The Bookshop on Autumn Lane

by Cynthia Tennent

  “It’s my thing. I don’t like to see animals harmed in any way. I have concerns about their treatment and living conditions. Oatmeal is filling, so I’m good.”

  The small man decided to keep up the comedy skit. “Those oats are rolled and tortured before they get in your bowl.”

  “Stuff it, Vance!”

  “What? Oats are alive. Besides, who orders oatmeal at a diner?” he muttered.

  “My customer comes first and I won’t have you treating anybody with disrespect.” The cook picked up a coffeepot and grabbed a Styrofoam cup.

  “Jeez, Mac, ever since his lordship came to town, everyone’s been all about manners and respect.”

  A woman with startlingly bleached short hair walked in from a back room with a young girl in hand. “Vance, Murdock. I didn’t realize the garage was closed for the day?”

  “Now Corinne, we’re only having fun.”

  “Fun, my—” She looked down at the girl and bit the top of her lip.

  “Hi, Uncle Murdock.” The girl said it so sadly it made the men at the booth frown.

  “Hi, peanut.” He sent a questioning look at the older woman.

  The girl had the beautiful wide-set brown eyes and perfectly shaped round face that accompanied Down syndrome. Wet tears rimmed her eyes and she was hiccupping as if she were still recovering from a long cry.

  The man called Murdock cleared his throat. “No disrespect intended to the lady, Corinne. We’re just funnin’ with her.”

  “No problem, I’m used to it,” I said.

  The woman led the little girl to a booth. As they passed me I smiled. The girl stared at me and I caught the hint of interest on her face.

  “Here’s a crayon and some papers to draw with.” She was briefly distracted as the woman helped her draw shapes.

  “The school ended up sending her home again?” Mac asked as he placed the coffee in front of me.

  “That P.E. teacher made her sit in the corner of the gym during relay races. She was still crying when I got there.”

  I sipped the coffee, remembering times when I had suffered a similar fate in school. It was horrible when you wanted nothing more than to be included. Classmates were very perceptive. They figured if an adult could exclude a kid from the class so easily, they could too. The teacher decided you didn’t belong in gym, spelling, or social studies, and the kids made sure you didn’t belong at their lunch table, recess, or anywhere else.

  Mac placed a bowl and spoon in front of me. He nodded toward the sidewalk. “I assume your friend isn’t vegan.” Then he put a plastic bowl with several pieces of chicken in front of me. “Bring the dish back when you’re finished.”

  “Thank you.” How did he know? I looked down at the bowl and felt my mood lift like the girl’s with her crayons and paper. Sometimes it was the little things that made life better. I wanted to say more, but he was already back at the stove.

  When I exited the diner, the dog stood up and wagged his tail. He circled me as if I were a GI returning from an overseas post. “I’ve only been gone a few minutes, take it easy.” He was a neurotic mutt. I never knew if it was his fear of hunger or of being alone that made him act that way.

  I settled on the curb next to him and we ate in companionable silence. When he finished, in something like thirty seconds after he started, the dog burped and lay down next to me. “I don’t know why I put up with a carnivore canine like you.”

  “What’s his name?” I looked up. The little girl stood next to me.

  She was one of the few people who had gotten his gender correct.

  “I don’t know.” I looked back inside the diner to make sure someone knew she was with me. The older woman stood behind the glass door and watched us.

  “You don’t know his name?” A shy smile was washing away her tear-stained face.

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  She shook her head. “Everyone has a name.”

  “What’s yours?”

  She looked back at the door, making sure it was okay to keep talking to me. The woman nodded at us. I was amazed by the trust the lady put in a virtual stranger like me. But then again, this town was so small, they probably didn’t understand the stranger danger that city-wise folks worried about.

  “My name is Jenny.”

  “I’m Trudy.” I held out my hand and she shook it with a grin and giggled.

  Then her attention was back on the old collie. She crouched down and smiled at him. He wagged his tail. He was a ham. He loved attention.

  “He needs a name . . .”

