Billed as Vermont’s most extensive collection, Poor Art’s Book Mart is a pleasure for any rummaging antiquarian to visit. Ignoring his hand-lettered sign: “Poor Art’s – where bookends don’t meet nor hat trees leave, and friends can be found under cover”, and continuing past sagging shelves over-burdened with dog-eared, coffee-stained textbooks of outmoded theories, the trained and patient eye can usually find, among apple-crated novels from the cellars and attics of souls long departed, a rare first edition or two; finds which, in Boston or New York, bring more than the price of the relaxing vacation that discovers them. But the irony – or sadness, depending on your point of reference – is that Artie can’t read very well. (Artie unabashedly telling any who will listen about the time a tourist - a southern Baptist - asked him if he were illiterate. Seems this Baptist deacon’s discovery of Fanny Hill in the Topography section aroused his dig – if not his desire.) Like Aunt Martha, Artie’s education is empirical: his interest, his raison d’être being his neighbors, his customers, the startled tourists he challenges with greetings. Artie loves his fellow man. That’s why we became friends, just my entering his shop endearing me to him.
Frequenting his “emporium of knowledge”, as he calls it, throughout my high-school years, I depended on his collection more than the Montpelier library; a dependency Artie regarded as a bond. A blood-brother bond. An inseparable bond, I suppose; for Artie didn’t allow my stint in Vietnam to affect his loyalty; his regular shipments of requested books always gratis. After my discharge and subsequent scholarship award to Harvard, his excitement seemed centered in friendship, his ebullience more on the vital, the visual, the victuals of a little New Hampshire diner I would have to pass on my drive down to Cambridge. “The best damn lox and bagels this side of Brooklyn,” he informed me - though that’s not what I had when I stopped there. Not the first time, nor any of the dozens of times afterward. Maple-cured ham, it was. Maple-cured ham and blueberry pancakes. Simple, but oh what a treat when you’re hungry! And where this little diner is in New Hampshire seemed always to be square in the middle of our hunger when Melody and I drove home.
These are the memories prompting Melody to pull in for breakfast - with Aunt Martha and me along Dutch treat. I can tell she’s thinking of me - missing me, to be honest. Eating at the diner was a habit with us. In fact, I’m almost positive she’s stopping in remembrance of us - of me. No, I’m sure of it; for Melody has never been car crazy like I was; never took notice of sports cars, hot rods or vans. So, I’m certain she takes no notice of Artie’s old primer-patched book van parked at the front entrance.
It’s Aunt Martha who espies the van, squealing, “Look who’s here, Melvin! It’s Arthur Steinberg; the Art of my old gin rummy!”
“More like the old rummy, art of your gin, if I remember correctly,” I rib her. “The way I figure, you used that gin bottle of yours to siphon money from a poor drunkard’s wallet.”
“Calling me a cheat, are you?” she pouts, tugging me along the counter to Artie and leaving Melody to find a table alone. “Well, let me tell you how it really was,” A.M. pretending injury. “Two drinks and I was the better player. It didn’t matter if he had ‘em, or I had ‘em. Just two drinks and I’d be off on a winning streak.”
“Must be my prism, Auntie,” I joke, “making me see things that aren’t real.”
But there is no mistaking what is real, Artie Steinberg noticing it, too: a beautiful woman, Venus pale, a plaintive look in her misty blue eyes as she furtively scans the diner.
Appearing like he just stepped out of the comics, Artie tips his soiled felt cap politely and waddles his bemused corpulence to her rescue - her recognition, her relief, her immediate bonhomie affording him confidence; the agony of her bereavement unnoticed by his boisterous greeting (Artie never shaking hands with the tips of his fingers, or voicing a timid “Hello”), the spell-binding, slow-motion sequence that follows leaving the diners agape and Aunt Martha and me in the gallery.
“Well, would you look at us,” Aunt Martha thinks, her countenance having the sweep of expression that begs no reply, “…two gawkers agog in Magog.”
“Show-stopping gorgeous, isn’t she?” I observe, assuming my thoughts are hers.
“She’s that and more, nephew,” A.M. sighs, “but it’s the ‘more’ that makes her beautiful.”
