Corona of Blue

by Berntson, Brandon

  Walking back into the bookstore, I notice I haven’t changed the sign in the window. I move to it and turn it around. The Broken Spine is officially, Open! Come patrons, one and all, lots of good reading material for imaginative minds! It’s the only way to truly lose yourself!

  But for the longest time, it is simply business as usual, which is no business. I close the shop at lunchtime, and pick up a quick hamburger across the street at Carl’s Jr., bringing it back to the shop. Someone is standing in front of the window of the bookstore, looking in.

  “Hi,” I say.

  She turns to me, a young girl roughly eighteen or twenty. She is wearing a gray knit hat, a big, baggy sweater, and a jacket with a long gray skirt. Her shoes are old, black Converse high-tops. Despite her drab appearance, she has a cherubic, round, very cute face. Her eyes are gray, the slightest touch of black eyeliner, as if she wanted to make herself prettier and decided to hell with it. She is dressed more for the winter months, and I see her shoes are without laces. Her hair is dirty blonde, and I think I can smell...

  But that can’t be right.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “I just went out for a quick lunch if you want to browse,” I say.

  She smiles, clutching a heavy bag to her side. “Can I leave this at the register?” she asks.

  “I’d rather you did,” I say, opening the door, motioning her inside.

  It’s just a precaution. You want to be polite, but not stupid. You have to be prepared for anything. In the city, especially with your own shop, you’ll have every kind of character imaginable come into your store. And some of the most charming ones are the biggest thieves. Sometimes they try to steal things, even hold you up. Sometimes they linger, browse, and read for hours without buying a thing. But you have to be ready. As I said, I keep a can of mace in my purse, and one under the counter out of sight within easy reach. If they point a gun and ask you to empty the register, you kindly oblige and call the cops when they leave. Bookstores don’t carry the most money in their registers. Robbers know this, so I’m pretty safe.

  This girl doesn’t look like the type to pull out a gun or claw my eyes out or kick Junky across the floor. She reminds me of Pug, a destitute patron who spends her meager allowances on books because she’d rather read than eat. It comes with the territory. I remember being the same way for years. Still am, I guess.

  “You have a really nice bookstore,” she says. “It’s different than the others.”

  “Much smaller,” I say.

  “Yeah, but you have titles the others don’t. I don’t think I’ve seen a fantasy section this big before. I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Start at the A’s and work your way down.”

  She laughs at that, and I like her right away.

  “I don’t suppose you’re looking for any help, are you?” she asks.

  Ah, yes! There is the job seeker, too. Amazing how many people want to work in a bookstore! They think all you do all day is read.

  “I wish I could help. I operate it myself. I couldn’t afford to put anybody on the staff. Sorry.”

  She frowns, nodding. “I work well, for cheap, too,” she says.

  “I could pay you in books,” I say, trying to be funny.

  She actually laughs at this. “Oh, you have a cat!”

  “That’s Junky,” I say. “Say hello, Junky, and don’t be rude.”

  Junky opts for rude by not saying anything. I feel like kicking him.

  “He’s ornery,” I say. “Don’t pay any attention to him.”

  The girl smiles and goes back to browsing books, and suddenly, I wish I could help her. I really do. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why I feel it. I’m supposed to be wicked, and that’s how I like it, but sometimes, goddamnit, I just want to help someone! Is that too much to ask?

  I experienced the same thing with Pug; he asked about a job once as well, but I had to inform him of the same. If only I were BIGGER!

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Emma,” she says.

  “That’s a pretty name. I’m Rayleigh.”

  “Hi, Rayleigh, it’s nice to meet you.”

  She has a pleasant honesty I like. I wonder where she lives and if she’s still in school.

  “What do you like to do besides read?” I ask.

  “I write,” she says.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Fantasy. Some dark, some light.”

  “We have a writer’s group that meets every Tuesday. You should come.”

  “I’ve never shown my writing to anyone. I’d be scared.”

