Goodnight June: A Novel

by Sarah Jio

  The door jingles as I open it and make my way out to the street. Seagulls squawk overhead, as steam rises off the rooftops of the nearby buildings. The owner of the toy store across the street is just arriving. I see her holding a large bag in one hand and a box in the other. I smile politely, but she frowns and turns away from me, disappearing into the darkened store. That’s strange. Maybe she doesn’t remember me. Ruby used to let us cross the street to visit the toy store now and then. Amy was always more enamored with toys than I was, but I loved seeing how happy it made her to stare at the Barbie aisle, even if I had no interest in playing with the dolls.

  I try not to give much thought to the encounter as I bend my right leg into a stretch. The street looks the same, mostly, untouched by time. There’s the hardware store and a café, where the first customers are already sipping espresso. The toy store, of course. The stationery shop on the corner, where my sister and I would buy stickers with the coins Aunt Ruby gave us. But the Italian restaurant next door to Bluebird Books, that’s new.

  I eye the green awning painted with the name “Antonio’s.” I peer through the window at the little tables with checkered tablecloths and drippy wax candles in Chianti bottles inside, and I can almost detect the smell of garlic roasting in the kitchen.

  The sun’s taking its time rising, the way it always does in Seattle. It’s as if the entire city, solar system included, presses the snooze button. I blow warm air into my hands, and begin running. I turn down a side street that leads to the lake. Where I remember the bustle of people, bikes, dogs, and kids, there is only quiet. Just a handful of runners and I, plus the occasional bicyclist, round the curves of the 2.8-mile path.

  I finish one loop and stride into another. It feels good to breathe in the moist May air. Everywhere, flowers—daffodils, tulips, plants I don’t recognize or haven’t noticed before—are pushing up through the earth. A robin pecks at a twig on a park bench, and I smile, remembering the time my sister and I discovered a bird’s nest by the lake. We watched over the little nest with its four Tiffany-blue eggs until Mom drove by in some guy’s car and waved for us to get in the backseat. I tucked the nest into the crook of a tree branch and hoped for the best. We never did know if the birds survived; two weeks later, when Amy and I went to check on them, they were gone.

  I finish my second loop around the lake, then sit down on a bench in front of a boat launch, and I think about Amy. We haven’t talked in five years, not that I have anything to say to her. But I don’t like the ache I feel, even now, when I think of her. I hate that my heart has reserved space for someone who hurt me so badly.

  I look out at the lake ahead, where a man is stepping out of a kayak onto the dock. He secures it to a cleat, then pulls a black cover over the hull. He smiles in my direction, and I look away quickly. I stand and turn back to the path that leads to the street. I’m not in the mood for chitchat, but I hear his footsteps behind me, and when we’re both stopped at the crosswalk, he smiles again.

  “Nice day,” he says. He’s tall, with dark hair that looks a little wavy in the morning light. There’s the glistening of sweat at his temples. He’s wearing the uniform of Seattle guys—a wrinkled flannel shirt and a pair of khaki cargo shorts ruggedly frayed at the edges.

  “Yes,” I say curtly, trying to remember if men in Seattle are forward or just really friendly.

  We both cross the street toward Sunnyside Avenue, and he grins. “We must be going to the same place,” he says, pointing to Joe’s Café on the corner.

  “Guess so,” I say a bit guardedly.

  He holds the door open for me and I walk inside, inhaling the scent of coffee grounds and steamed milk.

  I order a double Americano and he asks for the same.

  “So,” he says, as I pour a generous amount of half-and-half into my cup. “I haven’t seen you around the lake before.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t live here. I’m just . . . visiting.”

  “Oh,” he says, extending his hand. “Then welcome. I’m Gavin.”

  “June,” I say, taking his hand. It’s warm and strong, steadying, somehow, and I catch myself holding it a moment longer than I should.

  “Well,” I say, looking at the door. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Wait,” he says, walking ahead with me. “Let me walk you . . . to where you’re going.”

  I smile and shrug. “I’m not going far.” I point to the bookstore. “My aunt passed away recently and she left it to me.”

