The Perils of Pauline (18 page)

TABOO Frequencies: Any friendly frequency of such importance that it must never be deliberately jammed or interfered with by friendly forces including international distress, safety, and controller frequencies.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

Serenity sleeps in until noon every day which is a good way of avoiding any chance of morning sickness, at least in the morning hours, and usually by the time I get home, she can be found sprawled across the couch, watching TV and complaining that it’s too hot/cold/rainy to go anywhere. She’s barefoot and pregnant but not in the kitchen sense of starting dinner or anything helpful like that. I have to hand it to Shae who got all ambitious last week and landed a job with the city. She’s up at dawn every day now, off to cut grass and tend to city park maintenance.

I enter the room, set down my briefcase, and scoop up a few snack wrappers and chip bags that are scattered around the room. “What’s your plan for the rest of the fall?”

“I dunno.”

“What happened to back to school?”

“High school sucks. I only need a couple more credits to graduate so I’m going to do them at the adult education center.”

“That sounds good. Are you registered yet?”

“No.”

“Maybe you could take a parenting class.”

“Nah, I don’t need to. I saw a kid being born on Youtube last week.”

“I meant parenting, not birthing. You know, how to look after a baby.”

Serenity picks up the remote control and changes the channel. “Don’t stress on me. I got it all under control, aiight?”

It’s my last day running the store with Jennifer’s guidance. Tonight we are having an open house with a ribbon cutting ceremony plus free cake and sparkling wine for our guests. Michael says Carmen is letting him see Nick tonight but if he has time he’ll drop by the store later. I haven’t seen him since the night on the deck. He’s been busy moving into the Dingwall grad residence, which is just as well since I’ve been scrambling all week at the store.

Jennifer and I are busy setting up a table with coffee cups, wine glasses, and paper plates when there’s a commotion at the door. A man is attempting to heave a shopping cart full of cardboard boxes across the threshold. “A self-publisher,” Jennifer whispers as he bashes the cart into the front table display. “Irish,” she adds as if this explains everything.

“Morning ladies.”

It’s late afternoon but Jennifer gives me a warning look. “Garth, this is Pauline. She’s our new owner.” To me she adds, “Ghostly Garth is one of our local authors. We carry some of his books.”

“And I have a brand new one.” He hands me a book with a lurid cover done in silver, black, and white with red embossed lettering in a blood-dripping font.

Jennifer pulls a notebook out of the drawer. “I’ll take 5 copies. The usual consignment rate, huh?” She starts writing down her terms. Clearly she wants to hurry this transaction along.

Ghostly Garth turns to me: “Did you know that this building is haunted?”

I glance at Jennifer over Garth’s shoulder. She rolls her eyes.

From one of the boxes, Garth produces a radio, twists the dials and hangs it around his neck. “I’ve been researching the paranormal for the past thirty years and, I can tell you, there’s a poltergeist in this room at this moment.”

Jennifer stops writing to watch Garth as he holds out his hands, palms down, flutters his eyelids and begins to pace. There’s a lot of static emitting from the radio and Garth taps it, looks back at me knowingly and stumbles into a display table. Jennifer runs to catch a book before it topples onto the floor. “As you can see, Garth is our expert on ghosts. Watch your step there, G.”

Garth waves his hands palms down over the top of the filing cabinet. He shivers with vehemence. “Ah, you see, right here, this spot is very charged. It’s icy cold in fact.”

Jennifer crosses her arms. “There’s an air conditioning vent above you. It’s a draft.”

Garth paces a few more steps and stops again, one foot hovering in mid-step. He says, almost to himself, “Oh yes, definitely. Right here.” Then he turns and cocks his head at me: “Have you ever seen an orb? Like a wee spot of light, usually pale green or bluish green? They float around at eye level. You only usually see them out of the corner of your eye.”

I’ve seen spots in front of my eyes because of this joint but, no, I assure him, I haven’t seen any wholehog orbs lately. He looks so disappointed I add, “I’ve only been working here for a few weeks.”

He hands me his card. Jennifer then demonstrates her considerable skills in removing Irish authors from the store but not before he spots the poster advertising our party tonight. “I’ll bring ye some of me wife’s tatties.”

As soon as he leaves she says, “I forgot to mention the local authors. Most of them are fine, really polite, and easy to work with, but you need to watch out for the fluffers.”