  I smile. I like that. Shy. She is probably a damn good writer. “Don’t be silly. It starts at seven. You should come by.”

  She smiles again, nods, and grabs several books from the fantasy section, bringing them to the counter. “You accept trade?”

  I nod. “Two for one.”

  “That’s fair,” she says, setting the books on the register. “I have quite a few I’d like to get rid of.”

  “Bring them in,” I say.

  Junky has moved over, rubbing against her legs. Some patrons he is quite friendly with; others, not so much.

  “Six dollars,” I tell her.

  She hands me a ten, and I give her the change, bagging her books. “Thanks for coming in,” I say.

  “Thank you.” She grabs her books, her bag by the door, and turns back to me. “It was nice to meet you. You, too, Junky.”

  Junky looks at her. He is the perfect Halloween cat. He is smooth, silky, shiny black with big orange eyes. She walks out the door, the bell sounding again.

  “What do you make of that, Junkster?” I ask.

  Junky doesn’t say anything. He goes to the food dish, jealous of my hamburger. He knows I don’t like to share. I open the bag with my single burger lunch. I like a burger with everything on it, sloppy and messy. With lots of napkins, I manage to get only three drops of ketchup on my nice blue sweater.

  ~

  It’s busier than usual suddenly. I have a lot of customers coming in and browsing, and quite a few make handsome purchases. Junky is friendly with most of them, but because it’s Friday, and my weekend is around the corner, I close up shop at 7:30 pm and put Junky in his cage, so I can carry him home. I don’t want to leave him at the bookstore over the weekend. I have an extra dish at the apartment and a litter box, so I don’t have to worry. Always keep two supplies as the kitty travels back and forth. That way, all you have to do is carry the cat.

  I am soon walking down the street, thinking about Emma, wondering where Pug is these days, and I heave a sigh about the coming weekend.

  I climb the stairs to 37, unlock the door, shut it behind me, and put Junky down, opening the cage. He protests while he’s in it, but when he realizes it’s only for a short time, he calms down. He is anxious to leave the cage and explore his second home, which he’s doing now. I go to the fridge, grab the wine, and realize I am…out!

  “Goddamnit,” I say. “Junky, I’ll be right back.” He looks at me and continues to sniff the furniture. I lock the door behind me, heading down the block. A liquor store down the street is a modern convenience, and I have taken advantage of its proximity, half the reason I chose the apartment.

  It’s busy. What Friday in the city isn’t? I know some of the people at the liquor store by name. I’m a regular. Is that good or bad?

  I fight through the crowd and nod at Mike, a man in his early forties with salt and pepper hair, a beard and mustache to match. Mike is always friendly with me, and he nods in my direction. I browse through racks of wine, then the hard stuff, thinking rum and Coke sounds good tonight, or do I just want beer? Hmm. It’s a tough decision, but really I’m not that big on beer. It’s a womanly thing and most women would agree, I think.

  I look through the bottles of rum and pick up a liter of Captain Morgan. It’s been a long time, other than at Lacey’s house.

  Someone bumps into me, and I look up. A young man, probably
twenty-five smiles and says, “I was thinking of getting rum myself.”

  How fortunate for you, I want to say, but I nod and smile instead.

  “We’re having a party tonight on Pennsylvania Avenue,” he says. “Four-oh-six. You should come by.”

  I raise my eyebrows, almost smile, but can’t quite make it.

  “What’s your name?”

  I look at him for a second or two. He’s wearing a Colorado University sweatshirt with the buffalo emblem under the lettering. He’s tall and looks like he’s on the football team. He has brown hair and green eyes. He’s not too bad looking, but he’s not the prince I dream of, either.

  “Come on, Tye!” someone shouts from the other side of the store. I look and see one of his buddies, an exact representation. They could be brothers.

  “Just a minute,” Tye—short for Tyler, I assume, says. “I’m trying to get this little lady to come to the party with us!”

  Now, I have no desire to see this thick-necked, thick-brained imbecile a minute longer. ‘Little lady’ is something akin to Rat, and I do not appreciate the way men say it, or how they say.

