Mom spent months meeting with printers and assembling advance notices and pictures. Holiday t-shirts and tote bags were ordered, and a giant, new, gift-wrapping machine was purchased. Not since Summer inventory had things been this exciting!
Then the catalogs arrived. Thousands. Crisp, glistening, multi-colored and with no discernable typos. We set them out in huge stacks across the dining room table, arranged by zip code. Then, standing in classic Ford assembly-line formation, we affixed sheet after sheet of mailing labels. That Saturday, Dad and I hauled them to the post office and sent them on their way, to friends, family, strangers, housewives, professional businessmen, local politicians, and celebrities. Mom bought radio time, announcing the holiday catalog—free!—just come to the shop and get one, or call us and give us your address and we’ll mail you a copy free of charge. It was easily the greatest affair the little shop ever had.
This catalog was going to change things. It would put the shop on the map. Mom knew it, and then she could really build on her dream: tear up the rotted, peeling floor; replace the windows; put up a new sign; acquire the tchotchke store next door and knock down the walls. Expand! Do things right! Maybe set up a little cafe with outdoor tables. A modern sound-system—or, at least, pick up some new cassettes. Proper display cases—huge, finished, oak monsters—to give the Art Books the presentation they truly deserved. Then, build up a real, year-long clientele. The catalog would be the beginning of all of this.
At first, they came in dribs and drabs, merely out of curiosity, as if searching for the odd, potato-sculpture museum, eight exits off the highway. They came and looked and whispered, tracked in snow and slush and knocked racks of bookplates over. They left crossword books in the poetry section and poetry books in the restroom. They took catalogs and drank egg-nog and left, buying nothing. Mom became restless.
“Don’t mop while customers are here!” she said to me. “They’ll slip and break their neck!”
Cool, I thought.
Finally, magically, on the Saturday afternoon just before Christmas, people actually started to buy things.
“A book on Cezanne? I just saw the show in Montreal!” said a woman in white fur.
“Wonderful catalog! Wonderful!” said another.
“Times Crossword!” said a 340-lb. man, gurgling smoke from a pipe. He angled near Gramma. “1963 Series. Spiral bound. Yellow. Need it today!”
“Of course you do!” she replied, smiling and escorting him to the back.
A gaggle of rosy-faced teens, hired carolers, hovered outside, lurching loudly through O Tannenbaum.
More customers came in. The woman in white fur bought the Cezanne book and six bookmarks. The pipe-smoker bought three crossword books and special ordered three more. Two little girls fought to sit in the new chair in the children’s section. Three people actually tried to pay for catalogs. One woman tried to buy all of the shop’s Christmas cassettes. Things were hopping. They bought bookplates, holiday cards, cookbooks, and tote bags. They drank eggnog and stood outside, watching the carolers.
The elderly feminist poet came in, tearful.
“This catalog is so beautiful! And my picture! No one’s ever honored me like this. It’s the best gift I could have asked for!”
My mother cried and they hugged each other. Molly and I argued over who’s turn it was to mop.
The sun sank and the crowd thinned. The glow of a most successful day filled Mom. Just as she began peeking into the cashbox to see how well we’d really done, she noticed, in the doorway, a small, grinning man in tweed jacket and horn-rimmed glasses, looking wide-eyed into the shop as if seeing books for the first time. He had a look of utter, devilish excitement and breathed the entire place in, giddily. This was a man who was going to buy books. A lot of them. He flipped through the bookmarks, eagerly, laughing and making mental notes.
“Can I help you?” asked Mom.
“Oh no, no! I’m fine!” He said, disappearing into the cookbooks aisle.
Gramma moved to help him, but Mom grabbed her and redirected her towards an old teacher lost in Pet Rearing. Out of the corner of her eye, she followed the tweed man as he darted section to section, giggling and staring at titles, but never taking a single book off the shelf. What was he looking for?
