The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend (22 page)

 

 

 

 

Broken Wheel, Iowa

November 10, 2010

Sara Lindqvist

Kornvägen 7, 1 tr

136 38 Haninge

Sweden

Dear Sara,

It's funny that you're so interested in our little town. I've been thinking about laughter today, so it fits that I should write a bit more about Andy. I've been thinking about laughter because Andy visited me, along with Tom and Carl, Andy's very good friend. Andy has laughter in his blood. He's also got wild, curly hair. Sometimes I think the two go together.

I don't think it was easy growing up with curls like Andy's. The girls were jealous of them, I know that, and the boys mocked them. But Andy always just laughed. Once, I heard a boy poking fun at him, saying that Andy had stolen his mother's curlers. Tom was furious and wanted to fight with them all, of course. Claire looked like she would've been happy to help. Tom takes things much too seriously sometimes. Not himself, but other people, especially his friends. That day, I was just thinking about whether I should step in when the whole thing was suddenly over and Andy was laughing so hard he was bent double, holding his stomach. ‘Sorry,' he panted, ‘but the idea that I'd dare steal anything from your mom is crazy.' The boy's mother was known for being quick to lash out. ‘Can't you just see me trying to r-run' (he was laughing so much that he was stammering) ‘away from her with my p-pockets full of curlers? L-like stolen apples.' The thought of stolen curlers was enough to make them all laugh, even Tom. I've often thought that laughter is the best defense, though it didn't work for Andy against his own father. It's always been some comfort to me that I was the one Andy came to when he decided to leave Broken Wheel.

Best,

Amy

NEWS OF THE
gay erotica shelf seemed to have spread far outside of town, almost as though Jen had written about it in the newsletter.

A few days after the book sale, a new customer came into the shop. He didn't look much older than twenty-five, but he moved with a self-confidence which made him seem older. As though, at some point in time, he had simply decided not to be nervous any more. Despite that, he didn't seem too sure what he was doing in a bookstore. He came in with determined steps and then just stopped dead. He was standing there straight-backed and with an almost aggressive glint in his eye, but there was something in the way he looked at neither Sara nor the books which said that he wasn't quite as comfortable as he would have liked you to believe. His face gave nothing away, but Sara thought he must be having some kind of internal debate with himself.

Eventually, she said: ‘Let me know if I can help with anything.'

That made him walk slowly back and forth along the shelves.

‘Are you from around here?' Sara asked.

‘Nope,' he said, ‘I live in Hope.'

‘Do you like it there?' she asked for want of anything better to say.

‘Not really.'

‘Are you looking for anything in particular?'

With that, he seemed to make a decision. A boyish glimmer appeared in his eyes. She had meant a particular book, of course, but when he replied, he said: ‘A boyfriend?'

She laughed. ‘The shelf a bit lower down, to the left.'

‘My mom told me about you. She said you'd burn in hell because you were encouraging homosexuality.'

Sara felt a certain amount of indignation at this attack from a woman she didn't even know, but she had to admit that she also felt a certain amount of pride. She, Sara Lindqvist, encouraging homosexuality! Who would have thought it? Good-humouredly, she said: ‘What can I say? You can't buy that kind of publicity.'

He hesitated. ‘Are you …?'

It seemed to mean so much to him that she thought about lying. She liked him. She compromised. ‘Bisexual,' she said, though she hadn't ever even watched the Pride Parade in Stockholm, and she blushed slightly.

He smiled. ‘Aren't we all?' he said. ‘You're not from round here, are you?'

‘From Sweden.'

He nodded, as though that explained something. ‘Ah,' he said.

He went over to the gay erotica. She continued reading. After a while, he came over to the counter with two books.

Sara had ordered nice plastic covers with a picture of an oak tree and the name of the shop on the front. She placed the books into these covers without even asking. He paid but then lingered for a moment, standing between her and the door without really making any attempt to leave.

‘Can I …?' she eventually asked.

‘I'd hoped …' he said, hesitating. ‘I'd hoped I'd meet others here.'

