(So, your majesty, what's this big scary thing you are going to do now?)
Well…….
About… I'm guessing here… four years ago at least, maybe five, I wrote the first chapter of a story.
I really liked it.
I promptly filed it away.
Every now and then I would run across it in my files and read it over.
I liked it again.
But I have NEVER been able to get any further with the story. I have very deep and profound writer's block when it comes to this story.
But I really like it.
(I think we have established that you have a crush on this drivel you have penned. Get on with it.)
So...
I thought if I stuck my neck out and posted it here, I might be able to blow a hole in my writer's block and finish the story by sheer fear of public humiliation.
(Sounds foolhardy, reckless, and ill thought out. And I'll bet you are going to do it.)
Well, yes. I thought I would.
(Vide Supra….. [Look it up]. I'm finished. I wash my hands of you. Go forth to your doom.)
Ummm…. okay then.
My dear readers, I give you one Violet Winslow, who is about to embark on a fantastical adventure. And on my word of honor, not one word beyond what you are about to read has been written. Nor is there hardly a thought in my head where we will go from this first chapter.
(Beyond here, be dragons.)
NOW who's the drama queen?
It's only a little story.
How hard can it be to finish it?
(Do you smell sulfur? I distinctly detect the smell of sulfur.)
Oh shut up.
I have no working title either.
(Why does this not surprise me?)
****
Violet Winslow stepped onto the sidewalk, leaving the depressing florescent lighting of the office behind at last. She had spent a weary afternoon searching, and at long last finding, an accounting error made three months ago by her boss. Her head was spinning with invoices and numbers tumbling over each other as only contrary figures can on an overwarm summer day.
She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the late afternoon sun. Heat radiated from the buildings in a suffocating vortex that made her dizzy. She was longing to get home, and take off her shoes and sit with a nice glass of lemonade on her second story balcony in the shade of the old maple tree. She lived above Sherry’s Florist Shop, six blocks down Main Street, and right now, six blocks seemed like an overwhelming journey.
She doggedly headed home, breathing shallow breaths, to keep from inhaling the hot air too deeply. There was one ancient tree on this block and she made for its shade hoping for just a brief reprieve. She paused there under it and looked across into the storefront window of Wetherby’s Book Store. “I wonder.” She said aloud.
She decided to go in. The bell rang over the door as she stepped into the relative coolness of the shop. Mr. Weatherby was sitting at his desk near the window reading the evening paper.
“Well, hello Violet. It’s been quite a while since you have come in. How are you?” he said in pleasant tones.
“To tell you the truth, I’m hot and tired, but I thought I would browse around a little bit before I go home.”
“Help yourself dear, I won’t be closing for another half hour or so.”
She wandered back into the labyrinth of bookshelves. The place was very old. The floor was uneven and there were little alcoves here and there that might have been closets at one time, but had been pressed into service as tiny book rooms now. All the way in the back there was a window with an overstuffed chair crammed between two shelves. She headed for the darker corner of the shop to the left, through a crooked doorway. The threshold creaked as she stepped into the cramped room whose only saving grace was a charming little lamp affixed to the end of one bookshelf.
Now for as long as she could remember, Violet had been looking for a book. Oh, not a certain title or author, or even subject. But a certain kind of book, of just a certain size and thickness. With the binding and lettering just so. That would have a certain heft and feel to it, that when you opened it, it would yield gracefully, and not have to be held open with force like so many books do. It was just a whimsy. It was her idea of the perfect book. She always joked to her friends that if she ever found this paragon of literary perfection, it would probably end up being “The Periodic Table of Metric Conversion Tabulations For Organic Chemistry” or some such nonsensical irrelevance. But, continue to look for it, she had.
She wandered along the shelves, looking only at eye level at first. Her gaze scanned the titles. American Aircraft of WW II, Build it With Plywood!, Cooking With Lemons, Mark Twain Essays, 1001 Baby Names, Gold Mining For Fun And Profit.
