Confessions of a Curious Bookseller(68)
In other news, if there is anything you need to talk to someone about, you know I’m here. Mother didn’t tell me anything, so don’t blame her. You just tend to never tell me anything but very good news. I shared with you the trouble with my cat, so if you want to use our sisterly relationship for anything, feel free to dump your troubles (if you have any) on me. I’m here.
Fawn
From: Florence Eakins
Sent: Sun, Apr 21, 2019 at 9:17 AM
To: Fawn Birchill
Re: A surprise visit
Hi Fawn,
I didn’t know Mom paid you a surprise visit. She hasn’t mentioned anything about it to me. And I don’t remember Dad letting us run around mispronouncing words. Honestly, it doesn’t seem like that terrible of a sin in the big scheme of things.
Mom is only ever looking out for us, as annoying as it can be at times. I think she just needs things to do and worry about. I have enough to do and worry about, so it’s kind of nice knowing that someone else is thinking of me. Joseph sure as hell isn’t thinking of me.
Speaking of, I’m curious what Mom “didn’t tell you” about me, though I’m sure I can guess. She’s not the best at keeping secrets. I appreciate you reaching out to help—I really do—but I’m okay.
Flo
From: Mark Nilsen
Sent: Wed, Apr 24, 2019 at 4:11 PM
To: Fawn Birchill
Subject: Magician
Hi Fawn,
I thought you should know that Rainbow came into my store today with her rabbit to do some magic illusions. I had to ask her to either make a purchase or leave. I hate that I had to do this, but she was disrupting business. A little illusion here and there would have been okay, but she started vanishing customers’ cappuccinos and coffees. It was impressive until she couldn’t figure out how to rematerialize them. Not sure where they went and, by the look on her face, she didn’t seem too sure either.
I spoke with her, so I think she gets the message not to do this again. I’m just grateful she didn’t try this with one of the cats.
Mark
April 24
Dear Rainbow,
Please refrain from going to Mark’s store and performing illusions. Sadly not everyone, it seems, is an enthusiast for the sleight of hand.
Fawn, Landlord
P.S. If you manage to find those coffees, may I try one? I want to know what the big deal is, but I simply can’t bring myself to go in there.
May 6, 2019
My world has grown quite small. Besides Jane and Rainbow, I interact with so few people these days, though I’m finding it rather comforting in a strange, melancholy way. If I am to be undone, I blame Mr. Whitney and especially the nefarious Mark Nilsen. If I am to curl up in a hole for the rest of my life, it is thanks to all those who betrayed me, hurt me, and used me. I am not a Greek tragic heroine with hubris; I am a victim of the modern greed-ridden dangers of the world. Whoever thought that such stress could befall a person who just wanted to open an innocent little bookshop?
I read that Mark opened his store because it was his late mother’s dream to own a bookshop, but she was never able to get around to it because she had been ill for so long. I question the validity of that only because I know how skilled he is at turning sympathy into business. I suppose I could do the same, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. To say that Fawn Birchill wanted to open a used bookstore because she found comfort in books growing up with a tyrannical father, an ineffective mother, and a dull sister seems like a cry for pity. I can see the article now: Books allowed her to escape from her meager, militaristic upbringing until college, where she learned a thing or two about business and opened her very own store. There she excelled and watched her family’s reaction transition from mild amusement to muted jealousy. And now, twenty years on, she’s still sailing along. No, thank you. I’ll stick to merit and leave the pity mining to the amateurs.
Part of running a good business is not letting anyone know how bad things have really become. The way I see it, when things are at their worst, that’s when you advertise, when you fight. That’s when you evolve. Suddenly I find myself worrying that since I’ve grown quiet, my family and the public have caught on that something is not right. The thing is, I’m fine. Nothing here has changed.
In other news, Bert has caught two mice. The only downside is that he takes forever to kill them. I am left sitting down at my computer busying myself, trying not to focus on the squeaks of terror as he carries the mouse around in his mouth and uses it as his Ping-Pong ball. The last kill took an hour. I should have named him Gestapo.
Yesterday I caught my hand in the bathroom door. I sat down on the toilet seat lid for a long time just focusing on the dull, throbbing pain, and I had the clearest thoughts. Sometimes I think this place is nothing more than a cocoon from which I must emerge. I both love this place and hate it for what it has become—what the poisonous people like Angela, Kyle, Sam, Mark, and Mr. Whitney have allowed it to become. I let them have too much say, too much rein. I should not go back to the way things were before them, but I fear that continuing on this current path might also be detrimental. The bottom line is: I must not allow anyone into a position of decision-making or even give them the impression that their thoughts and ideas could be utilized. What I need are mindless servants who will do what they are told, who are too soft of mind to see that scraping gum from sidewalks is below them, who don’t grumble when told to clean the bathroom, who don’t get upset when I give my own books away to loyal customers. It is my store! It is my store! And now that the vermin have been rid from the place, it is time to take it back.