The Perils of Pauline Read online

  In the afternoon, business picks up. Whenever a customer comes through the door, Jennifer stops shelving. “Sorry, it’s not out in softcover yet,” I hear her apologizing to a woman who is tsk-tsking over the price of the latest crime thriller. Half an hour later, the woman leaves without buying anything, after saying, “I’m sure Bookmonster has it.”

  As the door closes behind her, Jennifer says, “I hate Bookmonster.”

  An elderly woman with a cane comes bustling through the door. “I’ll get this one,” I mouth to Jennifer who is back on the phone again to the distributor and I turn with a bright welcoming smile to my very first customer. “May I help you?”

  She wants the latest novel by someone named Brenda. “The last name begins with a ‘T,” she says. She can’t remember the title of the book. I turn to the computer to run a search on Brenda’s. “No, that’s not it,” she keeps saying as I call out names. I try several spelling variations but still no hits. “Wait, the name is Barbara.” I type in more queries. The woman is jingling her car keys with impatience. “It has a blue cover.”

  Jennifer interrupts us. “Are you thinking of Deanna Gabson’s latest novel?” She produces a volume with a large breasted woman on a cover with lots of red. A man with no shirt and a loosened kilt is lying across a bearskin rug in the background. The woman brightens. “Yes, that’s the one! Do you have it in large print?”

  “I can order it in,” Jennifer offers as the phone begins ringing again.

  “Never mind. Bookmonster probably has it,” the old woman says as she stomps out the door.

  Jennifer leans over and whispers, “Deanna Gabson writes nothing but smut. That old lady comes in here every week looking for the dirtiest novels I can lay my hands on. She only comes here ‘cause her daughter-in-law works at Bookmonster.”

  I must look completely dumbfounded as Jennifer adds, as she turns away to answer the phone again, “You have no idea, do you?”

  A full week as a Brick Books trainee, and I’m stumbling with exhaustion. I make it to after-school care in the nick of time to pick up the kids. Jack says, “How come we’re always the last ones to be picked up?”

  “Sorry, guys, I was held up at the store again.”

  “Did you remember to bring me the Gobstopper book?”

  Too late, I remember a blurty promise. Now I get why the cobbler’s kids are shoeless. No wonder. I can’t afford to buy the kids so much as a comic given the poor receipts from this week. Sales were dead slow. We will all be shoeless if I don’t figure out the bookselling business quickly. I’m tempted to stop at Bookmonster and grab them something slashed in the discounted section.

  I hustle over to the nearest drive-through lane and tell them to order whatever they want. I’m not hungry even though I haven’t eaten all day. My mouth feels like it’s stuffed with paper. The smell of books sticks in my hair and nostrils. I used to love the smell of a bookstore. Now the smell gives me a headache.

  My phone beeps at me. I haven’t had time to check my messages all day. It’s a text message from Michael. U and me tonite?

  I want to answer: Forget it, chum. It’s Friday night and I’m going home to crawl into a hot bath.

  Michael is overjoyed that Donald has gone to Calgary. He’s been a bit of a nuisance all week. He knows I’m desperate to get up to speed at the store but he still keeps bugging me. He wants to come over to the house all the time now but I told him we still have to be discreet. I ignore the text. I will meet him for coffee next week for sure.

  The phone beeps again. Another message from Michael: need to talk to u asap.

  Sigh. I text back: My house. Deck. 10 p.m.

  After supper, I read bedtime stories until Jack drifts off to sleep but Olympia remains owl eyed. She agrees to turn out the light right after Days With Frog and Toad. I turn to the first story in the book, called Tomorrow.

  “Toad woke up. ‘Drat!’ he said. ‘This house is a mess. I have so much work to do.’”

  Ha! Toad should see my messy house. Someone spilled a puddle of shampoo on the bathroom floor a couple of days ago and didn’t bother to wipe it up. There’s a ripe smell emanating from Jack’s closet and last night I caught Bitesalot sleeping in my basket of clean folded laundry so now my folding is all covered with cat hair and possibly fleas and worms as he’s overdue for his flea and worm pills. I’ll have to rewash that load which reminds me: the washing machine quit this morning halfway through the wash cycle and now there’s a full load of darks still sitting in filthy cold water in the machine. First thing in the morning I better call someone to come look at the pump.

