Best wishes,
Fawn Birchill, Owner, The Curious Cat Book Emporium
From: Mark Nilsen
Sent: Sat, Apr 13, 2019 at 2:41 PM
To: Fawn Birchill
Re: Author reading
Hi Fawn,
Sorry, I can’t share what I’m paying Ian to come and read. That said, it would be great to have you here. Perhaps you can meet him and do some networking of your own—that wouldn’t bother me in the slightest. And then next time around he might be interested in coming to your store instead?
Best,
Mark
P.S. Lately I’ve noticed a woman hanging around performing magic tricks outside your store. Is she one of your employees? If not, and if you do not wish her to be there, you have every right to ask her to move on.
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Sat, Apr 13, 2019 at 3:00 PM
To: Mark Nilsen
Re: Author reading
Dear Mark,
Thank you for inviting me to the reading, even though it is a public event and if I wanted to go I would simply show up. However, I believe you know me by now to be a staunch businesswoman who never goes halfway. Since you appear to be adamant in continuing your course with Mr. McEwan, I intend, as selfish as it sounds, to request that he visit my store as well (this time around, not some nebulous next time). I was simply asking the price so that I can offer him a competitive rate. And because you will not divulge this, I see that we cannot be colleagues with like-minded interests but that we must be alienated from each other—foes that, if seen within cannon range in the dead of night, may fire shots. This saddens me. Please know I will always be open to being friends and that it is your stubborn attitude that halts the progress of mutual amicability.
Yours in business,
Fawn Birchill, Owner, The Curious Cat Book Emporium
P.S. The magician you speak of is named Rainbow, and she is one of my tenants. Even though things are rocky between you and me, you should feel free to say hello, as she is a lovely person of many talents! Oh, and she has corrected me many times, so I feel the need to pay in kind. She calls them illusions, not tricks.
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Sat, Apr 13, 2019 at 6:40 PM
To: Ian McEwan
Subject: A visit to my humble store?
Dear Mr. McEwan,
First let me start out by stating that you are an incredible author and no doubt extremely busy with all the obligations that come with constant success, that is, book tours, interviews, seminars—oh, and writing! But please take a moment and consider this thought. I own one of the most unquestionably successful used bookstores in Philadelphia. People come from everywhere to peruse my tomes, so it is with great humbleness that I implore you to deviate only slightly from your book tour route and pay a visit (and perhaps sign a few books) at my shop. I learned about your trip as I was passing by the Grumpy Mug Bookstop down the block from my shop, and was thrilled—and I daresay a little hopeful—that you would be gracing our sidewalks.
May I ask: Are you being paid for the tour? I imagine so. And if you are used to expecting a stipend for your time, I only find it suitable to treat you as the Grumpy Mug would, if not a little better, as we are a small and personable store and not a business that is all about the bottom line. Would one hundred dollars be fair? You may scoff at first, but please remember that the pleasure may very well be all yours. You will be treated like a king and will have very little to do except to run your pen over a few of my used books (I of course cannot promise that these books will be yours). Think on it, and let me know before your tour!
It must be so perpetually romantic to be from England. I believe it is the same for those from the Mediterranean or Switzerland—such beautiful landscapes! I have never been to England, but just like you, my family’s heritage is British. It is my goal to one day see London. Did you know I have never been out of the country? My parents never took us on trips besides horrible camping excursions in Pennsylvania where at least one of us would end up getting bit by something or burning ourselves in the campfire. We have never been a graceful family. I always thought the nicest part about the camping trips was packing up and leaving. I found great joy in pulling the tent from its place, seeing the squashed leaves and writhing worms underneath. It was the one shred of proof of what I had endured over a weekend, besides the smoke inhalation and spider bites. However, I had always wanted to do more to leave my mark on that most terrible place. It didn’t seem enough to merely leave a burned circle of char and a few squashed worms. When I was thirteen, I actually considered trying to light that camping spot on fire, but I came to my senses when I realized that my father would just have us camp somewhere else. There are a lot of woods in Pennsylvania. In fact, the name of our state literally means “Penn’s woods.” Did you know that?? Here I am, going on. Long story short, despite my lack of worldly experience, I believe you will find me to be quite worldly and intelligent, and I think we will get on very well.
Do consider, and let me know as soon as possible!
Many thanks,
Fawn, Owner, The Curious Cat Book Emporium
April 13, 2019
In an interesting turn of events, my mother showed up out of the blue. Apparently she is “worried” about me. Unfortunately I answered the door in my bathrobe at about 3 p.m. with my hair in a horrible state, empty wine bottles everywhere, and my breath smelling as stale as old fish left out in the sun. My immediate reaction—a terrible one in hindsight—was shutting the door in her face. I shouted my apologies, threw on some clothing, pulled back my hair in its usual noble bun, and hastily chewed on some Tic Tacs (I must have looked like a rabid squirrel to the nosy neighbor across the way). I may not have been a new woman, but it was close enough. (Thankfully Rainbow was out performing in Clark Park and missed this display.)