“And that is?” I mumble, watching Artie escort Melody to the comfort of a booth; feeling jealous, suddenly - and foolish for feeling it, too; still, wishing it were me sliding in to enjoy her, to reach for her hand, to be the twinkle in the laugh of her eyes.
“Why, didn’t you see it?” Aunt Martha asks with surprise, “she’s got that glow about her, Melvin. I thought that’s what you were taken by…that kind of ‘holy mother aura’ the first baby sometimes brings.”
“And that’s what everyone is gawking at?” I gasp, believing her, but still not seeing it myself. “They’re staring at some kind of glow?”
“Oh, mercy, mercy me,” A.M. laments, “I forgot. You can’t see your own aura, sweetheart.”
“Aura?” I repeat, completely flummoxed, “and what…and what’s with the ‘sweetheart’, Aunt Martha? It’s not like you to use endearments.”
She seems not to hear me - whether by thought or energy voiced – her attention all on the sacred booth, the Madonna and Magus deep in some beatific colloquium, the subject of which is me.
“That’s wonderful news,” a beaming Arthur booms, his difficulties with reading having deprived him of the ‘Shingle & Diapers’ review, “another little Melvin to bless our lives.”
“And a blessing I’m sure he’ll be, Artie, if he’s anything like his father,” Melody agrees, swelling my spirit chest. “Melvin was never overtly religious,” she adds, fingering the crucifix on her gold rope-chain and bringing it to her lips for a kiss, “…but he was spiritual, nevertheless.”
“Oh, and how I agree,” my raucous friend replies, “what spirits I managed to keep in my war chest never quite enough to quench his thirst on a fire-lit winter’s night – almost always a Sunday night, as I recall. The boy was in the habit of skipping church right up till his daddy died. It was only after the other reverend came along that he would attend at all.”
Smiling at his picaresque blunder, Melody thinks better to leave it unaddressed, returning him to ‘church’. “Yes, Melvin did have an aversion to the Holy Rite; though not to the Holy Rote, that being something he worked very hard to practice. And perhaps - now that we can all look back – perhaps he suspected the church; thought it responsible for some of the very ills it warned against; thought it incapable of Christ-like compassion-“
“You mean like his funeral?” Artie interjects, “that Rolundo and-and-”
“His puritanical panegyrics?” Melody suggests. “Yes, I’ve thought of that. I’ve even wondered if Melvin knew somehow that his funeral would be…well…if maybe he avoided church because of some presentiment of how it would eventually dishonor him.”
“Maybe so,” Artie concurs, “but if you ask me, a body doesn’t need to look too hard these days to find an excuse not to attend The Church of the Good Shepherd. Even Thelma Peabody’s been criticizing her minister of late - editing her Sunday-school lessons, she claims – which reminds me: the Melvin Morrison Memorial March. You do know about that, don’t you?”
“The what?” Melody putting down a dainty bite of maple-cured ham, her few words metered, rhythmic, a kind of intellectual shorthand: “what-did-you-say-?”
“Yes,” Arthur interrupts, pleased as a child to know something she doesn’t. “Thelma’s been organizing a march for Thanksgiving; says more folks will be in town then. And that pretty young thing that works at your husband’s law office - what’s her name? Cheryl? Sugar?”
“Charlene,” Melody pleased he still refers to the firm as “your husband’s”.
“Charlene. That’s the one. Anyway, she’s helping with Thelma’s scouting.”
“
What do you mean, ‘scouting’?” Melody asks, Arthur’s hobbyhorse caparisoned in vagueness.
“You know, getting questionnaires filled out by as many women as they can…and not letting any of the men know what the answers are.”
At this bit of news, both Melody and Martha are aghast: the former with amazement, the latter with amusement - Melody shoving her pancakes away, Aunt Martha shoving me with unrestrained elation. “Did you hear that?” she babbles, “they’re actually going to pull it off, those two; Thelma and your ‘other woman’. Going to redefine ‘memorial’, pay you more tribute than you’re owed – if you know what I mean,” the last little jibe under the guise of a wink.
“And I suppose you want this to happen?” I snarl, assuming my most confrontational tone. “Am I to understand you wish my Melody publicly ridiculed?”
“Melody?” A.M. gasps in revulsion. “Why would Melody be ridiculed? It’s the damn men folk those two are after, not the dames. And there’s one or two of those critters I’d like to get hooks in myself.”