  Olympia pokes me. “You stopped reading,” she complains.

  Right.

  “‘Blah,’ said Toad. ‘I feel down in the dumps.’ ‘Why?’ asked Frog. ‘I am thinking about tomorrow,’ said Toad. ‘I am thinking about all of the many things I will have to do.’”

  No kidding. I know exactly how Toad feels. Tomorrow I have to meet with Kevin, the pushiest sales rep in the business according to Jennifer who, by the way, is only going to be able to help me out for a few more days. Then I will be on my own. After Kevin I have to interview for replacement sales staff as Jennifer’s right hand, Dwayne, is leaving to go travel around Europe. Then I need to meet with the bookkeeper and get up to speed on payroll and taxes. I haven’t finished my book returns yet and the storefront window display still needs to be revamped with an autumnal look. Olympia jabs me with her elbow deep in my ribs, shrieking: “Mommy! You stopped reading again.”

  Right.

  “‘Yes,’ said Frog, ‘tomorrow will be a very hard day for you.’”

  I know. Poor old Toad. Tears are forming in my eyes.

  Olympia says, “Did you put Squish in the freezer, Mommy?”

  Squish? In the freezer?

  “My fish.” Olympia jabs me again.

  Right. All her pet fish in the past year have been called Squish. Her latest Squish was found floating this morning. I couldn’t flush him down the toilet in front of Olympia. I stuck the body in the freezer as I didn’t have time to deal with a backyard burial. There’s a backlog of dead goldfish stacked in a baggie in there now ever since the first Squish died in January. I better remember to inter the lot of them properly before the snow flies again. Meanwhile Olympia wants a new Squish. I pledge a visit to the pet store tomorrow and kiss her goodnight. Meanwhile my Squish is probably waiting for me on the back deck. I would like to put another Squish on ice right about now.

  At last Olympia drops off to sleep. And, sure enough, I find Michael sitting in the dark on the deck, leaning forward with hunched shoulders, legs straddling the deck recliner. Smoking. His lighter is lying beside him so I pick it up and use it to light the tiki torches by the steps. “Hey,” he says. “Come here.”

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, sitting on the chair in front of him. In the flickering light I can see his face looks drawn, haggard. It looks like he hasn’t shaved today. “Oh my God, Michael, you look terrible.”

  He shakes his head. “I feel terrible.”

  “Why? What happened? Is it your thesis? Didn’t your advisor like it?”

  “I haven’t submitted it yet.”

  “Wasn’t it due last week?”

  “I’m still working on it.”

  Michael leans back and clasps his hands behind his head. His eyes are shiny in the dark. “Let’s not talk about that now. I have something to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “Carmen and I are filing for a divorce.”

  “Blah,” said Toad.

  Michael continues: “I moved into an apartment at Dingwall today.”

  “No wonder you look so exhausted.” I reach out and brush the stubble on his cheeks with my fingertips.

  Michael takes my hand and holds it against his cheek. He peers into my face. “You look pretty exhausted yourself.”

  “I am,” I admit. “But never mind; I’m worried about you.”

  Michael touches my lips with his finger and wh
ispers, “Shhhh.” He lies back on the lounge chair pulling me down on top of him. I stuff my face into his chest while he rubs the back of my neck. We’re taking a chance nuzzling on the back deck like this but Jack and Olympia are asleep in bed, and Serenity and Shae have gone out.

  Soon Michael’s nuzzles turn into a long and urgent kiss. It would be too risky to make love out here on the deck but, as long as we keep our clothes on, we can visit with each other. Michael puts his hand up under my t-shirt and starts comparing my nipples to tight little rosebuds. “One lick,” he says.

  I suppose I could let him have one lick. I lift my shirt and Michael undoes my bra. Might as well take it off. I tuck the bra under the lounger seat cushion and slip my shirt back on leaving it strategically raised for rosebud maintenance.

  “Why not take off your underwear the same way?”

