Joy For Beginners Read Free Page B

from her, like a scarf or a coat you could check before going in to a show. She wondered now, however, if she had treated more things as a part of herself rather than an accessory, perhaps everything would have turned out differently. How long had she and Jack thought of themselves as in a marriage—a contract, a partnership—rather than married, entwined? Maybe adjectives like beautiful and married, the way they sent the tendrils of their meanings into your self and soul, were harder to trade in than nouns—coat, marriage, wife.
    Or maybe the problem was that she spent her time thinking about adjectives and verbs while other people stood around looking like fresh-picked produce, Caroline thought as she grabbed her towel and headed out to the pool.
     
    WHEN CAROLINE GOT HOME that night, she sat on the couch in her living room, staring at the wall of books. Jack’s books to the left of the fireplace, hers on the right. Caroline favored an alphabetical approach to shelving her books; she said it made it easier for other people to find them, which it did, but in reality she loved the process of finding a book through a rational process, only to open the pages and be caught in the memories of the person she had been when she first read it. And while Jack enjoyed reading, he hadn’t cared as much about the organization of the books, his shelf in the living room more a central gathering place than a sorting system.
    Caroline had always seen the differences in their approaches as a sign of their individuality, had even joked about it with friends when she gave informal tours of their house. Oh, that Jack. Oh, that Caroline.
    Now Caroline stood, looking at the two walls of books, and wondered if perhaps she had misinterpreted the symbolism. She went over to Jack’s side and took out the first book from the bottom shelf. Then she put it back.

    CAROLINE’S OTHER RESPONSIBILITY at the bookstore was as hostess to the authors who came to sign books and read aloud to the groups that gathered in the soft, cushioned couches around the fireplace, the hard-back chairs arranged in rows. Caroline’s job was to supply authors with proper directions to the store, to ascertain which beverage they would prefer by their side as they read, to make sure that signing pens were available and sobriety was maintained. Although initially Caroline had thought the job would be exotic and exciting, so far it had been largely uneventful, the authors occasionally less than exciting or out-of-sorts from rain, which seemed to show up on event nights as if arranging the chairs in the bookstore was some kind of Pavlovian stimulus for the Pacific Northwest weather. But not much in the way of glamour.
    One afternoon, however, a few days after Caroline’s coffee date with Marion, the bookstore owner pulled Caroline aside.
    “We caught a big one,” he said excitedly. “Last minute. He’s coming to town to visit friends and he wants a gig so he can write off the trip.” He mentioned a name that made Caroline’s eyes grow large.
    “We’ll have to make sure everything is just right,” the owner said. “His publicist can’t be here, but she said to make sure someone takes him to dinner. And that he eats.”
    Caroline nodded. The author’s preference for liquid meals was material itself for several books.
    “You’ll take him then?” he asked.
    “Me?”
    “I can’t. My mother-in-law is going to be in town, and I promised I would be home. And we can’t get him any other time. But you can do this; it’ll be exciting. Just make sure he eats.”
     
    CAROLINE LOOKED NERVOUSLY across the restaurant table. The Author, as Caroline had come to think of him, was every bit the legend she had imagined from the photos on the back of his numerous books. White hair flew about his head, and he spoke with an erudition that had Caroline mentally counting the clauses in his sentences as if they were mileposts in an effortlessly run marathon.
    He had ordered a