This last comment confirming my fear: Aunt Martha will be front and center at the march. That daymare now virtually settled, I think it prudent to ask, “And who might those unlucky gentlemen be?”
“Simon Farley, for one,” she growls, “and the other one’s that sanctimonious, parsimonious, mealy-mouthed minister of Melody’s; that two-timing, double-talking, triple-tonguing, organ-grinding, Presbyterian, sexagenarian, libertarian-“
“Hold it there Hoss, you’re headed for the pea patch,” I bark, “for who is to say which is worse? What you hold against Reverend Rolundo? Or what he holds against Helen the organist? I believe either offense is cardinal.”
“And how so for me, Melvin?” A.M. for once responding to reason. “How is telling the truth a cardinal sin? And you know it’s the truth, because you saw for yourself what he was doing with-”
“Stop! Aunt Martha, stop!” I shout, just the thought of what I’d seen making me ill – or rather, making me recall the unpleasantness of being ill. “Besides,” I argue, “we can continue this discussion some other (here, I almost say ‘time’), some other, some…oh, for St. Pete’s sake! In some other life for all I care! Right now all I want to do is follow what’s happening with Melody.”
“You mean you’re not a wee bit curious of my grief with Simon Farley?” she poses ingenuously.
“No. Well…yes; but after we’ve heard these two out,” I reply, nodding my perfectly clear head in the direction of Melody and her felt-headed auditor, “after we’ve learned all the latest.”
The latest turning out to be old news to Aunt Martha and me: Melody relating, with an excitement approaching religious fervor, how her “sign of the cross” proves the eternality of our oneness; how our undying love is unaffected by physical death; and Artie divulging, with the amusing deviance of a child, what rumors are afoot on George, his clumsy effort to soften hard-core rumors more effacing than effective, his references to George’s cunning in the language of law as “cunnilingus”, and his good rapport with the local police as “copulatory”, leaving Melody choking in mirth. But what Artie reveals next is indeed news:
“I’m on my way to Boston,” he says, tugging nervously at his cap, “yep, gotta do some sleuthing there for a friend.”
“You? a gumshoe?” Melody genuinely taken aback, and relieved to be off the subject of George.
“Yep, and a sticky business it is, too; what with the culprit I’ll be secretly investigating none other than Simon Farley.”
“Surely you jest!” Melody rejoins, the idea of Simon being the subject of anyone’s inquest seeming as funny as it is foolish. “Who would want to dig into Simon’s past? And for that matter, what’s there to learn in Boston since Simon never goes more than a half-day’s bike ride from Plainfield?”
“Well, the whole thing’s secret, you know,” a blushing Artie tugging his stained felt cap to within a wild hair of his bushy eyebrows, “but I don’t see the harm in telling you. And besides, what with you a soon-to-be lawyer and all, maybe you can advise me on how I should go about my mission. This doggone sleuthhound business is something I’ve never done before.”
“Maybe so,” Melody comforts, “but first you must tell me who wants this information, and why this information might be in Boston.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” a guileless Artie gushes, “’cause who wants it is Thelma Peabody; and as to why what she wants is in Boston, well…she thinks that maybe Simon once…maybe he was seeing more of a young lady from there than decency allows, if you get my meaning.”
“I do,” Melody says hurriedly, cutting off a more graphic explanation. “But what right does Thelma Peabody claim to be delving into somebody’s past?” she asks, accepting a warm-up of coffee. “She wouldn’t want someone looking into her past, would she?”
“Well, that’s just it,” my artless Artie articulates, “’cause she thinks that’s exactly what’s happening – thinks Simon’s the one behind it, too.”
“No! I can’t believe that,” Melody arching one perfect eyebrow, “not Simon. The only thing Simon Farley would have an interest in digging through would be the poetry in your book store.”
“Confound it, Mrs. Morrison!” Artie exclaims, “you are good! Damn conceptive of ya to know that!”
“To know what?” Melody smiling at his misuse of words.
“To know that Thelma was in my store the day Simon was looking around, knocking books out the backs of my shelves about as fast as I could pick ‘em up – Thelma coming back later to tell me why.”
“Why what?”
“Why Simon was making such a mess of my store.”