  Gavin’s eyes widen in astonishment. “Bluebird Books?”

  I nod.

  “It’s just that . . . well, I didn’t realize Ruby had passed. Last I heard she was in a convalescent home. I’m . . . so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Well,” he continues, “she must have really thought a lot of you to leave you her store. It’s been open for something like fifty years, right?”

  “More,” I say. “The sixtieth anniversary is this fall, actually.” I’m conscious of the fact that if all goes as planned, I’ll have the place gutted and sold by then. I hate to think of it, but the only thing that makes financial sense these days is selling to a developer. They could turn the building into an eight-plex. I won’t tell him that now, of course. I won’t tell anyone right away. But I’m a realist, and I know I can’t keep the store. I need to stay focused. I can’t think of Aunt Ruby’s letter. I’ll approach this like any of the small businesses at work. In and out.

  “I own the Italian restaurant next door,” Gavin says. “Antonio’s.”

  “Oh wow,” I say.

  “We could cater an anniversary party for the store. I mean, if you’re interested.”

  I smile politely. I can’t tell if he’s fishing for business or just being nice. “I do love Italian food,” I say nervously. “But I’m not sure that . . . listen, there’s a lot of work to be done before . . .”

  “Well,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee, “you know where to find me if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” I say, turning back to the bookstore.

  I close the door behind me, and sink into one of the gray upholstered chairs by the windows, tucking my knees up to my chest the way I did as a girl. I look out into the store with its rows of bookshelves, and I see a page from my childhood.

  Aunt Ruby is there, her gray hair cut blunt at her shoulders, dark-rimmed glasses on her nose—beautiful in a literary sort of way. She’s trying to interest Amy in a book, with little luck. Amy is four, maybe five. She still has chubby cheeks and pigtails. She wears a dress with white cable-knit tights, with a hole in the right knee, and holds a Cabbage Patch doll with yellow yarn hair, grubby hands, and a smear of dirt on her cheek. Ruby opens a copy of Where the Wild Things Are, which I think is funny; Amy is a wild thing. She’s moody and throws tantrums. Mom’s afraid of her, I think. Because whenever Amy cries, Mom looks as if her world might end.

  Amy pushes the book away, and Ruby makes one more attempt to interest her in the opening pages, in which the little boy is a beast to his mother and he’s sent to bed without supper, which Amy should understand because we didn’t have supper last night. We were half-starved when Mom dropped us off at the bookstore this morning on her way to work. Ruby immediately fed us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and nothing ever tasted so good.

  “I’ll read it with you,” I say to Ruby after Amy runs off to the dollhouse. I nestle into the spot beside her and smile apologetically. “Amy doesn’t like books very much.”

  Ruby’s face is solemn as she opens the book again. “She will in time,” she says. “She must. For what is a life without stories?”

  I didn’t know what she meant then, not really. But I do now, and my heart sinks when I realize that I can’t remember the last book I read, the last time I sank into an imaginary world and got lost the way I used to love to do. Ruby would be horrified.

&nbs
p; I think about the letter she left me. She’d written of secrets. So I leave this beloved place to you, and with it, all of its secrets. And there are many, all here for you to discover.

  What secrets did Ruby want me to discover? And why?

  She revealed very little about her life and her personal thoughts. As far as I know, she never loved. And though she was beloved by many, she kept most at arm’s length. I look out at the store just as another lightbulb flickers and pops in the chandelier overhead.

  “Ruby, what do you want me to find?” I say into the dimly lit air.

  And then I remember her reference to Beatrix Potter. I wind down through the bookshelves, until I come to a shelf that contains several volumes of Potter. I pull out an old copy of The Tale of Peter Rabbit, and a yellowed envelope falls into my lap. It’s addressed to Ruby, and the return address reads simply, “MWB; 69 Bank Street, New York, NY.”