‘The Square,' she said. ‘Talk to Andy and Carl.'

‘Are they …?'

‘Together.'

He didn't seem to know whether he should be happy or disappointed.

‘Maybe they know somewhere good to go,' she added. ‘Tell them I say hi.' She held out her hand. ‘I'm Sara, by the way.'

‘Joshua,' he said. ‘But everyone calls me Josh.'

Sara's comment about Carl and the tourist information newsletter had been nothing more than a joke, but she suspected that Jen had taken it seriously. When Andy called to ask her to stop by the Square, she was full of apprehension.

‘You'll never guess who came by today,' Andy said when she was finally sitting at the bar with a glass of beer in front of her.

‘Who?' she said carefully.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Josh,' he said.

‘Oh, right,' she said, relieved. ‘I hope that was OK.'

‘Sure. Why shouldn't we be every LGBT's personal ad?'

Don't go red, she thought to herself. For some reason, it all felt embarrassing. The constant fear of being politically incorrect, she thought.

Carl leaned over the bar, as though he had decided that she would no longer throw herself at him. ‘It was a nice thing to do,' he said.

‘So, Sara,' said Andy. ‘Bisexual, are we? Still waters run deep …'

To her great relief, she didn't hear any more about Jen's tourist information plans. She wished she hadn't said anything, even as a joke. The newsletter featuring the opening of the bookshop seemed to be reaching further and further outside Broken Wheel, however, and was continuing to attract visitors.

There was a surprising number of people in town that Saturday. An overwhelmingly large proportion of them were large women in ugly jeans, checked shirts and dusty boots.

She couldn't take her eyes off them, in the same way that it was impossible to look away from a car crash. She still wasn't used to the idea that women like that really existed. Still wearing cowboy hats. Unironically. Didn't they know what films and books and TV series had done for cowboy paraphernalia? Had they never seen
Dallas
?

They came to the shop in groups, with a few of them buying books, and lingered afterwards. They never said more than was necessary.

Grace came over just as the women were squeezing into the bookshop. She wove her way up to the counter where Sara was pretending to read, leaned against it and looked demonstratively around.

‘Once upon a time,' she said, ‘all these women would have come to me.' She didn't bother lowering her voice. ‘All these women – real, strong women the lot of them, I can see that right off. The kind of women who built this country.' She shook her head. ‘That they're finally back in town, but around books, not liquor … it's not natural.'

Sara closed her book and looked up at Grace. ‘What's wrong with meeting in a bookstore?' she asked. She gestured widely, including all the books. ‘What's wrong with all of these real, strong women wanting to read about other tough women?'

‘Bull. No one's ever written a book about the real USA. Just about namby-pamby men and their namby-pamby thoughts. Real life is hard, raw,
genuine
. Books are sugary-sweet, complicated, and far too obsessed with what everyone's thinking and feeling the whole time. And with a load of men, too. What have they ever done for Iowa?'

‘Just because they're wearing cowboy hats and are tough and loud doesn't mean they can't enjoy books' Sara muttered. ‘Why should books be reserved for namby-pamby men? If anyone deserves books, surely it's these fantastic women …?'

She made another sweeping gesture with the book in her hand. Sure, she might have been more judgemental a minute ago, but a woman can change her mind, can't she? They clearly were strong, tough women, all of them. And ever so slightly scary. She would have continued her passioned, albeit whispered, speech if one of the strong women hadn't just come over to her and asked:

‘Sorry, but do you know how to get to that bar?'

Grace laughed. ‘So, girls,' she said, ‘what're you really doing here in the bookstore?'

‘The newsletter said it was worth a visit,' the woman replied. She glanced around as though she wasn't entirely convinced. ‘And besides, the bar doesn't open till five.'

Sara looked at the horde of cowboy women with a strong feeling that something was going horribly wrong.

‘We heard there were a few good reasons to visit the Square,' the same woman said. ‘Or one, in any case.'

