Page 21

TWENTY-ONE

T he realization comes quickly and strong on Carmine Street. Eddie has made a mistake. He’s left his copy of Enough Rope at the Algonquin. In his confusion, he managed to remember the opera cakes and the Polaroid, but not the book. It’s probably still sitting there now. Dammit. It’s just after three now. He doesn’t have time to go back for it. What’s more, he has to pee.

But look, New York is coming to the rescue. There’s a used bookshop just ahead. He can buy a replacement, and have Cookie write his name in it again. She’ll forgive him.

“Can I help you?” the man behind the counter asks when Eddie steps into the dusty shop. His elaborate mustache curls up at the corners, reminding Eddie of Cookie’s spit curl.

“Can you tell me where the restrooms are?”

“Customers only,” the man says.

“Okay,” Eddie says.

“Are you going to buy something?”

“Well, I’m looking for Dorothy Parker.” Oh, if this guy only knew, Eddie thinks.

“Essays or poems?”

“Poems.”

“Straight back, next to the restrooms,” the man says, fiddling with his mustache.

Eddie heads to the back, pees quickly, then finds the poetry section. The shelves here reach from the floor to the ceiling, rows and rows of them in uneven aisles. They’re packed with books, thousands of books or maybe millions, Eddie thinks. They are stacked horizontally, vertically, one on top of the other, some even piled on the floor like stone cairns.

“You okay back there?” the man says, suddenly standing right next to Eddie.

“Um, I’m looking for Enough Rope .”

“No,” the man says. “Sold the last one a few months ago.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie asks. How could anyone possibly know what’s in this chaos, even someone who looks like he sleeps here? “Is there anywhere else it could be?”

“Are you saying my store is disorganized?” the man snaps.

“No, I just—”

“Look, kid. I know every book in here. And there is no Enough Rope . Hasn’t been for months.” He starts walking back to the front counter, then stops and turns. “Unless a customer mis-shelved it. Happens all the time. Check the reference section.”

“Reference?”

“Next to poetry,” the man says. “Everyone gets confused.”

“Okay,” Eddie says. “Would it be under—”

But before he can finish his question, another customer enters and the man turns back to the front of the store.

Eddie scans the poetry shelves one more time, then steps over to reference. He runs his finger across the spines, but there’s no Dorothy Parker. But he does see a copy of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations , and a memory whooshes over him.

On his tenth birthday, Eddie was given a copy of Bartlett’s from a man Donna was married to for a couple of years. The inscription inside said, “I bet you’ll be in this one day” or something equally impersonal, the kind of thing only an awkward, temporary stepfather would write. He tossed it when that stepfather left. He never really read it anyway. He was too busy with his favorite books: Kasper in the Glitter , Tuck Everlasting , Eragon . Not Bartlett’s . But still, he reaches for it now.

He sets down the opera cakes and opens the book, letting the pages fan out from under his thumb. He loves that sound. He remembers being very young, napping on the couch with his feet in Donna’s lap while she would read one of her science fiction paperbacks, listening intently to the way the paper softly rustled as she turned the pages. He remembers imagining what was in the book she was reading. Was she reading about an adventure in the mountains of Mars, where alien animals roamed freely? Was she reading about a lost spaceship, visiting distant worlds as it tried to find its way home? Was she reading about an evil empire in a distant galaxy planning to invade Earth? He never asked. He always preferred imagining.

Bartlett’s is organized by speaker or writer, and in the spirit of today, Eddie turns to the section labeled Parker, Dorothy . He finds many quotes: “Hold your pen and spare your voice” and “I’ve never been a millionaire but I know I’d be just darling at it.” The quips make him smile. It’s no wonder Cookie likes talking to Dottie. She seems clever, funny, ironic. Like someone who has a lot to say. Er, had a lot to say, he reminds himself. Bartlett’s says she died in 1967.

He’s about to close the book when one more Dorothy Parker quotation on the page jumps out at him.

Heterosexuality is not normal. It’s just common.

What? Impossible. That’s not her line, that’s his! He just made it up back at the Algonquin. He must be seeing things. He rubs his eyes and reads it again.

Heterosexuality is not normal. It’s just common.

He reads it over and over, disbelieving. How can this be? The words are exactly the same. Almost too exact, actually. But maybe this moment is just a vision, too? Maybe he’s just imagining the words on the page. Maybe he’s imagining this bookshop. That must be it.

Eddie gingerly closes the book and slides it back onto the shelf, slowly, like it’s something breakable that he shouldn’t be touching in the first place.

“You find what you need?” the mustache man shouts.

It’s time to get back, Eddie. Sherry hour soon. He says “thank you” to the man on the way out the door, and heads toward Bedford Street.