Mr. Weatherby did not believe in categorizing his books. He always said books were like people, and people didn’t like to be pigeonholed. We should take our books as we find our people. At random. He was serious about it too, because this place was a nightmare of disorganization.
She noticed a small, worn footstool sitting in front of an ancient set of encyclopedias on the bottom shelf. Violet pulled it closer and sat down to look at the books on the lower levels. She passed up a handful of kitchen appliance manuals that had somehow found their way into a category of their own and a few old and tattered novels that were so worn that the titles were only slight indentations in the backing of the spine, the lettering having worn off long ago.
Then she saw it.
It was resting quietly between a copy of Ivanhoe and a 1953 Chevy Owner’s Manual. A little fawn colored leather bound wonder, with gold lettering that read, “The Adventures of Bailey Elwood”
Violet stared at it and curled her fingers into loose fists. She was afraid to take it off the shelf. She bit her lip and reached over and gently teased the book from its resting place. The leather felt soft, like the book had been well read. It had the look of a comfortable pair of very good quality shoes. She gauged its weight and decided it seemed heavy for its size.
Pressing it to her nose, she smelled the wonderful aroma of leather. Gingerly, she opened it, and there behind a flyleaf, was a color illustration of a cottage overlooking rolling hills, and in the distance she could see the seashore.
She looked further into the book, it had creamy thick pages and there was an unusual font, rather open and airy. The pages lay flat and welcoming. She read a sentence at random. “Bailey took the book from his pocket and hastily placed it on the shelf. He leaned backwards, looking toward the front of the shop. They were coming. He looked wildly around and saw the open window in the next alcove. He stepped quickly past the chair next to it and slipped out, into the alley.”
Violet stared at the words. She felt a shiver run through her and slapped the book closed in alarm. Turning it over and over, feeling of it, and marveling that it so perfectly epitomized her fantasy book, she opened it again slowly, savoring the feel of leather and paper. But, before she could read another word, she felt herself being whirled around as if in a whirlpool.
The bookshelves were whizzing around and around her. She closed her eyes and reached out to catch herself from falling.
* * * *
Abruptly the feeling ended. She opened her eyes, still holding onto the bookshelf in front of her, but she noticed something odd about her hand. It was encased in a frivolous little lilac colored netting glove with tiny pearls worked into it. She looked down at the rest of her body and realized her summer skirt and cotton sweater had been replaced by a plum satin dress that reached nearly to the floor. It was overlaid with black cutout lace and had a short waisted jacket. Though she couldn’t at that moment see it properly, she reached up to feel her head and found some kind of saucy hat with a feather in it perched there. Feeling something unusual on her feet, she pulled up the skirt a bit to see soft black kid boots with jet buttons going up the sides. She had never had a pair of shoes fit her so perfectly. They were like butter on her feet.
What was going on here?
She glanced around the doorway, toward the front of the bookstore and was astonished to see the gleaming polished wood of the floors and the neat rows of new books arranged on dusted and organized shelves all around the perimeter of the room. With the exception of the two back rooms, the alcoves were no longer there. The middle of the room contained a large oak table with about six ladder back chairs surrounding it and what looked like a gas lamp was hanging down from the ceiling. At the front desk, which was a marvel of neatness and organization, sat a woman wearing a white shirtwaist and black skirt. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a severe bun. Her glasses were perched on her nose and she was reading the evening paper. Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves of a very young tree in front of the window.
Violet began to feel dizzy again, but this time her disorientation came from inside herself. What was happening? This surely was the same bookstore, she knew where she was, but when was it?
She looked down and there in her hand rested the beautiful little book, looking and feeling exactly the same as before. Her attachment to it deepened.
She slowly walked toward the woman at the desk and felt around for a pocket, hoping she had some money to pay for this book, for there was no way she was leaving this store without it. She lifted up her left hand and there dangling from black cords, was a drawstring purse covered with deep plum colored beads and embroidery. She stopped at the oak table and opened it and rummaged around till she pulled out two things, a coin purse and a hotel key. The small purse was heavy and she opened it to find several gold and silver coins. The hotel key had a polished wooden tag that read “Blake Hotel” with the number 22 engraved on it. Good heavens. The Blake Hotel was a second hand store now, and no one used the upper stories anymore. She rubbed a gloved hand over her forehead, gathered her courage, and headed for the seated woman.
