“If you’re trying to call a cab, we’re only half a block from your house.”
“No, silly. It’s me, being high-handed. Get it? High-handed ? Come on, laugh. You know you want to.”
I let my laughter rise up and out and into the night air. Marina knew nothing about clerking and, in spite of the fact that she’d raised three and a half children, knew very little about children’s books. She had a tendency to think her friends were smart, capable, and good-looking, and she had the best intentions in the world. Who could ask for a better friend?
Chapter 5
The following Wednesday was the opening of firearm deer season in Wisconsin. It was also the day the Children’s Bookshelf put out Christmas books. The previous owner had started the custom and I, after a private war with myself over stocking Christmas items before Thanksgiving, had continued the tradition. Thousands of men drove north to hunt, and thousands of “hunters’ widows” stayed behind to get started on their Christmas shopping. Who was I to deprive these poor women of the chance to cross a few items off their lengthy lists?
In the past, Marcia had helped customers while Lois and I rearranged the store. Today it was just Lois and me. Sara was coming at noon, but that was hours from now.
“How in the heck are we going to get this all done?” Lois, dressed in her Deer Day costume of Day-Glo orange turtleneck, neon green pants, and pink hair band, stood in the doorway to the back storeroom. She pursed her lips as she surveyed the towering stacks. The boxes had been opened and inventoried as they arrived at the store, but we hadn’t had time to sort them into categories. “And I can’t believe you ordered this many books. Last year we were selling holiday books at half price the week before Christmas just to get rid of them.” She slid me a glance. “Or . . .
I sighed. “No. I let Marcia. She asked and asked. I thought maybe . . .”
Lois gave an eloquent sniff.
“We’ll do it in bits and pieces,” I said. “If we don’t get it all done today, the world’s not going to end.”
Lois shook her head, clearly not convinced. “We always have these books out by two o’clock.”
We looked at each other. I’m sure the anxiety I saw in her face was mirrored in my own. If we didn’t have the books out by two, we’d be facing the combined wrath of Mrs. Tolliver and Auntie May.
Mrs. Tolliver was the blue-haired matriarch of one of the founding families of Rynwood. As far as she was concerned, her wishes were law, and one of her wishes was to buy a Christmas book for each of her grandchildren for a Thanksgiving present. “The gift of a book about Christmas,” she’d said more than once, “is pointless after the holiday has arrived.”
Auntie May was May Werner. The entire town of Rynwood called her “Aunt,” and the entire town was afraid of the tiny ninety-one-year-old woman. While her memory of what happened last week might be fuzzy, she could recall every embarrassing incident in every person’s life, even if she hadn’t been present at the time. She had an uncanny memory for scandal and cackled with delight when someone was caught in a lie.
She was a resident of Sunny Rest Assisted Living, two blocks away, and when the mood struck, neither snow nor rain nor heat of summer would keep Auntie May from getting some unlucky nurse’s aide to push her bright purple wheelchair downtown.
Auntie May liked to see the Christmas books in the store before anyone else bought a single one. Two years ago, I’d made the mistake of letting Mrs. Tolliver choose a book before Auntie May had had her fill of gazing at the display. The mental wounds I’d received from the resulting scolding had healed, but I wasn’t sure of the thickness of the scar tissue.
I looked at the pile of books, at Lois, back at the pile of books. There was no possible way we were going to get it all done by two o’clock. I closed my eyes and briefly considered fleeing the country. No, that wouldn’t work; I didn’t have passports for the kids. “All we can do is try our best,” I said. “No one can expect more.”
Lois make a rude noise. “Want to bet?”
“No.”
By one forty-five, the three of us were exhausted from moving around so many books, cranky from trying to be nice to customers who said they’d be buying the book online but it was nice to see it in person first, and nailbiting anxious about the impending deadline.
At one fifty, I decided we were overreacting. Mrs. Tolliver and Auntie May would understand why the books weren’t out. They were both reasonable human beings who knew that circumstances occasionally blew out of control. It was silly for us to be scared, just plain silly.
I said as much to Lois and Sara, and Lois nodded emphatically. “You’re right. It’s ridiculous to work ourselves to a frazzle over this.”
Sara looked up from a box of board books. “They’re just two people. And Auntie May hardly ever buys anything, anyway.”
“Exactly.”
We nodded, a trio of wise women agreeing on the state of the universe.
At one fifty-nine we were rushing around like crazed cats. To the back of the store for armfuls of books; to the front of the store to shelve them; to the back for more books; back and forth, back and forth, our breaths growing short, our arms growing tired.
When the bells overhanging the front door pealed out their merry jingle at two o’clock sharp, we exchanged despairing glances. We’d cleared out the shelving in front, and we’d set out the middle-grade and young adult Christmas books, but there were still huge stacks in the storeroom. There were the Christmas picture books, the illustrated books, and the boxed-set books. There were stencil books, coloring books, and cookbooks. Then there were the Christmas-themed stuffed animals, the cellophane bags, the stickers, and the bookmarks.
Why had the previous store owner ever thought that getting all this done in one day was a good idea? Why had I continued the tradition? Why did I continue to do things that made life hard for me?
But maybe it was someone else walking in the door. Rynwood had a population of five thousand. Dane County had upward of half a million people. Surely someone other than Mrs. Tolliver or Auntie May was standing at the front of the store right now. Maybe it was a first-time mother, newly moved to town, who needed to stock up on Sandra Boynton books. Or maybe—
“Well!” said an imperious voice.
Or maybe it was Mrs. Tolliver, winding up for a slap shot down the middle.
“It
I tried out my apologetic smile. “Yes, it’s two. I’m so sorry we don’t have all the books out, but we’re running shorthanded today. We’re doing our best to—”
“I’d say your best isn’t good enough,” she said in clipped tones. “My father always said a store that doesn’t live up to its promises isn’t a store worth patronizing.”
Frantically I tried to think of when I’d ever promised anyone that the Christmas books would be out on Deer Day. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Tolliver. Is there—” The stack of books in my arms suddenly shifted. I took a dancing step to my left, trying to keep them from tumbling to the ground in an untidy heap.
One step . . . almost there . . . another step . . . and that’s when I ran into Mrs. Tolliver. The books cascaded onto her, onto me, and onto the floor. After them fluttered a packing slip.
The quiet that followed was a very loud one. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Mrs. Tolliver’s shiny black boots, their toes covered with a thin layer of books. I closed my eyes and waited for the storm to break.
“Hah!” Auntie May rolled herself forward. “Where’s a video camera when you need one? Funniest thing I’ve seen in weeks. Young Beth there looked like a vaudeville routine, and Adelaide, your eyes were big as the night your daddy caught you on the front porch swing with Johnny Schwartz.”
Adelaide? I’d never even known she had a first name.
“I’ll thank you to never mention that again, May.” Mrs. Tolliver smiled thinly. “There is no reason to dredge up old tales.”