  Chapter 4

  I lift the flap of the envelope and pull out the pages inside, squinting at the handwriting:

  February 1, 1946

  My dearest Ruby,

  I miss you. Spring is coming, I can almost taste it. Seattle must be lovely now, with the crocuses just starting to push up from the cold earth. I saw a patch of them in the East Village yesterday, and though a bit trampled, I picked a bunch and found them a nice vase on my windowsill. They wilted by evening. It’s a shame they don’t keep, though the best things in life never do.

  I’m so glad we’ve stayed friends all these years. I suppose it was quite a coincidence that we ever became friends, really, you being my pupil in the creative writing class and all. My, were those old teachers at Dana Hall School stuffy or what? I never fit in. I don’t know what possessed me to think I’d try my hand at teaching. Probably Mother. Every practical thing I do is a result of something my mother said to me. But, my, if I hadn’t become acquainted with you, I think I might have died of boredom that year.

  Remember how we vowed that if we ever survived that year at Dana Hall (each of us in our own private torment: you with your studies and missing home; and me in my quest to establish myself as an adult and a professional) we’d take a steamship somewhere exotic like Madagascar (can one get to Madagascar via ship?)? Well, I think that is what I need. I think I need a change of scenery, something to spark my muse. New York is becoming quite the same to me, I’m afraid. Everybody’s so serious.

  Yes, I need a trip. If not Madagascar, maybe Seattle? Heavens, I’ve been talking about making a visit for years now. Maybe this summer?

  You’re more of a sister to me than mine will ever be. Roberta and I were always close as children, but in adulthood, the gap has widened between us. She chose a different life, of marriage and children and homemaking. And while I wouldn’t say she’s flaunting that life in my face, I do believe she’s disappointed that I didn’t choose the same path. Our interactions are strained. We don’t laugh together anymore. May I confess my deepest fear? I worry that she’s turning into my mother.

  Remind me, do you and your sister get along well? You haven’t mentioned her much in previous letters. Well, in the interest of sisterhood, I’ve invited Roberta to lunch next week. I’ll let you know how it goes. (She disapproves of spirits, so I’ll have to hide my liquor bottles in the cabinet before she arrives.)

  Now, to another subject. I shall be honest, and confess the dire condition that all writers loathe: I am stuck. Stuck in the worst way possible. Everywhere I turn, I’m looking for my next idea. Just when I think I’ve seen it as plain as day, it’s a naughty bunny that skips off around the next bend. And when I try to chase it, it can’t be caught. It’s sneaky and sly, and keeps me wanting.

  I seem to be at an odd place in my career. I have made a name for myself (or so one might say). I’ve published dozens of children’s books, with more in the pipeline, so you’d expect I’d feel fulfilled, wouldn’t you? Well, I don’t. I want to believe that my best work is ahead, and yet (here’s the problem), I don’t know if it is. What if it isn’t?

  I don’t mean to bore you with my writerly problems. I just appreciate being able to tell someone.

  I received a letter from my mother last week inquiring about my financial state. I expect she heard how I spent my most recent royalty check. I’ll admit, purchasing an entire flower cart in the East Village might not have been my wisest decision, by a long shot, but my, did the blooms make a grand scene for the party in my apartment that Saturday night. Oh, Ruby, you should have seen it: I lined the carpets with petals of white lilies and pink roses, then scattered orchids around every surface. At one point the sink was filled high with roses. Just imagine it!

  You only live once, I say.

  I have a new beau. He’s fine. Rich, and he looks nice in a tux, but I’ll be honest: I don’t think much of him. I look good on his arm, and he looks good on mine, but that’s the extent of it, I suppose.

  How is Anthony? If I ever write a novel, which I do hope to do someday, it shall be a story inspired by the two of you. So tragic, and so beautiful at the same time. Please tell me the latest, and I want every detail. I will devour them with my dinner and savor each word.

