The Dirty Book Club(77)
“Anything that can fall through already did.” Addie winced through a shock of pain as she lowered to sit on a row of boxes marked TRAVEL GUIDES. She closed her eyes. “Including my future.”
M.J. peeked at her father’s Timex. The airport shuttle would be picking her up in one hour, and Dan was probably one beer into fretting over when she’d be home. “I’m scared I’ll miss my flight if we don’t get started.”
“I’d be more scared of catching that flight than missing it,” Britt said.
M.J. could have easily agreed but clung to denial. “Africa is going to be great.”
Addie snorted.
“So where y’all hiding this secret room anyway?” Jules asked.
“Back there,” Addie said as she handed Jules her purse. “Key’s inside.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I’m not allowed. They’ll punish me.”
“Punish you?”
“I used to spy on their meetings. Put my ear against the wall, hold my breath like a sniper, and listen.”
“Snipers hold their breath to listen?” Jules asked as she rummaged through Addie’s purse in search of the key. “Why? You can’t hear aim.”
“It slows their heart rates so they can shoot between beats,” M.J. explained. “It keeps them steady.”
“Okay, but why do you need to be steady to eavesdrop?” Jules asked Addie.
“Why do you need to pronounce the V in eavesdrop?”
M.J. checked her watch again. “Did you ever hear anything?”
“Nah, the walls are too thick. But one time, just before my fourteenth birthday, Marjorie ran out crying. At first, I thought she was a movie star they had kidnapped and she was trying to escape. She was so glamorous, I swear, even her cigarettes smelled different.”
“Did you talk to her?” Jules asked.
“No. She just stared at me like I was a dangerous animal she wanted to pet and then she took off. Everyone chased after her and that’s when I snuck in.”
“What was it like in there?” M.J. asked.
“I remember the lipstick on the martini glasses. That hat box full of envelopes. The four open copies of Story of O. One of them had doodles in the margins. A few penises and some boobs, but mostly wings. Same as mine, see?” Addie lifted the necklace from her cleavage, dragged the charm across its chain.
“How have you not mentioned this before?” Britt asked.
“I don’t know,” Addie said. “Suppressed childhood memories usually do take priority over condemned apartments, job loss, unexpected pregnancy, miscarriage, and hospitalization, so, wow, Britt, I’m not sure.”
Jules retrieved the tangle of necklaces, bracelets, and hair elastics from Addie’s purse and held it above her head like Lady Liberty’s torch. “Let’s get in there.”
M.J. gripped the fleshy part of Addie’s arms and guided her toward the back of the store.
“Tell us about the envelopes?” Jules asked.
Addie looked at her blankly.
“Inside the hat box.”
“There were hundreds of them. Some from TWA and others from American Airlines. I also remember the ashtray, like how it was overflowing with butts. One of them was still smoking, so I picked it up and took a puff and . . .” Her voice began to trail, her eyes fluttered closed.
M.J. gave her a nudge. “Then what?”
“I started coughing and that’s when they came running in. Except Marjorie. I don’t know where she went. But the rest of them?” Another head shake. “They were pissed at me for snooping, and I was banned from the Good Book for a month.”
“That was your big punishment?” Britt asked. “Banned from a bookstore? Ha! You must have been stoked.”
“More like destroyed. Reading was my life.”
Stunned, the girls stopped walking.
“What? I didn’t have a lot of friends back then.”
“And now?” M.J. asked.
Addie tapped her cleavage. “Now I have wings.”
* * *
THE DOOR TO the right of the hearth was easy to miss. It didn’t have a shiny brass knob or a foreboding Keep Out sign. It was made of the same caramel-colored planks as the other walls. And its hinges—if it even had hinges—were masterfully concealed. If not for the brief interruption in the wood—a chink, about hip-high and shaped like an upside-down exclamation point—the entrance would have been undetectable. And Addie’s key fit inside perfectly.
Dark and windowless, M.J. could practically chew the stale cigarette smoke. It filled her lungs and clogged her nose like dust. And yet, she felt a kinship in its presence. How it clung to the room for decades: loyal as a friend, stubborn as a memory refusing to fade.
She found her phone, activated her flashlight, and saw a text from Dan: A reminder that the shuttle would be picking them up in forty-five minutes. A chorus line of emojis followed: the African Flag, an airplane, a glass of wine. She quickly assured him she was on her way and then trained her flashlight app on whatever was blocking the door.
“Addie, will you open that so we can see?”
“The door stays closed,” she whispered.
“Why?”
“In case they find us.”