Then all of a sudden, she heard a loud gasp! The Art Books! He’d found them. From the counter, Mom saw Art Book after Art Book disappear, slipping down into greedy, unseen hands.
“He’s taking the whole section,” she whispered to me, anxiously. “He’s taking my Art Books! We won’t have any left!”
She moved to help him, but teen carolers, worn and ruddy, blocked her way. She pulled out an envelope and handed it to them.
“Thank you so much,” she said, abruptly. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”
They nodded and left. Then, there before her was the little tweed man, empty-handed and eyes afire.
“You must be the owner,” he gulped, excitedly.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Of course, you are! You have quite a shop here! Quite a shop! And the catalog! It must’ve taken weeks to put together!”
“Oh . . . well . . .”
“Splendid work! Splendid! This shop has quite a unique point-of-view! You realize that? Quite the personal stamp!”
“Well, I—”
“Of course, you do! Of course, you do! Few stores have a true point-of-view! Most are just the faceless facades of the bled, barren spirits behind them. But this shop has character! Personality! This powerful little shop all alone in this desolate . . .” He recoiled, emotionally. “Simply marvelous.”
“Thank you,” said Mom, feeling flush. No one had ever spoken to her like this. She’d always thought of herself and her shop as poor, artsy outsiders. She watched as he paged through the catalog.
“Special orders! Out of print tomes! And you got her! Wonderful poet! Bravo!”
Mom leaned forward. She couldn’t take it, anymore.
“But . . . wouldn’t you like to—to buy something?!”
He looked at her, eyes twinkling.
“Oh yes,” he said.
A little while later, Dad entered, wrapped in a thick, wool sweater with boxes and bags under each arm. He stared at the crowd: Molly and Gramma bringing wrapped books to customers; women rushing in and out; one boy, teetering at the eggnog, refilling his sixth cup; and Mom, amid them, thrilled. She came over and embraced Dad. He smiled.
“I’ve got something for you,” he said.
In the back of the shop he withdrew an envelope and handed it to her. She opened it up and covered her mouth. It was the deed to the abandoned tchotchke store next door.
“I’ve just made a down payment,” he said. “Now, you can tear down the walls! Expand! Send catalogs all year long!”
She turned away. Tears ran down her face. From the desk, she pulled out another envelope and handed it to him. He withdrew the papers and stared at them, stunned.
“You . . . you sold the shop?”
She nodded, slowly.
“A man came in—and—and made me an offer. The store, books, everything. He had that same look I had, when we first bought it—that fire in his eyes, that vision. And he offered much more than it’s worth. I think.”
“But . . . you love this shop.”
She smiled.
“And now, someone else can try their luck.” She looked into his eyes. “Now we can invest in you.”
The last customer left. Mom locked the doors. It was dark and the Christmas tree and window lights—reds and greens and the Chanukah blues and whites shone brightly. Dad took the mop from me and went at it, himself. Gramma and Molly came out and we all stared at the tree and the window.
Outside, snow fell, and a train crossed the tracks, filling the air with its clackety-clackety-clack.
The Forrest Gump Question
HAL AND MARNIE, ON A BLIND DATE, MEET FOR THE first time over drinks at a restaurant.
MARNIE: Hal?
H
AL: Yes! You must be Marnie?
They sit, both enthusiastic.
MARNIE: So nice to meet you! To be honest, I was a little nervous.
HAL: Oh sure. Me, too.
MARNIE: This is your first time using the Love Always app?
HAL: Yeah. Using any app, actually. Yours?
MARNIE: Same! It’s a little weird.
HAL: Yes, it is.
MARNIE: This place is lovely.
HAL: Thanks. Thank you.
Long awkward pause.
MARNIE: Do you mind if I ask you a question?
HAL: Shoot.
MARNIE: Did you see Forrest Gump?
HAL: Oh. Uh—the movie?
MARNIE: Yes. I just saw it again last night for, like, the fifteenth time—
HAL: Uh huh.