“Fluffers?”

“Fluffers like to rearrange the shelves so their book stands out more. Face out, or front and center in the window if they can get away with it. It’s not usually a big deal, but once I had a guy
set up an entire end aisle display when I was busy with another customer.”

“Sneaky.”

“You have no idea.”

I wish she would stop saying that.

A big crowd of people has turned out for my launch party. The local paper even sent a reporter with his camera. Jennifer and I pose for the ribbon cutting in front of the store. Ghostly Garth insists on being in the picture with his new book.

We all troop inside and cut the cake while Bibienne and Bernie circulate with trays of champagne cocktails.

“Amazing how they all come out of the woodwork for free booze,” says Jennifer as she tops up her glass from a bottle stashed under her counter.

I watch her swallow the contents of her glass in one gulp and reach for the bottle again. “You certainly managed to build up a loyal fan base.”

“Yup. And some of them can even read.”

Then she stands up, a little unsteadily, to read from a prepared speech. According to Jennifer, I am the town’s shining gateway to literacy, a stalwart torchbearer for freedom of speech, and a bulwark against the evil of corporate monopolies that threaten the small independents everywhere with extinction.

She throws aside her notes and, picking up a cocktail from Bernie’s tray, cries, “I propose a toashht to Pauline. Those suits at Bookshmashers can try but they’ll never smush the life out of Brick Books. Pauline! Gawd, you’re like a maverick, ya know, the last real bookseller, jusht one of the last good ones left in this crazy world.”

After tipping most of the champagne in her glass into her mouth, she grabs my wrist with her free hand and raises my arm up to the sky like a prizefighter. Then the cocktails run out and everyone heads for the exit.

Serenity and Shae offer to take Jack and Olympia home to bed while Mom and Bibienne help clear away most of the party mess—with assistance from Ghostly Garth who singlehandedly delivers his own paper plate and napkin to the garbage bin and then hangs around to fluff a half dozen of his titles into the bestseller section. It’s almost 11 p.m. when I finally lock the door behind everyone. I don’t know what happened to Michael but it doesn’t matter as I’m elated: for the first time, I’m alone in my very own store.

I return Garth’s books to the local author shelf and pass the vacuum over a scattering of cake crumbs. Under the counter I find half a bottle of champagne that Jennifer somehow missed. I’m parched so I pour a glass and sip while tidying the booktable at the front entrance. I turn off the front lights, turn the sign on the door to “Closed,” stand in the middle of the store, and look around: at last it’s mine. All mine.

My glass is empty. I ought to toast the store so I pour a refill.

“To success,” I say out loud, raising my glass and then taking a big snort to prove I mean it. This is good stuff. I love looking around this room at all the pretty, pretty books. This store is going to be fierce; I just know it. I’m sure I made the right move buying Jennifer out. Donald will see. The world will always welcome a good bookstore. “To Brick Books!” I take another snort.

I don’t want to go home yet. I want to go dancing. I’m wearing my new 16-String dress, which has a complicated arrangement of long strings that tie the dress around my curves and is guaranteed to make Michael try to undo me. The night is still young to get undone. Maybe Michael will still show up. I take a peek out the front window. The street is dark and deserted. I check my watch. It’s coming on midnight. I guess he isn’t coming. I’m getting tipsy. I better call a cab. But first I will call Michael. Yes, I will pour another slug and call him.

On the first ring, it goes straight to his voicemail. I hang up. Why did he turn his phone off? I need to think of a good message to leave. I should give him a piece of my mind. When he wants something from me, I have to jump and be quick about it. Then, when I want something, what do I get? Squat.

Maybe I should call Donald instead. Come to think of it, I didn’t hear a word from him either. A big night for me, and not one freaking word from my own husband. I heard from almost everyone I know tonight except Donald. And Michael.

I wonder what time it is in Canada? My head is fuzzy. I can’t remember if they’re ahead or behind, and by how many hours? I have lots of reference books here; I could look it up. Or I could call Donald and ask him. That’s what I’ll do. There’s still a little wine left here; I’ll finish off the bottle and call Donald. I dial the number and he picks up on the first ring.

“Hello, Donald.” For some reason, I accent his name heavily.

“Pauline?”

“Yes, it’s Pauline. Your wife. Remember me? Pauline?”

