by Amy Meyerson
Morning was quieter than the afternoon. At nine, a handful of committed writers worked in the café. A modest crowd waited for their morning coffee as Charlie, the third member of the Prospero clan, frothed milk and ground beans.
Charlie was in his early twenties and had the Big Friendly Giant tattooed on his left forearm, a Wild Thing on his right deltoid. He sat in the chair beside me and rolled up his pant leg, exposing the freckled skin of his pale calf.
“I’m thinking of getting Willy Wonka here. Or maybe the giving tree, I’m not sure,” he said.
“Billy gave me The Giving Tree when I started kindergarten,” I remembered. The week before school, Billy had to go to Northern California, where a small earthquake had rattled the Santa Cruz Mountains. Billy knew I was nervous. A new school. New kids whom I imagined were already friends. He was sorry he couldn’t be there. He’d bought me The Giving Tree perhaps to teach me about friendship or to assure me that whatever happened at school, he would be my giving tree.
“Billy used to love reading to kids,” Charlie said, unfolding his jean leg.
“Did he ever read them Alice in Wonderland?” I asked.
“He had an old copy that he would creak open, and it was like all the kids in the neighborhood had a sixth sense and would come running.” I found the copy in my bag and handed it to him. “That’s it,” he confirmed, the lightness fading from his face as he stared into the hardback’s fiery red.
“Have you been working here a long time?” I put the book back in my bag.
“Three years. Never thought I’d stay this long, but that’s all our stories.”
“What made you stay?”
Charlie shifted in his chair, getting comfortable. “Back then I was reading Ken Kesey, Henry Miller, that sort of thing. One day, Billy took A Clockwork Orange out of my hand, put Charlie and the Chocolate Factory there instead. I’d seen the movie, but I’d never read the book. I’d forgotten how disturbing it was. It was dark, but it wasn’t angry. Billy always knew what book you needed. He had this power, like he was some sort of book doctor—like books were a remedy.”
“Or like they were magic,” I said, and Charlie winked, getting up to help a teenager waiting at the counter.
I sat at the back table, watching the store’s morning routines. Ray the screenwriter worked at the table beside mine. I waved hello.
“Miranda, right?” he said, removing his headphones. I nodded as though remembering my name was some noble task. “Do you live in the neighborhood?”
“Philadelphia actually. I’m only here for a few weeks.”
“Guess that’s why we’ve never seen you before.”
“Have you been coming here for a long time?”
“Every day for the last four years. I’m sorry about Billy. He was one of the good ones. He introduced me to my manager, Jordan. If it wasn’t for Billy, I wouldn’t have my career.”
I scanned the other tables where customers worked, wondering how Billy had changed their lives, if they remembered the Billy that Charlie and Ray the screenwriter remembered, the Billy who, through small acts of kindness, made their lives a little more complete.
My phone chimed with an alert of a new email. Dr. Nazario indeed read his email and I was in luck. He had a cancellation. Could I stop by that afternoon? I wrote back a quick Yes! and headed out. It wasn’t until I was in standstill traffic on Beverly Boulevard that I realized I hadn’t even said hello to Malcolm.
* * *
Dr. Nazario was tall with a square jaw, chiseled like it would hurt if you kissed him. He looked like a doctor on television, not one who had actually passed his medical exams, but this was LA. Most people looked like the celebrity versions of themselves. Even Malcolm with his bright eyes and pronounced cheekbones was more attractive than the disheveled bookstore manager I’d expected.
The walls of Dr. Nazario’s office were lined in framed diplomas and certificates of accreditations. I sat in one of two chairs across from Dr. Nazario’s desk. He reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a letter. “Billy left me permission to share his medical history with you.”
The note had been notarized by Elijah a year before Billy died.