  I slip out of my shorts, remove my underwear and then slip the shorts back on. I sit back on his lap. Michael immediately parks his hand down the front of my shorts and continues nipping at my rosebuds. After a minute he pulls me back down on top of him.

  “Shhhh, Michael, you’re making the lounger squeak.”

  “Could we be discreet underneath the trampoline?”

  The trampoline is tucked in the darkest corner of the yard, beside the fence. We’d be well concealed. But, before I can summon a response, I hear a car pulling into the driveway. Serenity and Shae must be home. They are early for a Friday night. I forgot: now that Serenity is pregnant, she gets tired easily and goes to bed early. I look at Michael in a panic. How will I explain the presence of a male stranger who is chatting with me in the dark on the back deck?

  The approaching voices grow louder as the pair enters the house through the side door. There’s no time to douse the torches. They’ve spotted us. And out they come staring with curiosity at Michael.

  “This is Michael, a friend from Dingwall. He’s a doctoral candidate.” I make my introduction with the most casual of airs, as if all married women have attractive doctoral candidates reclining on their back porches at 10 p.m. Serenity shoots me the stinkeye. Say it ain’t so, Ma. To avoid further eye contact, I lower my gaze. I am a rotten mother. On the way to the floor, my eyes light onto Serenity’s waistline. I think I can detect a thickening. She’s starting to show. Correction. I am a rotten grandmother.

  CHAPTER 20

  Taboo Frequencies

  TABOO Frequencies: Any friendly frequency of such importance that it must never be deliberately jammed or interfered with by friendly forces including international distress, safety, and controller frequencies.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  Serenity sleeps in until noon every day which is a good way of avoiding any chance of morning sickness, at least in the morning hours, and usually by the time I get home, she can be found sprawled across the couch, watching TV and complaining that it’s too hot/cold/rainy to go anywhere. She’s barefoot and pregnant but not in the kitchen sense of starting dinner or anything helpful like that. I have to hand it to Shae who got all ambitious last week and landed a job with the city. She’s up at dawn every day now, off to cut grass and tend to city park maintenance.

  I enter the room, set down my briefcase, and scoop up a few snack wrappers and chip bags that are scattered around the room. “What’s your plan for the rest of the fall?”

  “I dunno.”

  “What happened to back to school?”

  “High school sucks. I only need a couple more credits to graduate so I’m going to do them at the adult education center.”

  “That sounds good. Are you registered yet?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you could take a parenting class.”

  “Nah, I don’t need to. I saw a kid being born on Youtube last week.”

  “I meant parenting, not birthing. You know, how to look after a baby.”

  Serenity picks up the remote control and changes the channel. “Don’t stress on me. I got it all under control, aiight?”

  It’s my last day running the store with Jennifer’s guidance. Tonight we are having an open house with a ribbon cutting ceremony plus free cake and sparkling wine for our guests. Michael says Carmen is letting him see Nick tonight but if he has time he’ll drop by the store later. I haven’t seen him since the night on the deck. He’s been busy moving into the Dingwall grad residence, which is just as well since I’ve been scrambling all week at the store.

  Jennifer and I are busy setting up a table with coffee cups, wine glasses, and paper plates when there’s a commotion at the door. A man is attempting to heave a shopping cart full of cardboard boxes across the threshold. “A self-publisher,” Jennifer whispers as he bashes the cart into the front table display. “Irish,” she adds as if this explains everything.

  “Morning ladies.”

  It’s late afternoon but Jennifer gives me a warning look. “Garth, this is Pauline. She’s our new owner.” To me she adds, “Ghostly Garth is one of our local authors. We carry some of his books.”

  “And I have a brand new one.” He hands me a book with a lurid cover done in silver, black, and white with red embossed lettering in a blood-dripping font.

  Jennifer pulls a notebook out of the drawer. “I’ll take 5 copies. The usual consignment rate, huh?” She starts writing down her terms. Clearly she wants to hurry this transaction along.

  Ghostly Garth turns to me: “Did you know that this building is haunted?”

  I glance at Jennifer over Garth’s shoulder. She rolls her eyes.