  “He isn’t my dog. So it doesn’t seem right for me to name him.”

  “Who’s is he?”

  “Nobody’s. He’s still trying to find a home.”

  “He doesn’t have a family?” Her smile disappeared.

  “He belonged to someone I knew, but that man didn’t seem to want him.” The backstory on that was not kid-friendly.

  I had just returned to Oakland after working as a roadie with a post-psychedelic surf-rock band when the package from Aunt Gertrude’s lawyer caught up with me. I decided to stay with an old friend until I could get Lulu out of storage and hit the road for Truhart. I had forgotten about my friend’s ugly love affair with tequila. That night, I lay on his couch listening to the rain beating on the roof, and counting the minutes until morning. When I heard a series of whimpers from outside, I went to investigate. I discovered the old collie tied to a shed, his fur so wet and muddy that I couldn’t tell for sure if he was even a dog. He wouldn’t come near me, even when I enticed him with a soggy piece of bread. I kept trying different foods until he couldn’t resist the bologna. I cut the rope and loaded him in Lulu.

  It took me a week to untangle his matted fur and even longer to get a little meat on his bones. But only a day to win his trust and friendship.

  “Do you want to pet him?”

  Jenny nodded. I reached for her short fingers and held her hands until she relaxed. Then I placed her hand on the dog’s back and let her bury her fingers in his fur. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened as she clenched and unclenched her fist. The dog turned his head and nudged her hand with his nose. She fluttered her lashes and stiffened.

  “It’s okay. He’s a good boy. He won’t hurt you.”

  Then he licked her wrist. She laughed and pulled her hand away. It took several more tries to reassure her that the dog wouldn’t do anything more than lick her hand. Jenny reached out her hand. The dog extended his neck until his nose was in her palm. He licked her fingers.

  She looked me squarely in the eye. “He needs a name.”

  Her simple words held such conviction that I felt like I was in the presence of a philosopher. There was no way I could let her down. “I guess we can give him a temporary name until his family decides.”

  Jenny clapped her hands together. “Yay!”

  We stared at the old boy, trying to figure it out. He lifted his head and posed with his ears up. A natural-born charmer.

  “He doesn’t look like a ‘Spot’ or ‘Rover’ does he?”

  She shook her head. “Where is he from?”

  “He came from a place called Oakland. We could name him Oakey. But I don’t think he wants to remember that place. Do you have any ideas?”

  She ran her tongue around her lower lip as she tried to think of a name. “I don’t know.”

  “Hmm. He came to live with me the same day I received a package in the mail. A letter and a book.” I don’t know why I still had that book. Something about it being the last thing Aunt Gertrude ever saw kept me from tossing it.

  “What was the book called?”

  She was on to something, this very special girl. “Moby-Dick. I never read it. But I know the story. It’s about a whale and a ship. I don’t like the men in the book much. But I like the whale.”

  “What was the whale called?”

  “He had the same name as the book. Moby Dick.”

  She giggled at that.

  “How about jus
t Moby? That’s not a bad name, is it?” I asked.

  That seemed to please her. She put her hands above his back, not quite touching. “Moby.”

  And like that, he was christened. I went back to my breakfast and by the time I finished my oatmeal, Jenny was sitting on the curb next to me, her hands stroking the dog’s back.

  “You can pet Moby whenever you see us together. I’m going to be living over there for a while.” I pointed down the street.

  “Yay!” She wrapped her hands around the dog’s neck. Not many dogs would put up with having their neck squeezed. But this guy didn’t have a mean bone in his body.

  “Careful, Jenny!” The waitress came up behind me.

  At first the stark difference between the woman’s bleached-out hair and her dark eyebrows struck me as odd. When she smiled a little line above her lip appeared and her eyes warmed up. “I’m Corinne Scott. And it looks like you met my granddaughter, Jenny.”

  “I’m Trudy Brown.”

  “Why does that name sound familiar?” she asked, taking the empty bowl from my hands.