She put her paper aside and said pleasantly, “I see you found something. Very good.” Violet reluctantly handed over the book, holding onto it just a fraction too long causing the woman to look at her oddly.
When Violet finally let go, the woman said, “That will be two dollars please.”
Violet fumbled with the purse and looked through the confusing coins and found a big one that said Ten Dollars on it and handed it over. The woman gave her change, and then proceeded to wrap the book in brown paper that hung in a roll on a cast iron holder at the back the counter and tied it with string. While she was doing this, Violet took a good look at one of the coins and saw the date. 1842.
“Do you know somewhere I can get a cool drink?” she asked faintly.
“Why of course. Just down the block to the end here, and across the street is Kaplan’s Drug store. They sell lemonade there. With ice too”
“Thank you.” Violet murmured . The woman handed over the package and said, “I hope you enjoy your visit to Bogwillow Miss.”
She managed a weak smile, and walked out into the warm late afternoon sun that was still streaming onto the street at about the same angle as when she had entered....the other store. Only this time, the sidewalk was cobblestone and everything looked new and fresh. Familiar buildings that she knew in their old age, looked just built, painted with cheerful colors and well kept. There were horses and carriages here and there secured to railings. Instead of the smell of car exhaust, there was the odd combination of the petunias in window boxes and horse manure. A very unfamiliar one to Violet, at least for walking in downtown Bogwillow.
She spied the drug store and headed straight for it. The double doors were standing open. She could see through to the back door, which also stood open to make the most of a slight breeze that was just beginning to blow. She sat down at the counter and a young man with a white apron that reached almost to the floor stepped up and asked if he could help her. She asked for a lemonade and he quickly produced one for her. It was a tiny glass with a few bits of ice floating in it with a very small rind of lemon perched on the rim.
She smiled. Compared to the huge drinks people guzzled nowadays, this looked like an apéritif. She rummaged around in her reticule for a nickel to give the young man. For there right across from her, writ large, was a sign that said, “Fresh Lemonade 5 cents”
She tried not to down the whole thing at once and realized that dressed this way, and being around these people, her manner was changing. Not that she was a slob before, but things just seemed more formal here. And the clothes just added to that feeling. She sipped daintily and looked around at the shelves and at the druggist behind the counter at the back of the store. He was bent over a ledger, probably tallying up the day’s receipts. She glanced at the clock that hung prominently on the wall and saw that it was just a few minutes before five o’clock. She figured they were wanting to close up shop, so she finished her drink, thanked the young man and walked back out into the evening. This side of the street was in the shade and the breeze was cooling things down, for which she was very grateful. This dress was a bit suffocating.
She headed for the Blake Hotel that she knew was two blocks down. People were bustling about, headed for home with packages under their arms or baskets on crooked elbows. She reached the hotel and was surprised to see two lovely swinging doors with brass kick plates. Those had been replaced by a modern metal door in her time. These were much more attractive. She entered and was surprised to see a small but comfortable lobby complete with potted palms and a rubber tree plant in the corner. There was a gentleman sitting at a small table reading by the light that was coming through one of the large glass windows.
She decided to act as she thought a guest at a hotel like this would have over a hundred years ago. She went up to the desk clerk and inquired,
“Are there any messages for me?” The well groomed man smiled and said, “Yes Miss Winslow, here you are. I hope you had a pleasant afternoon.” He handed her a thick brown envelope with her name scratched over it in a thin spidery hand.
“Thank you, and yes I have had an interesting afternoon.” She said as she stared at the writing on the envelope.
“Shall we send your dinner up at the usual time this evening?”
“Yes, please.” She responded, thankful she would not have to worry about going out again. She was feeling the need to lay down and collect her thoughts. But, the weight of the envelope in her hand made that luxury seem remote.