“Yes, we talked this afternoon. Have you been drinking?”

“I’m toasting the store. You should come on over. Join the party. But you can’t ‘cause you’re in Canada. Far away. Wayyy, far away. So what time is it there? I jusht wanted to find out what time it is in Canada. What are you doing tonight anyway? Is Lindsay there? You know what, I wanna talk to that bitch.”

“Lindsay’s not here. She’s at her apartment. Pauline, are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fantashtic. I jusht bought a bookstore you know.”

“I know. How did the launch party go?”

“It was great; you should’ve been here. ‘Cause you know what? I’m a maverick. But now I have to go pee.” I hang up. Wait. I should call him back. I still don’t know what time it is in Canada. But first I better go pee.

I stand up and the room tilts. I sit back down. I will try to call Michael again. No answer again so this time I leave him a message: “Michael, where are you? I had a party tonight and you didn’t come. You’re a complete shit and I have to go pee now.”

I make my way to the staff bathroom at the back of the store. I’m dizzy and I have to grope the wall to find the switch for the overhead light. I flick the switch only to hear the bulb ping out. I have to leave the door open to see. The bathroom is tiny. It’s hard to manage in
here even when sober. I tug my panty hose down to my knees, which effectively locks them together. Some of the longer strings on the back of the dress fall into the toilet. I gather the skirt section and all the wayward strings up around my waist, and sit down quickly so no bit gets away from me.

Funny, the spot I’m sitting in has flashed over with an icy coldness and an eerie feeling comes over me like there’s someone outside the door hiding in the shadows watching me pee.

I stand up and flush. A few of the strings have jumped back in the bowl. I yank them back quickly before my whole dress is sucked down into the pipes. The old plumbing bangs and thumps, but the noise is louder and lasts longer than usual. My hands are shaky; it’s hard to tuck all the strings back the way they were especially since they’re dripping wet.

I hear a thump from the back of the store. Did I remember to lock the back door? Did someone slip in while I was on the toilet?

“Garth?”

I step out of the bathroom and peer into the shadowy corners. Nothing. Maybe it’s Michael come at last?

“Hello? Is that you, Michael?”

Nothing. A flare of light behind me causes a horde of shadows to shuttle across the wall. My heart flubs a beat. Oh, it’s okay. Just headlights going by. My heart is still flubbing though, and that’s when I hear a floorboard creak in the office, and one of the deepest, blackest shadows wavers ever so slightly. Without the aid of any headlights at all.

Someone—or something—is lurking at the back of the store.

“I can hear you back there. Come out now before I call the police.” I use my parade square holler. I know a thing or two about hand-to-hand urban combat and I know all the words to Goodnight Saigon, too, and this butthead is going to get it.

Nothing. I call again, “I mean it, come out right now, I’m dialing.”

I edge toward the phone while listening carefully. Nothing. All I can hear is the sound of water running somewhere. And then a loud knocking. Only the pipes in the basement. I should call a plumber instead of the police.

I pick up the receiver and then think better of it. Maybe my ears are playing tricks on me. This is an old building, I’m tired and it’s just kind of creepy being here alone. Problem is I still have to call a cab and I can’t leave without my purse, which is in the back office. What if someone is hiding back there?

I have a weapon. I pick up the vacuum cleaner and, holding the wand in an aggressive, head-bashing manner, haul it to the back. I use the wand to flip on the overhead light switch. Empty.

I pull open the closet door. There’s no one standing there wielding a Bowie knife. The overhead light makes a crackling noise and goes out, leaving me in the clammy darkness. I feel my way along the wall to the light switch but the bulb is gone. Very strange.

Then I hear a noise, this time it’s coming from the basement. I hear footsteps and then a kind of a rattling noise, like chains. I’m dead afraid to go out back. Ghostly Garth was right. This place is haunted. I’m likely dealing with the ghost of the pawnbroker who, come to think if it, died of a heart attack in this shop, maybe even on the spot I’m standing on now. No one found him for two days.

Or maybe the pawnbroker saw the ghost and that’s what stopped his heart. Which makes at least two ghosts. The pawnbroker ghost is likely pissed that he was left to molder for two days. The other ghost probably is stuck here because he has souls to suck and hasn’t met his quota. The place is obviously jam-packed with unhappy spirits. I could be next to join them. Jennifer never breathed a word of this problem to me.