  “I was named after my dad’s aunt, Gertrude Brown.”

  “You’re the niece?” She looked me up and down. Her eyes darted to Jenny and she chewed her lip. Was she concerned about me being around her granddaughter? My reputation preceded me. The entire town probably knew about my crazy habits and inferior mind. Even from the grave, Aunt Gertrude had ways of making me miserable.

  It was time I got back to clearing out the store. “It was a great breakfast.”

  But Corinne wasn’t listening. A small crowd had formed across the street. A dozen ladies stood in a circle. There was no mistaking the feminine twitters that reached my ears. I had been around actors and bands long enough to recognize the sound. It could only be made by women under the command of a powerful master. The sunlight reflected off his gilded head in the center of the gaggle. When he was in the store going loony over books, I had never considered him a chick magnet. Evidently, there was more to Kit Darlington than I originally thought.

  He said something and bursts of high-pitched laughter followed. In the military they called it rapid dominance. This was shock and awe of a different sort. Should the military ever need to take over a female nation, he would make a great general. He saw us standing across from him and waved. I saluted.

  Corinne stared at the group with a faraway smile on her pencil-lined lips. The bowl tipped in her hands and I reached out to steady her grip. “Are you okay?”

  She looked down at me for a split second and shoved the plates in my hand. “Jenny, go back to your crayons. And Trudy, thanks for taking the dishes in.” Then she walked across the street to join the women.

  I stood with my mouth open, trying to understand. The cook appeared at my side. He took the bowls from me and shrugged. “It happens all the time since he came to town.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “I’m Mac, by the way.”

  “Mac?” I tried to hide my amusement.

  “I know, go ahead and laugh. A bald guy named Mac who is the cook at the diner. It’s a big cliché.” He leaned down until he was closer to my ear. “Actually, my name is Ambrose. Ambrose McAllister. But everyone started calling me Mac when I moved here.”

  “I’m Trudy Brown, Ambrose.”

  “No. Call me Mac like everyone else. Otherwise, they might confuse me with a fancy pants like that guy.”

  “Okay, Mac.” I clutched my army sack purse. “I still have to pay—”

  He stepped back. “This one’s on me. That smile on Jenny’s face is worth a bowl of oatmeal.”

  “Thanks. That’s not necessary, though. She brightened my own day.”

  “I’m also offering a shameful bribe, Trudy Brown. I would love to hear more about what it means to be vegan.”

  “Only if you can explain that phenomenon,” I said, referring to Kit and the ladies.

  “His lordship.”

  “What?”

  Jenny raised her finger and pointed toward the throng. “His lordship.”

  I let the words sink in. Was Kit some kind of crazy English lord with the power to hypnotize anyone with a hint of estrogen? Jenny appeared unfazed. I’d like to say I was too. But my skin still tingled at the memory of his gaze on my towel-clad body.

  I put a hand on Jenny’s shoulder. “How about we get you back inside. I believe your crayons await, fair princess.”

  She seemed to consider that. Then she put her hand in my grip and let me see a gummy smile.

  * * *

  Something woke me. The nightmare again. The one where every day was the first day of school. Where every classroom was brimming with smart kids who never made mistakes. The one in which the teacher called on me to read aloud over and over and over.

  A clattering noise sounded from outside. I tore off my night mask and sat up, drenched in sweat. A cold, wet nose found my hand and the dog, Moby, crawled toward me from the foot of the bed. Whether he was comforting me or I was comforting him wasn’t clear.

  The noise was probably a book falling from its perch. Or the loose shutter I noticed yesterday. I waited for the sound again, but there was nothing.

  I left the bed and went to the window to see if anyone was outside. The street was dark and empty. Flipping the switch at the stairway, I called, “Hello?”

  Only books.

  When I returned to the bed I willed myself to banish the old dream back to my subconscious. The problem was, the old dream wasn’t far from the reality that had been my school experience. My teachers never spent much time worrying about a girl with poor reading skills. It was easier for them to blame my problem on the revolving door of army-base schools I had attended rather than the expense of getting tested for a diagnosis of dyslexia.