MARNIE: Wasn’t it just the best movie? It’s so moving! Didn’t you love it?
HAL: Well—y’know—I can barely remember it. I saw it when it first came out.
MARNIE: You just—you just saw it the once?
HAL: Yeah. Anyway. (beat) So, why don’t we order? The brussel sprouts are so—
MARNIE: Sure. Sure. In a minute. But didn’t you love it? It was so . . . oh, I don’t know . . . special!
HAL: Uhm. You know, I’m really not much of a critic.
MARNIE: But you loved Forrest Gump?
HAL: I’m—I’m not even sure how to answer that.
MARNIE: Well, I’ll tell you what—I’ll just assume you did.
HAL: Okay.
MARNIE: Loved it! Loved it, loved it, loved it! Like I did.
Hal looks around, uncomfortably.
HAL: You know, I used to come here for the calamari. Remember it was pretty good, too!
She reaches out and takes his arm, imploringly.
MARNIE: But you know, I think I’d like to hear it from you. You know? It would mean so much more to me.
HAL: Say—you know what was good? Jaws. That was good! Remember that? Big shark? Scary!
MARNIE: Tell me you liked it.
HAL: Richard Dreyfus in an unforgettable role! And Robert Shaw as Quint! We’re gonna need a bigger boat!
MARNIE: Please tell me you liked it. Please. Please. Gump!
HAL: I always heard it was just a big puppet, you know? The shark?
MARNIE: Please tell me. Please tell me.
HAL: Not a—a real puppet, y’know. A—a—a mechanical puppet. I mean, not like a robot—don’t think they had those back then—
MARNIE: Tell me!
She gets up, anxiously—stands over him.
HAL: So, climate change seems like a real thing, huh?
She grabs the back of his shoulders and shakes him.
MARNIE: TELL ME!
(Beat)
He turns and looks at her matter-of-factly.
HAL: I hated it.
She lets go of him, and takes a step back, stunned. She plops back into her seat, confused, heartbroken. He stares at her.
HAL: Geeze . . . this always happens.
MARNIE: You didn’t like Forrest Gump?
HAL: Is that what I said?
MARNIE: I’m not sure.
HAL: No. No. I didn’t like Forrest Gump. I didn’t. And honestly, I don’t think it deserved the Oscar. (calling out) Check, please!
MARNIE: (despondent) I don’t know what to say.
Hal gets up, offers her his hand.
HAL: It was nice meeting you. I wish this didn’t change things. But—too late for that.
She looks away from his hand. He looks around for the waiter.
MARNIE: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m still processing—
She starts crying quietly to herself. No waiter comes. Hal sits back down, but not quite completely down.
HAL: Look, there are probably a lot of guys out there who liked it. I’m sure you’ll find one of them.
He does the “check, please” hand gesture in the air to someone offstage.
MARNIE: (mumbling) Ididn’teither.
HAL: Excuse me?
MARNIE: I said—I said—I—I didn’t like it, either.
HAL: (skeptical) Really?
She nods.
HAL: You’re sure? You’re not just saying that?
MARNIE: No. No! Well, parts of it. The ping-pong. But no—no— (shivers, confessing) I really didn’t like it.
HAL: Uh huh?
MARNIE: There’s always just been so much pressure to like it!
HAL: (compassionate) I hear you.
MARNIE: It’s always been so confusing.
HAL: It’s true.
She takes his hand.
MARNIE: Thank you, for being honest.
HAL: Of course.
MARNIE: Y’know, I sense that while I didn’t like it, you really didn’t like it.
He nods.
MARNIE: And I appreciate your candor!
HAL: Sure.
MARNIE: (pulling back) Look at me! Look at me! I’m so stupid. I’m so sorry.
HAL: It’s fine. It’s absolutely—
MARNIE: Could we just forget all this? Could we start over?
HAL: Sure.
MARNIE: Hal. Hal?
HAL: Hal.
MARNIE: Hal. You know, you’re so honest. I find that quite attractive.