Sara had an extremely bad feeling about all of this. ‘Don't worry,' she said gloomily. ‘There are two.'

Tom was waiting for her when she got home from the bookshop. The Hope campaign had almost put an end to her keeping an eye out for him. Now, suddenly, he was standing right in front of her.

‘Hi,' she said hesitantly as she walked up to the porch.

She stopped right in front of him, desperately trying to come up with something to say, if only so she could stand close to him for a while longer. It was one of those moments in life where time seemed to be going both unbearably slowly and much too fast, as though every second was ticking away in her body. She knew she would need to say something or move away from him soon.

Before she had come up with anything, he cleared his throat and said: ‘Carl sent me.'

She blinked.

‘He needed your help, he said you owed him. He sounded really stressed. I offered to drive you.' But he was still standing there, right in front of her, much too close for her to care about Carl and whatever problems he might be having.

‘Now?' she asked.

‘It seemed urgent.' He took a few steps away from her and opened the car door. She tried to feel relieved at being able to breathe again.

The first thing to hit her was the sound. She could hear it from outside in the parking lot, the deep, pulsing sound of loud voices and lively conversation between people crammed into a too-small space. The second thing to hit her was the heat. It struck her as she opened the door. Stale air and the stench of sweat, beer and warm bodies. The third thing was the absurd number of big, stocky women in unflattering jeans and cowboy hats.

‘Jesus,' she said. ‘There must be at least fifty of them here.'

Tom looked shocked. He stood in the doorway behind her, as though she were his shield. ‘Where've they all come from?' he asked.

‘The bookstore,' she said despondently. She didn't have time to explain; Carl was waving to her, and he didn't look amused.

They pushed their way over to the bar. There was a real sense of urgency behind it. Andy was pouring beers and drinks at high speed, taking money at the same time, and smiling and joking with all of the customers. He looked like a slightly foolish but still incredibly professional Tom Cruise. Sara was sure that he would have juggled the bottles of spirits if the crowd had been the least bit receptive, but they were drinking Bud and whiskey and didn't want anyone to throw anything.

Carl was pressed up against the shelves and the mirror on the back wall. He was pouring beer by leaning forward, the rest of his body still at a safe distance. His face was completely expressionless, but there was panic in his eyes. Sara wondered whether she should tell him that his posture only made his shoulder and chest muscles look even more impressive. She decided not to risk it.

He was demonstratively touching Andy the whole time, calling him ‘honey'. More than one of the customers thought he was saying ‘honey' to them and they smiled in delight. More than one of the customers also managed to touch his arm or stomach as they reached out for their drinks.

‘Sara,' he said doggedly, ‘you'll never guess who came by the other day.'

‘Josh?' she said hopefully.

‘Jen.'

A woman pushed forward and ordered a whiskey. Carl served her quickly without letting Sara out of his sight. The woman gave a generous tip, but Carl didn't allow himself to be distracted.

‘Any idea what she wanted?' Carl asked.

The woman with the whiskey glanced from Tom to Sara, sussing them out, and he quickly put an arm round her.

‘No,' said Sara. The music and the voices around them were loud, but unfortunately she didn't have any problem hearing what Carl said. Because of the crowd, she was practically forced to press herself up against Tom, and could nearly feel the sheer terror in his body.

‘She wanted to take a picture. For the tourist information newsletter.'

‘That woman knows nothing about advertising,' Andy suddenly said. He had to shout to make himself heard from his end of the bar.

‘A picture of the Square in the newsletter surely isn't a bad idea,' said Sara. With the lightest of touches, she slid an arm around Tom's waist. When he didn't protest, she leaned in towards him and was captivated by the feel of muscle and rough denim beneath her hand.

‘Exactly what I said!' Andy agreed.

‘Only, she didn't want a picture of the Square, did she?' Carl said accusingly. ‘She thought a picture of me would be more “appealing”.'

Sara could hear the quotation marks around the word. She noticed that Tom appeared to be finding her discomfit amusing and she glared at him, as though they were one of those couples who laughed and teased one another.