Dr. Nazario held a plastic heart and opened it. “Aortic stenosis is an abnormal narrowing of the aortic valve. When the valve narrows to the degree that it blocks the flow of blood from the left ventricle to the arteries, it can cause a variety of heart diseases. There’s a range of valve replacement surgeries, but Billy didn’t come to see me until he already had severe chest pains. By then, treatment was too risky. We gave him some diuretics to reduce the lung pressure and monitored him closely after that. Given the considerable narrowing, Billy was lucky to live with his condition for two years.” I studied the textured peach insides of Dr. Nazario’s plastic heart until he closed it. He riffled through Billy’s folder and handed me an envelope. “He asked me to give this to you.”
He stood, motioning me out.
“Why would a healthy person who wasn’t epileptic have seizures?” I asked as I followed him down the hall, Billy’s clue still unopened in my hand.
“Have you seized?”
“No, Billy’s wife. She died of a massive seizure. I’m curious why a young woman might die of a seizure?”
“Well, there are lots of reasons for nonepileptic seizures. It could be psychogenic, for one. Or a drug overdose, or a brain tumor, vascular malformation of the brain, a head injury. It’s difficult to say without seeing her medical records.”
“I don’t have her medical records. Are any of those causes more likely?”
Dr. Nazario frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t comfortably make a diagnosis without having more information.”
I thanked him and left. Even if he couldn’t tell me the cause of Evelyn’s seizure, his explanation confirmed my suspicions that my parents were hiding something. If her death was drug-related, Dad should have said she had a drug problem. If she had a tumor, he should have said tumor. If it was a head injury, an accident. Seizures had other causes, root problems. If Evelyn died of a massive seizure, something else must have been going on with her, something, for whatever reason, Dad didn’t want me to know.
Outside Cedars-Sinai’s automatic doors, I tore open the envelope Dr. Nazario had given me.
Science is at the root of all life, especially mine. Made of fibres, muscles and brains, eight-feet tall and strong with lustrous black hair and teeth of pearly white, but you would not find me attractive despite these luxuriances.
It wasn’t a passage I recognized. When I typed it into my phone, Google listed a series of articles on nerve and muscle cells, websites for kids on how the body worked. Nothing that directly quoted lustrous hair, pearly whites. It wasn’t a book excerpt but a riddle.
Details stood out immediately: fibres not fibers. Exceptional height. Science. Was he leading me to the memoir or biography of some great scientist? The philosophies of Plato or Aristotle? Something fictional? I was out of practice; I didn’t know the answer.
I put the clue in my back pocket and searched the other paper Dr. Nazario had given me, the letter granting him permission to talk to me, looking for a hint, something to help solve the riddle. The only thing that struck me was Elijah’s signature, notarizing the document. How well did Elijah know Billy? Well enough to be the executor of his will. To be the custodian of Jane Eyre. Well enough to have notarized a letter granting me permission to talk to Billy’s doctor. Well enough to know what Billy had planned for me, at least so I hoped.
* * *
Elijah’s office was a short drive from Cedars-Sinai.
“Miranda.” He scratched his head as he led me into his office, ruffling his already tousled hair. He wore another gray pinstripe suit, and I wondered whether it was the same suit, if he had multiple ones that were identical. “Did we schedule a meeting?”
“Is this a bad time?
” I asked.
“Of course not.” He waved me inside. “I’m all yours.”
After I’d situated myself in one of his rigid leather chairs, I handed him the letter he’d notarized, granting Dr. Nazario permission to divulge Billy’s medical history.
“He was sick for a while. I don’t remember notarizing this.” Elijah gave the letter back to me.
I showed him Billy’s riddle. “Billy also left this with Dr. Nazario.”
He scanned it quickly. “Clever,” he said before returning it to me.
“You know the answer?”
“If he left it for you, I imagine he wants you alone to solve it.”
I eyed him suspiciously, and he matched my look. “Did Billy tell you he was planning a scavenger hunt for me?”
“No, he never mentioned anything like that.”
“Did he tell you why he was leaving me the store?”
