nurses gave him a Pendleton blanket, and it’s all he talks about. Mother says he will call her and tell her every time, as if it’s the first time, that he’s been given a Pendleton blanket. “Guess what I got this morning!” he’ll say. And then he goes on to tell her the different colors, often repeating them as such: “Blue, red, orange, brown, brown, red, green, blue . . .” and so on. And apparently—an unthinkable thought to Mother—he takes it to the bathroom with him (on good days when he can get to the bathroom). All this was supposed to lure me to him. Sometimes I do envy him. It must be exciting to wake up each morning to see, as if for the first time, the gift of a new blanket draped across one’s body, and be as excited as if it were a stack of money. How nice would it have been if, in his youth, Father were even a little like the way he seems to be these days. I always find it rather interesting how people generally grow nicer as they age, as if they’ve wised-up to the idea that if they are not nice, they will be abandoned with no one to care for them. When I see a friendly elderly person, I can’t help but wonder about the ulterior motives behind their “angelic” smiles.
Shortly after we finished the V8 soup, Mother wrote me a check for fifty dollars that I, with burning shame, gratefully accepted. It is good timing, as I didn’t have the funds to pay my electric bill, despite Rainbow’s monthly contributions. City living is ruthlessly expensive; it is either pay Angela or have light, and I for one can’t spare Angela.
Mercifully, Mother left because it was getting dark and she doesn’t like driving at night. After she left, I could smell her familiar Elizabeth Taylor perfume that she’s worn for as long as I can remember, and the longing to be a child again—to do it all over—overwhelmed me so much that I crumpled to the floor and cried for what felt like hours. These days I would give anything to feel my father’s strong hands around my ankles pulling me from my bed, his face a shade of crimson, his lips mangled up in a sneer of rage. There were so many possibilities back then, so many directions to go, even if at that particular moment, the only direction was straight into town to open his store. It’s funny, but with all that Father faced in his life, he never gave up. He never let anything keep him from opening his store and showing his large red face to everyone that walked in. And thanks to him, I had someone to pull me out of bed for so long that I never quite got the hang of doing it by myself.