  If a class involved reading out loud, I would fake a sudden bout of nausea and head to the clinic. When I was older, I learned to skip the class. Getting detention for missing school didn’t matter when I was already flunking out.

  Meeting Jenny today must have stirred up those old memories.

  If I lay very still and focused on my breathing I could relax. I felt Moby’s chin on my leg. He seemed to be waiting for me to settle down. Even so, it took me a long time to get back to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, I crouched by the front door and poured Coca-Cola over a rusted hinge. I found the can in the toilet tank, where I’d hidden it from Aunt Gertrude all those years ago. I couldn’t stop smiling about it. Neither she nor any plumber had ever discovered it nestled between the float and the overflow tube, like a stowaway in the brig of an old ship.

  The liquid coated the hardware, and I marveled at the power of cola to rid surfaces of rust. Satisfaction ran through me as I scrubbed the hinge with one of Aunt Gertrude’s toothbrushes and watched it slowly eat away the corrosive buildup. With a little elbow grease, the gleam of metal appeared and years of grime and oxidation were washed away. My guess was the hardware on the door hadn’t been seen to since before soldiers stormed the beach at Normandy. Raising myself to the tiptoes of my vintage army boots that could have been in the same battle, I drizzled more on the top hinge. The movement dislodged the old San Diego Padres cap that kept my hair in place. I ignored it and scrubbed. Several strands of red curls caught the breeze and whipped me in the face. I scrunched up my lips and tried to blow them away from the side of my mouth.

  Leo used to call me spaghetti-head when we were little. It turned out to be one of the kinder nicknames for me. My classmates had other words. Agent orange, blood-sucker-head, and red devil were some of the worst. By the time I was twelve, the teasing bothered me so much that one morning before school, I cut off all my hair. When I stared at myself in the mirror, even I knew it looked horrible. When my mother saw me, she burst into tears. I ran to her and buried my face in her stomach, apologizing over and over. I don’t know which one of us was more upset. Mom let me stay home from school that day. We visited the beauty shop and the poor beautici
an did what she could to clean up my hack job. Mom and I played dress-up the rest of the day. It was one of my last good memories of her. The following year, my brother and I were dumped on Aunt Gertrude. By then my hair had grown to my shoulders. Ever the diplomatic one, Aunt Gertrude had taken one look at me and declared that it reminded her of the copper pads people used to clean their pans. Being called names wasn’t even a blip on my radar of worries by that time.

  I finished scouring the hinge and reached down to retrieve the cap.

  A pair of perfectly polished European leather shoes came into view.

  “Does the door always like drinking Coca-Cola in the morning?” Kit Darlington leaned against the side of the building holding a Styrofoam cup and a bag.

  I set the can on the ground. “It gets rid of rust and creaking. See.” I pushed the door and it opened without a sound. I had rolled out of bed an hour earlier, still trying to adjust to waking up just short of noon. I wished I had pulled on something other than my worn Earth Day T-shirt and my hole-riddled jeans this morning. He looked like he had just stepped out of an Aston Martin.

  “Interesting. Here’s a better substitution for Coca-Cola in the morning.” He handed me a cup of coffee.

  “You’re a lifesaver. I haven’t had my morning fix yet. Thank you.”

  “Mac says hello.” I nodded. I had popped in the diner after dinner last night and shared some of my vegan wisdom with him.

  “Oh, this smells wonderful. Do you want to come inside, so I can sit on my tuffet to enjoy this?”

  “Your what?”

  “Books.” I held up my hand. “After you.”

  Moby rose from where he’d been laying in a stripe of sunshine inside the door. Kit patted him on the head and fished out a couple of sausages from the bag. “Here you go, boy. This is for you from Mac.”

  “You’ve got a friend for life, now.” There was no room to go deeper into the store, so we stood in the small space by the front windows.

  Kit straightened a stack of books until they formed a chair and brushed off the top tome. “Here’s your settee.”