“Didn’t you get the letter?” he said, surprised.
“What letter?”
“I sent it myself, after Billy passed.” He must have meant the package with the copy of The Tempest.
“How did you start working for Billy?”
“My dad was his lawyer. I took over about fifteen years ago when he retired.” Elijah’s assistant shuffled in, offering us each a mug of lukewarm coffee. Elijah took a sip and made a face. “Madeline,” he shouted to the secretary, “is this from yesterday? How about a fresh pot?” He reached for my cup. “I can’t let you drink that.”
“What kind of work did your dad do for Billy?” I asked, relinquishing the mug.
“He helped Billy with a dispute over his wife’s trust. After that, whenever Billy needed a lawyer, he’d contact my dad.”
“A dispute?”
“With her father, I think. She’d bought Prospero Books with money from a trust he set up. When she died, he tried to regain control of her assets.”
“Prospero Books was Evelyn’s?” It was so obvious I didn’t know how it hadn’t occurred to me before. It had always seemed odd that Billy owned a bookstore, but then again everything about Billy had been odd, dazzling and unique.
Elijah nodded. “Billy really didn’t have anything to do with the store, so her father didn’t think it should go to him. It would have been a nonissue if she had a will, but young people, they don’t think they need wills unless they’re exceedingly rich. Do you have a will?”
“I’m not exceedingly rich,” I said.
“Still, you should set one up, especially now that you own property.” Elijah grabbed both mugs and indicated he’d be right back. I reread Billy’s riddle while I waited for him. Science is at the root of all life but especially mine. Made of fibres, muscles, and brains—Fibres. The British spelling. Perhaps an English scientist? Huxley? Bacon? Darwin? None of those men seemed right. And if Elijah had solved the riddle so quickly, I was missing something obvious. That was the thing about riddles. They were always simple. Cleverer riddles were just better at hiding their simplicity. I stared at fibres until it became an odd formation of letters, absent of meaning. The clue grew more indecipherable with every read, so I tucked it away, willing myself to forget it. That was the only way I’d be able to solve it, with fresh eyes.
Elijah returned with a binder and two new cups of coffee. “It still tastes like jet fuel but at least it’s fresh,” he said, passing me a mug. He sat in the leather chair beside mine and angled the binder so I could see it. “Now’s as good a time as any to show you what you’re in for.” He’d printed copies of the store’s operating costs, sales, payroll and freight records for the last two years. Lucia and Charlie only made thirteen dollars per hour. Malcolm was on salary, but he didn’t make any more than I did as a private-school teacher. “The good news is the property is worth a lot more than when they bought it in the ’80s, and the mortgage payments will be up in two and a half years. As is, they’re pretty nominal. Plus, Billy didn’t log the used books into the system, so the numbers aren’t quite as dire as they look.”
“And the bad news?”
“During the recession, Billy sold his house in Pasadena to cover expenses on the store. I advised him not to. The money from the house lasted a few years, but Billy had to take out a line of credit on the store. I’m afraid there’s a lot of outstanding debt, and sales aren’t what they once were.” He flipped to a spreadsheet of the sales, which spiked in December and early summer, never so much that the profits outweighed the cost. In the slower months, August in particular, sales plummeted. “Bookstores aren’t like other types of retail. You can’t raise the cost of a book because you need to make a bigger profit. Rare books can be profitable, but most used books aren’t rare. Every time I explained this to Billy, he didn’t want to hear it.” Elijah’s finger skimmed the next column. “The coffee shop, however, is profitable, but one can only make so much off cappuccinos and cupcakes.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m afraid the likelihood of Prospero Books staying in business is rather grim. If you sell the building, you’ll still have a little left over after you’ve paid off Billy’s debt.”
“But Prospero Books has been in business for—how long has it been in business for?”