  From one of the boxes, Garth produces a radio, twists the dials and hangs it around his neck. “I’ve been researching the paranormal for the past thirty years and, I can tell you, there’s a poltergeist in this room at this moment.”

  Jennifer stops writing to watch Garth as he holds out his hands, palms down, flutters his eyelids and begins to pace. There’s a lot of static emitting from the radio and Garth taps it, looks back at me knowingly and stumbles into a display table. Jennifer runs to catch a book before it topples onto the floor. “As you can see, Garth is our expert on ghosts. Watch your step there, G.”

  Garth waves his hands palms down over the top of the filing cabinet. He shivers with vehemence. “Ah, you see, right here, this spot is very charged. It’s icy cold in fact.”

  Jennifer crosses her arms. “There’s an air conditioning vent above you. It’s a draft.”

  Garth paces a few more steps and stops again, one foot hovering in mid-step. He says, almost to himself, “Oh yes, definitely. Right here.” Then he turns and cocks his head at me: “Have you ever seen an orb? Like a wee spot of light, usually pale green or bluish green? They float around at eye level. You only usually see them out of the corner of your eye.”

  I’ve seen spots in front of my eyes because of this joint but, no, I assure him, I haven’t seen any wholehog orbs lately. He looks so disappointed I add, “I’ve only been working here for a few weeks.”

  He hands me his card. Jennifer then demonstrates her considerable skills in removing Irish authors from the store but not before he spots the poster advertising our party tonight. “I’ll bring ye some of me wife’s tatties.”

  As soon as he leaves she says, “I forgot to mention the local authors. Most of them are fine, really polite, and easy to work with, but you need to watch out for the fluffers.”

  “Fluffers?”

  “Fluffers like to rearrange the shelves so their book stands out more. Face out, or front and center in the window if they can get away with it. It’s not usually a big deal, but once I had a guy set up an entire end aisle display when I was busy with another customer.”

  “Sneaky.”

  “You have no idea.”

  I wish she would stop saying that.

  A big crowd of people has turned out for my launch party. The local paper even sent a reporter with his camera. Jennifer and I pose for the ribbon cutting in front of the store. Ghostly Garth insists on being in the picture with his new book.
r />   We all troop inside and cut the cake while Bibienne and Bernie circulate with trays of champagne cocktails.

  “Amazing how they all come out of the woodwork for free booze,” says Jennifer as she tops up her glass from a bottle stashed under her counter.

  I watch her swallow the contents of her glass in one gulp and reach for the bottle again. “You certainly managed to build up a loyal fan base.”

  “Yup. And some of them can even read.”

  Then she stands up, a little unsteadily, to read from a prepared speech. According to Jennifer, I am the town’s shining gateway to literacy, a stalwart torchbearer for freedom of speech, and a bulwark against the evil of corporate monopolies that threaten the small independents everywhere with extinction.

  She throws aside her notes and, picking up a cocktail from Bernie’s tray, cries, “I propose a toashht to Pauline. Those suits at Bookshmashers can try but they’ll never smush the life out of Brick Books. Pauline! Gawd, you’re like a maverick, ya know, the last real bookseller, jusht one of the last good ones left in this crazy world.”

  After tipping most of the champagne in her glass into her mouth, she grabs my wrist with her free hand and raises my arm up to the sky like a prizefighter. Then the cocktails run out and everyone heads for the exit.

  Serenity and Shae offer to take Jack and Olympia home to bed while Mom and Bibienne help clear away most of the party mess—with assistance from Ghostly Garth who singlehandedly delivers his own paper plate and napkin to the garbage bin and then hangs around to fluff a half dozen of his titles into the bestseller section. It’s almost 11 p.m. when I finally lock the door behind everyone. I don’t know what happened to Michael but it doesn’t matter as I’m elated: for the first time, I’m alone in my very own store.

  I return Garth’s books to the local author shelf and pass the vacuum over a scattering of cake crumbs. Under the counter I find half a bottle of champagne that Jennifer somehow missed. I’m parched so I pour a glass and sip while tidying the booktable at the front entrance. I turn off the front lights, turn the sign on the door to “Closed,” stand in the middle of the store, and look around: at last it’s mine. All mine.