  “I’m not interested in your party, thank you very much,” I say.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Not interested?” he says, as if the very thought were absurd. “Pretty lady like you. Come on.”

  I despise men of this caliber. I cannot stand them. He reaches out to take my arm, and I pull back, almost dropping the bottle of rum.

  “Leave me the hell alone!” I say.

  “Come on Tye!” the friend shouts.

  “Is there a problem here, Rayleigh?”

  Mike has approached, my knight.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I came in here, Mike, to get my weekend supply, and this oversized sandbag won’t leave me alone.”

  Mike tries not to smile, being very business-like and proper, and looks at the football player. “Leave the lady alone,” he says, as simply as he can. “And get out of my store.”

  “Hey,” Tye tries to defend himself, holding up his arms. “Hey, Jesus. Okay. No big deal. Ask a lady to a party and you get cauterized for it.”

  I give him props for knowing such a big word and how to pronounce it. He exits the store, looking back at me. I do not like that look. It is a look that implies he’ll be waiting for me in the parking lot.

  “Are you okay?” Mike asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Thank you, Mike.”

  I take a deep breath, not realizing I have held it for so long.

  “You want me to walk you home?” he asks. “I can get Cynthia to watch the store. She can handle it for five minutes.”

  “No, Mike. That’s awfully nice of you, but I’ll be all right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I have mace in my purse.”

  He smiles. “Smart woman,” he says. “Let’s go ring you up.”

  “Thanks.” I go to the counter and write a check, remembering to grab some Coca-Cola. Mike asks me again if I’m okay, and I tell him I’m fine. I take my rum and cola and walk back outside into the cool, coming dark. I look for the football player and see him in a black blazer with some of his friends. I hurry across the street, making my way quickly down the sidewalk, toward my building.

  Behind me, I hear the growling rumble of the blazer with a bad muffler coming to life, moving in my direction. I close my eyes and pray for mercy.

  Just keep moving. No bid deal. You’re almost home. Junky’s waiting for you to fill the cat bowl.

  The blazer slows, and I prepare for the worst. Luckily, it’s a busy night, and there are lots of people ambling the streets, so I don’t think they’ll try anything. I clutch my purse tighter anyway, unzip it, and feel for the can of mace.

  “Could have showed you a good time!” Oversized Sandbag says from the passenger’s seat, head out the window. “Stuck up bitch!”

  The blazer revs loudly and grumbles down the street. I shake my head, dumbfounded by humanity, but breathe a sigh of relief. I make it to my apartment, walk inside, and shut the door. Junky meows. I breathe another sigh, walk into the kitchen, and put the items on the counter. I pull out a cocktail glass from the cupboard and fill it with ice. I fill the glass halfway with rum, topping it off with Coke. I shake my head, raise the glass, and say, “Here’s to you, Mike.” I drink the whole glass, fill it again, and feel better instantly. I pull out a cigarette, light up, and take a deep drag. “Wanna trade places for a day, Junk?”

  Junky looks at me and meows again, eyeing the empty dish on the kitchen floor. This is the most he’s said, and now I know why. I fill the dish with Whiskas, and he buries his face in a colorful mixture of crunchy food. I turn on the stereo, the sounds of a Handel violin concerto filling the room. It calms me. I open the curtains and stare into the street below.

  You should have kicked him right in the balls, then sprayed the mace in his face, Carmilla says.

  “Amen,” I say.

  I stare at the people walking by, the sounds of traffic, people shouting, laughing, whooping with the excitement of a celebratory weekend.

  Alone again, Carmilla says. Like always.

  “I love the time alone,” I say.

  Do you?

  I breathe another sigh, wondering if this is what my life is going to be like for the rest of my life—nights alone with Junky, the bookstore—frequent visits with Lacey and my parents. Yes, something is definitely missing, great void in my life. Something unable to be filled, and I suddenly feel ungrateful for thinking this way. I have a good life, and I should be thankful. I have the best friend in the world, a small, somewhat successful bookstore. I have two great, over-protective parents.