  Yours,

  Brownie

  I feel a swirling sensation in my stomach as I read the last words. Brownie. MWB. I run upstairs to the apartment and pull my laptop out of its case. I check the wireless connection, see a weak signal coming from “Antonio’s Restaurant Wireless,” and I decide that the guy I met this morning, Gavin, wouldn’t mind if I used it. It’s unsecured, and I’m able to pull up Google quickly. With the letter in my hand, I type in “MWB” and then “Brownie,” and then the address, “69 Bank Street,” and I gasp when I see the search results on the screen. It seems my Aunt Ruby was a personal friend of the late legendary children’s book author Margaret Wise Brown, who penned Goodnight Moon, The Runaway Bunny, and at least a hundred other titles. Ruby never mentioned her—but why? And why did she underline Beatrix Potter in her letter? To prime me for a literary scavenger hunt?

  I think fast, remembering the Easter egg hunts Ruby used to plan each year for my sister and me inside the store, with eggs hidden behind books and under shelves, each with a clue leading us to the next destination.

  Yes, she’s left me this letter, and perhaps more, for an important reason. I walk downstairs and begin to tuck the copy of Peter Rabbit back on the shelf, when I notice a gap in the pages. I pick up the book again, and see that I’ve missed a second letter tucked inside. This one, from Ruby to Margaret:

  February 8, 1946

  Dear Margaret,

  I can’t tell you how your letter cheered me. To know that I’m not the only one who sometimes feels like a square peg in a round hole, to know that you struggle, as I do, with the business of going about life, well, it made me love you all the more. If we cannot be our true selves among friends, how can we even know our own selves?

  Ah, yes, sisters. We have more in common than we even knew. My relationship with my sister, Lucille, is icy, at best. My parents only had enough funds to give one of us a college education, and they chose me. I’d always been a bookworm, and Lucille spent hours presiding over her dollhouse. In their mind, the choice was obvious: Send Ruby to school; keep Lucille home. She forgave my parents, of course, rest their souls, but she never forgave me. I can see the jilted look in her eye every time we see each other.

  Like your sister, mine has opted for the domestic life. She is married and keeps a perfect household. She takes joy in that life, and I am happy for her. I just wish she could be happy for me, for the life I have chosen. I feel I can never please her. She visited my apartment last week, and practically fainted when she found out I had no coffee or tea or anything to eat (I usually pick up a sandwich for dinner on my way home from work and eat it on the streetcar). She actually said my living situation was “primitive.” Primitive!

  Lucille gets under my skin, yes. But I try to reme
mber that we once shared a bond, and I pray that bond returns. Why must it be so hard with sisters? And why couldn’t you and I have been sisters? I’m confident we’d be free of all of this nonsense. Be sure to write and tell me how your luncheon with Roberta went, all right?

  You asked about Anthony, and I will tell you. He is well—divine, actually. It hardly seems possible that two months have passed since we met that day at Elliott Avenue Books. I know I wrote of our meeting briefly in my last letter, but I’ll tell you more now. Besides, it gives me quite a thrill to write about it.

  I was working in the children’s section, where I spend most of my time tending to the collection, which I always feel could be more expansive (but that’s for another letter), when Anthony and his daughter, May, walked in. I saw her first—wearing a smart pink wool coat and patent leather flats, hair styled in soft dark curls—and then my eyes lifted and met Anthony’s.

  I cannot explain it except to say, Brownie, it was as if the world stopped spinning the moment our eyes locked. And then his daughter spoke, and the world resumed motion.

  “Do you have The Poky Little Puppy?” she asked. I could tell by the way she spoke that she was used to being waited on, tended to.

  “Yes,” I said, taking her to the section where I’d just shelved a stack of new copies. I put one in her gloved hands. “Here you are.”

  “Father,” she said, turning to the man, “I’ll just go over and read it while you finish shopping.”

  “Yes, May,” he said, turning back to me.

  There we were, two strangers, surrounded by children’s books, unsure of where to begin.

  We both spoke at the same time.

  “I’m Anthony Magnuson,” he said.

  “I’m Ruby Crain.”

  I recognized his name at once. Everyone knows the Magnuson family in Seattle. They’re a wealthy clan of politicians, business owners, that sort. But he didn’t fit the mold. I knew just by looking at him that we were kindred spirits. We talked about all sorts of things, mostly about books (he loves reading), until May returned.