As usual, my mother didn’t say much, and also as usual, I caught myself taking on bits of Florence’s flighty and bright personality just to survive the two hours she occupied my home. She sat at my kitchen table while I heated up some old V8 soup and asked me if I had been keeping a journal—and of course I said I wasn’t. She told me about Florence and Joseph and how they are going through marriage counseling—something that I wasn’t made aware of in her emails but wasn’t surprised to hear in the least. I told her about Butterscotch. As usual she sat on the subject for literally two seconds, offering her tepid condolences, and moved swiftly on to Father. Apparently for Christmas one of the nurses gave him a Pendleton blanket, and it’s all he talks about. Mother says he will call her and tell her every time, as if it’s the first time, that he’s been given a Pendleton blanket. “Guess what I got this morning!” he’ll say. And then he goes on to tell her the different colors, often repeating them as such: “Blue, red, orange, brown, brown, red, green, blue . . .” and so on. And apparently—an unthinkable thought to Mother—he takes it to the bathroom with him (on good days when he can get to the bathroom). All this was supposed to lure me to him. Sometimes I do envy him. It must be exciting to wake up each morning to see, as if for the first time, the gift of a new blanket draped across one’s body, and be as excited as if it were a stack of money. How nice would it have been if, in his youth, Father were even a little like the way he seems to be these days. I always find it rather interesting how people generally grow nicer as they age, as if they’ve wised-up to the idea that if they are not nice, they will be abandoned with no one to care for them. When I see a friendly elderly person, I can’t help but wonder about the ulterior motives behind their “angelic” smiles.
Shortly after we finished the V8 soup, Mother wrote me a check for fifty dollars that I, with burning shame, gratefully accepted. It is good timing, as I didn’t have the funds to pay my electric bill, despite Rainbow’s monthly contributions. City living is ruthlessly expensive; it is either pay Angela or have light, and I for one can’t spare Angela.
Mercifully, Mother left because it was getting dark and she does
n’t like driving at night. After she left, I could smell her familiar Elizabeth Taylor perfume that she’s worn for as long as I can remember, and the longing to be a child again—to do it all over—overwhelmed me so much that I crumpled to the floor and cried for what felt like hours. These days I would give anything to feel my father’s strong hands around my ankles pulling me from my bed, his face a shade of crimson, his lips mangled up in a sneer of rage. There were so many possibilities back then, so many directions to go, even if at that particular moment, the only direction was straight into town to open his store. It’s funny, but with all that Father faced in his life, he never gave up. He never let anything keep him from opening his store and showing his large red face to everyone that walked in. And thanks to him, I had someone to pull me out of bed for so long that I never quite got the hang of doing it by myself.
I checked on Jane after my mother left and ended up sitting on the floor by her feet watching one of her awful shows while she hummed and patted me on the head. We didn’t talk, but despite the Jesus stuff she watches, I think we might have been friends if we had met when she was younger. When I started to cry about Butterscotch, she just kept humming and patting me. I can’t explain why, but it was probably the kindest thing that anyone has done for me in a very long time. Rainbow has been a wonderfully uplifting presence, but I think I am not yet healed from the loss of Butterscotch, as all it took was a kind gesture from Jane to bring me to tears. Grief sneaks up like a wave, and most of the time when it catches me, my back is turned.
The new cat comes tomorrow. I am determined not to get too attached.
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Sun, Apr 14, 2019 at 12:13 AM
To: Angela Washington
Subject: Volume
Dear Angela,
I was looking over the log from Friday, and I have a question. When you say that three customers came in that day and only one purchased a book, do you count the people that looked in the windows? Perhaps that may count for something. Did this person buy an expensive book? Furthermore, there have never been as few as three customers in my store in one day. Are you sure you counted correctly?
Fawn, Owner
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Sun, Apr 14, 2019 at 1:12 PM
To: Angela Washington
Subject: Betrayal
Dear Angela,
Yesterday I walked by the Grumpy Mug to see what kind of customer volume they had (surely it would be similar, as we are practically the same store), and not only did I see it packed, but I caught a glimpse of Kyle inside, helping someone find something. Did you know he worked there? Is that why you have been sneaking over? Have you given them your résumé, and should I, in anticipation, just let you go as well? Little did I know this store would not only take my customers but also my employees—I should have had you all sign a noncompete! I should have never let Kyle go over and look for Butterscotch. This, I fear, is how I began to lose him. But go ahead and work for those hippies if that is what you want to do with your life. Just give me enough notice to find your replacement.