  Junky apparently has filled his belly, and he jumps onto the windowsill, nudging my chin with his nose. He is purring as I pet him.

  “How come all guys are such pricks?” I say.

  Junky doesn’t answer. He is staring into the street below. Junky and I are made for each other; we know each other that well, and for a minute, I hear the sound of a girl. For a split-second, one is looking up at me from the street below. She is dressed in old school attire. By that, I mean she is dressed the way I used to, rock-and-roll T-shirt, ratty jeans, ’80’s metal style. She has long dark hair and fair skin. She is neither smiling nor frowning.

  I’m going crazy, I think.

  I blink a single time, and the girl is gone.

  Have I just seen a ghost? I have never had ghostly experiences before. I’ve heard about them happening to other people, and the stories are so eerie, I feel goosebumps ripple across my body. I wonder if this is a sign the stories are true. I am not averse to the reality of ghosts, but I have always been skeptical of the supernatural, despite loving those kinds of stories.

  Junky jumps down from the windowsill, and I look into the street again. The girl has disappeared. Who the hell was she?

  She is you, Carmilla says.

  I don’t pay any attention because the liquor store episode has shaken me, and now I’m seeing ghosts. The girl had said something. How can I hear from way up here anyway?

  Still, I can’t get the words out of my head. What did they mean?

  I move to the kitchen and make another drink, aware of how desperately I need one. It’s going to be an interesting evening.

  Expand your love. Light, you will go away with me into the dark. I am haunting you. You are haunting me.

  I love the cryptic, but only when confined to a paperback.

  A knock sounds at my door, startling the hell out of me, and I spill my drink. Even Junky does a little jerk and looks in that direction.

  ~

  It’s my neighbor, Rachel Moore. She lives across the hall with her husband, Burt. They’re in their early fifties. Rachel and her husband are the sweetest neighbors a girl could have. Every now and then she comes over and brings me leftovers from dinner, or part of a pie they couldn’t finish. At first, I was suspicious because I’m skeptical by nature. I blame it on the city. I soon realized, though, that R
achel is simply a nice and generous old lady. I try to repay their kindnesses by doing things for them. ‘Here’s a skull from an eighteenth century poet, the severed hand of a boy I used to know.’ It was more along the lines of cookies and cakes, of course. But I don’t bake much, and when I do, I try to think of Rachel and Burt.

  When I open the door, Rachel is standing there with her fluffy head of curly brown hair—dyed, I think. She is a dumpy, short woman, but all smiles and laughing eyes. She is wearing a white button-up sweater with a lavender shirt underneath and purple pants. She has white sandals on. What it is with old people and the funny clothes they wear?

  “Hi, Rachel,” I say.

  “Hello, Rayleigh,” she says. “I brought you some apple cobbler. Do you like apple cobbler?”

  I like Rachel because she always says my entire first name. I love it when people do that. Not that I mind Ray. I would do the same with a long name, but I love how people find out your name, and they don’t take liberties to cut it in half for their convenience. They call you by the name your parents gave you.

  “I looove apple cobbler,” I say, taking the dish wrapped in plastic. It is still warm, and I can smell it. The cellophane has beads of moisture under it from the condensed steam popping up here and there. “Thank you, Rachel. That is so nice.”

  “You’re welcome. I like doing it for you. You’re a sweet girl, always friendly, quiet, and pleasant to talk to. How’s the store?”

  “Fine. Would you like to come in?”

  “Uh,” she hesitates. “Just for a minute. The Rockies are on, and Burt likes me to watch the games with him.”

  “That’s romantic,” I say.

  “Romantic for him. But we’re both Todd Helton fans.”

  She steps inside, and I close the door behind her. Junky attaches himself to her legs and Rachel bends down to pet him. “Hi, Junkster,” she says with a pouty childishness. “Is da wittle kitty getting tired of hanging out at the bookstore by hisself?”