HAL: (surprised) Really?
MARNIE: Yes. Yes, I do. (beat) May I ask you a personal question?
HAL: Of course.
MARNIE: Did you see Pretty Woman?
HAL: (calling out) Check, please!
Come Home Soon
OFTEN, I WAKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WITH TREMENDOUS ANXIETY. I FEEL LIKE THE FAMILY IS MUCH larger—there are more kids, and something is wrong. But who’s in charge? Where is the leader of the family? The parent? The father? Meaning my father—not me. But then I remember in a flash—I’m the senior person here—the Daddy. But I panic even more. Why? What’s wrong? Is everyone okay? And then I remember—it’s just us. Just me and Jake and Kit. (And my mom half the time.) And that’s it. Everyone’s fine. The anxiety passes. For a couple days, anyway.
The house is a mess. I try to keep it straight, but I’m fighting against my base instincts. I know I have to do laundry, give Kit baths. I know I could let my mom do it, but it’s not right. No, I just have to regimen myself. Do it. Must be what it’s like to be divorced—except I can’t date on the side. Not that I’d have the energy to.
Jake sits in his room, playing guitar, brooding. Do Not Disturb, Please.
“Did you write something for her again?”
“I’m sending her a disc.” He holds up a cd. “It’s just some stuff I did. It’s not so good. She’ll probably like it.”
Kit screams out in the middle of the night, hysterical.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
I get in bed with him. Guess I’m not the only one with anxiety.
“It’s okay. Shh. Shh.”
“Is Mommy home?”
“No, honey. Not yet.”
“When’s Mommy coming home?”
“In a few weeks. Maybe January.”
“She’ll be home at Christmas?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not her turn. They have to take turns and it’s someone else’s turn. They need her.”
He trembles and starts crying again.
“Shhh . . .”
I spend the rest of the night in his little bed, cramped against the wall. In the morning I plunk down Advil. I’ve been plunking down Advil day after day for the past six weeks. I’m sure I’m developing an ulcer.
Just a few more hours and we’re off to sunny, sunny Florida. We’re all packed. Just pick up the kids, get ’em on a plane. Then my folks can take over for a while. And I can sleep for days.
The next day at work. My phone vibrates in my pocket.
“Mom? I’m in a meeting. Can I call you—”
“What’s wrong?” asks Bruce, my boss, overhearing the conversation.
“My day care called her. Kit’s running a f
ever. Shit. Shit. She just got off the plane in Florida.”
I talk into the phone. “No—don’t come back. That’s crazy. We’ll be fine, Mom! Don’t be stupid! We’re fine! Look—I’ll get him! I’ll call you later.”
I hang up. Bruce looks at me hang dog, pityingly.
“I know your mom’s been staying with you.”
“We were all going down to their place in Boca Raton. She flew down this morning. The kids and I are flying down tonight. I gotta go, Bruce. I’m sorry.”
“Go! Go. Do whatever you have to, Mike.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No big deal!”
“I should just quit, Bruce. I just—it’s too crazy—I’m not getting anything done. I’m not being effective.”
“Mike. You’re doing fine. It’s the holidays. Don’t worry about it. Do what you need to do.”
In the car I checked in with day care. They’re giving him Advil. We’re all taking Advil. I call Nelson.
“What’s the update?”
“Mike! Hey. Good to hear from you!”
“What’ve you got?”
“Well, here’s the thing. There’s a group—a coalition of families—they started with a petition but they’re talking about a lawsuit against the military. Looks like we could get—I dunno—six—seven families involved.”
“Just six or seven? That’s it?!”
“That’s pretty good, Mike. Not everyone wants to make this as public as you do.”
“What if we go to the press?”
“Well, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it can work for you or it can work against you. And if it works against you—it can kill you.”
“What does that mean?”
“The last thing you want is for them to paint a picture of Maggie as someone who’s trying to get out of the system.”
Miserable Love Stories Page 8