Best,
Fawn, Owner
April 14
Dear Rainbow,
Due to Angela’s recent dismissal, I am in need of help around the store. You are the first person I thought of, out of all the people I know, who might be perfect for such a role. Please let me know as soon as you can, as I do need to fill the position soon.
Many thanks,
Fawn, Landlord
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From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Tue, Apr 16, 2019 at 1:03 AM
To: Hank Turo
Subject: Wonderful Cat
Hank,
I wanted to write to say thank you for the lovey cat. I have named him and he is doing well in his new suuroundings. It was more than a pleasure meeting you and it was nice meeting your wife.
If you are ever in West Philadelphia, please stop by and visit us! Of course you may bring your wife but it is not necessary, as I daresay I felt less of a connection to her than I did with you. Many women threatened by other women who are strong an business savvy and so I understand where she is coming from if this is the case for her and it seems to be)!
Sincerely,
Fawn
From: Hank Turo
Sent: Tue, Apr 16, 2019 at 9:17 AM
To: Fawn Birchill
Re: Wonderful Cat
Please stop emailing me. Our transaction is over. Also, I don’t let anyone insult my wife, mostly for their safety, not for the sake of her feelings. She is a decorated marine veteran, and she doesn’t take insults lying down.
Hank
From: Fawn Birchill
Sent: Tue, Apr 16, 2019 at 10:08 AM
To: Hank Turo
Re: Wonderful Cat
Hank,
I apologize; I was inebriated when I wrote that email. You seem to be the newest victim of my late-night drunken correspondences (my mother being the oldest and most seasoned), and for that I greatly apologize. My father did a similar thing when I was growing up. He would nurse a bottle of gin and write letters to his dead relatives whom he hated and then burn them. Clearly he had some issues! I am merely mourning for a lost loved one.
I never meant to insult your wife. I am beyond impressed that she is a veteran. Truly, a strong woman indeed. How wrong I was!
That said, I will respect your wishes and stop emailing you.
Just wanted to say thank you for the new cat.
Sincerely,
Fawn
April 20, 2019
Rainbow has politely declined the offer of being my number two in the store, so I’m currently busy fielding applications. She cited that, though flattered, she does not wish to embark on anything that could get in the way of her passions. In the end, I think it’s for the best that I did not hire her for the job. I can’t put my finger on why, but there’s something about her that doesn’t exactly exude responsibility.
So with no replacement at the moment and with Angela gone, the ticking of the clock in this vast, empty space has grown louder and reverberates through my skull. I am going to try hard not to let this happen, but I think I may have to raise the rent on Jane. I hope she won’t leave because of it. It seems as if Jane’s daughter will pay anything to avoid seeing her. Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll just pay the extra money so I can keep Jane on. Honestly, I don’t know what that woman has against her mother or why she’s exiled her to a small apartment in Philadelphia. If she was a terrible mother in her younger years, she has certainly calmed down by now. It’s funny how people have such trouble letting things go.
Angela was right. Being downstairs in that drafty store for the entire day, I can see how the customer volume has dropped. I get overwhelmed now when there are two customers inside. I am worried they are a team and one is set to distract me while the other makes off with a book—a racket I wouldn’t put past the rather resourceful UPenn student body. They are all so smart and appear to be quite innocent—a perfect guise for thievery.
Yesterday I organized the Mark Twain Ro
om and found a dead pigeon under the pile of books. The room didn’t even seem to smell funny because of it, which gives me the impression that the whole place has a smell to which I have grown immune. I called Rainbow down to give me her thoughts, but she explained that she only smells auras, so she wasn’t much help in that regard. To mitigate the possible odor, I opened the windows and put on the industrial fans. The sound is awful but at least it drowns out the ticking clock. It is so loud lately! As if someone slipped a megaphone behind the mechanism just to drive me insane.
After the store closed today, I cleaned Jane’s bathroom because it desperately needed it. It’s really my bathroom if you want to get technical, so it wasn’t as though I was doing her an enormous favor, but she really seemed to appreciate it. It was a nice change after yesterday when I did practically nothing all day but come across a dead pigeon.
I have given the new cat an atrocious name and have decided that his sole purpose is to eradicate the mice from the building. If he remains utilitarian and practical, then when he eventually passes on I won’t be so distraught. That said, my plans to keep an emotional distance from this cat might prove difficult, evidenced by the events of Bert’s introduction to Jellybean. Rainbow, rightfully so, was cautious to put them together, but perhaps she saw something in Bert that I failed to notice right away. She released Jellybean onto the floor, and for a moment the little thing froze as if dropped from a helicopter into a lion’s den before dinnertime. And then Bert, who is three times the size of Jellybean, took two steps toward her, yawned, and flopped down as if to offer himself for belly pets. Jellybean then sniffed his front paw and hopped away. But I will not get attached to him. I will not.
Confessions of a Curious Bookseller Page 21