“About thirty years. I wish I had better news.” I must have looked as despondent as I felt, because he added, “No one will blame you if you decide to sell. You can go on a trip to Hawaii, compliments of your uncle.” If Elijah was encouraging me to sell, to jet off to Hawaii where I could sit on the beach, sipping drinks with tiny umbrellas for stirrers, thinking how nice it was to get a free trip, he didn’t know Billy as well as he assumed he did. He didn’t understand that Billy had left me his store because he knew I wouldn’t sell it. He knew I wouldn’t let it become a fresh-juice distributor or one of those boutiques Silver Lake had in abundance.
“I’m not selling,” I told him. “Not unless I can find someone who will keep it a bookstore.”
Elijah handed me the folder. “In that case, you’d better figure out a way to turn a profit. There’s enough money in the account to get you through September. After that...” He didn’t need to finish his sentence.
As Elijah saw me out, I asked, “What happened with the will dispute?”
“Evelyn’s father didn’t have a case. Even if she paid for it, it was a community property, so it rightfully went to Billy. Most people who dispute wills don’t have a case, though. It’s never entirely about the money. That’s why it’s a good field of law to pursue. That and divorce.” He waved goodbye as I stepped onto the street.
I walked to my parents’ car, kicking the periwinkle petals that littered the sidewalk. I knew nothing about finances, and even I could see that the debt Billy had acquired was reckless.
When I reached my parents’ car, I realized I’d forgotten the cardinal rule of jacaranda trees. Never park beneath them when they’re in bloom. The windshield was a sheet of sticky purple flowers. I ran the wipers. They swished back and forth, leaving an opaque residue across the glass. As I sprayed more wiper fluid, I tried to recall precisely what Mom had said when I’d asked her about the name of Prospero Books. She’d mentioned that Evelyn had loved The Tempest, not that Evelyn had named the store after The Tempest. It wasn’t a slip. Mom didn’t want me to know that the bookstore belonged to Evelyn any more than Dad had wanted me to know the true nature of her death.
I found my phone and located Prospero Books’ website. It included a homepage, no “about us,” no search engine, no book recommendations. Only a photograph of the storefront, its hours—9:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. daily—a telephone number and the year established: 1984.
Were Prospero Books and Evelyn’s death somehow connected? And what did it have to do with the lawsuit Evelyn’s father brought against Billy? The riddle that Elijah had solved so easily? I needed a sounding board, someone who, between sporting events, liked to watch detective shows.
“I only have a minute,” Jay said as he answered. In the background, adolescent boys shouted to each other as though their words were funnier at louder volumes. “They’re finishing up the mile. It’s nice to hear your voice.”
“You haven’t heard my voice yet,” I said.
“Well, it’s nice to hear it now. What are you up to?”
“I just met with Billy’s lawyer. We went over the finances—”
“Tyler,” he shouted, “knock it off.” His voice became clearer in the phone. “What were you saying?”
“Billy owed a lot of money on the store. It’s a total mess.”
“Tyler, don’t make me embarrass you in front of everyone. I told you to cool it.” His voice grew louder on the line. “Sorry, Miranda, Tyler’s being a little asshole.”
“He’s always a little asshole. A smart little asshole.” Tyler had been in my history class. He sat in the back and made crude jokes, but he consistently wrote the best papers in class. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. It would break my heart if it closed.”
“So I guess this means you’re not going to be home by the end of the week?”
“Did you hear what I said? I might have to close my uncle’s store.”
“Maybe it’s its time.” I heard him snap his fingers three times.
“Don’t say that.”
“Miranda, I’m in the middle of soccer practice. Can we talk about this later?”
“You understand why this is important to me?”
“Kind of. Let’s just talk tonight. I’ll call you when I get home.”
“No, I want to hear what you have to say now,” I insisted.
“It’s just...you’ve never even mentioned the bookstore before.” His words hit me physically. A slap across the face. A sucker punch to the gut. “Look, the guys are almost done with the last lap. I’ll call you later, okay?” He hung up abruptly.