“And why was he?” she prods, impatient to hear the end of this lunacy.
“To distract us from what he was really doing - planting a bug.”
“A bug? W-what kind of bug?” Melody stammers, the image of some creepy-crawly giving her a shiver, “an insect he found on the trails?”
“Would to God!” Artie’s patronizing smile bristling his wiry whiskers, “would to God that’s all it was! No, my dear lady, it was one of those spy things. You know, like those electronic deviants the Russians use; only Thelma told me he probably got it from a mail order spy catalog; a post office address in Boston. She wants me to look it up. Wants to know if he’s on their mailing list.”
“Mailing list? Spy catalog?” Melody mouths, stirring a scant teaspoon of sugar into her coffee. “And did you find one…one of those things Thelma said he was there for?”
“Well…no. No, I didn’t.” Silence follows the admission.
“Artie,” she says at last, “I believe you’re right. I believe I can help you.”
“I thought as much,” he booms, pounding a fat fist on the table - Melody reaching for her coffee before he spills more than enthusiasm. “So, where do we begin?”
“We begin by you continuing your trip to Boston,” she says evenly, her dulcet voice gaining an edge of authority, “only there’s no sleuthing to be done for Thelma. Instead, I want you to locate that mail order place she told you about, then purchase a goodly assortment of those electric insects for me – the while keeping our new partnership secret, of course.“
“You mean bugs, Mrs. Morrison,” he corrects politely, “but why do we need them?”
“It’s not that we need them at all, Artie,” Melody explains, “it’s just the having them that will do the trick.”
If Artie understands where she’s going with all this, it’s more than Aunt Martha or I can comprehend; for no sooner has she finished speaking than the thoughts that inspired her are gone, vanished, her mind on another matter.
“What do you make of it?” I ask, my unflappable aunt always ready with reply. “Do you think she has a plan?”
“In as much as she’s female….” A.M. doesn’t fail me.
“And what about Simon?” I continue, “or Thelma Peabody? I tend to agree with Melody on those two. Do you?”
“Regarding Thelma, who can tell?” she answers, the two of us following Melody back to the car, “but that See-MOAN, he’s something else altogether.”
Remembering her earlier allusion to a grief she had with Mr. Farley, I bring it up. “Is there something personal between the two of you?”
“Not really,” her reply not what I expect, “not unless ‘personal’ and ‘relative’ are one and the same. For, the reason that rascal didn’t come to your funeral was out of spite for not being allowed to spout his poetry at your eulogy. As if! Can you imagine what he may have composed, Melvin?” she conjectures, allowing a fractional pause for my knuckles-in-the-mouth contemplation. “Well, I can,” she goes on. “I reviewed it before he could do you harm, adding a few lines after he finished; you know, just to be sure your mother-in-law would refuse his offer.”
“You did what?” I yell with a truculent scowl. “You were out fending for your nephew’s honor while preparing to dishonor him yourself?”
“But that’s different,” she objects, “love is more resilient than the most destructive enmity - what fault-finding we do amongst family is our business. But let someone else raise a critical eye and I’m on ‘em like a bad coat of paint. If you don’t believe me, just wait till your march,” she appends, the fire in her eyes rekindling my fondness for her - as well as my fear of what she might do. “Just wait,” she repeats, “just-you-wait.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I grumble, sliding into the car beside Melody before A.M. can pilfer my place. “If I didn’t know better,” I complain, “I could be led to believe the ordeal of patience is one of the lessons I’m here to learn.”
Ever desireless, one can see the mystery.
Ever desiring, one can see the manifestations. (Lao-tzu)
VIII
No sooner does Artie return from Boston than the fireworks begin; or rather, the short-circuits, frequency blips and telephone static setting Plainfield on edge. And not only Plainfield, but certain parties with connections to Plainfield, the likes of which make decency a synonym of secrecy, a secrecy threatened by the daily discovery of yet another bug in some “suspect’s” wall-outlet, dashboard or dial. But despite all this unnerving evidence, no one has yet to prove Miss Peabody culpable. There is no disagreement, however, over who is suspect, the whole of Plainfield blaming her for the plague of locusts chirp-chirping from all things electric; such a dark cloud of suspicion making it difficult for Thelma’s “other women” to shed light on their questionnaires.
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