(no subject)
It wasn’t until the flashpoint had already crossed (233 Centigrade, 451 Fahrenheit) that Audrey Gould noticed something was awry. She had been reading…something, she can’t remember it now, and she smelled something suspiciously alike to glue.
“Oh, shit,” she muttered calmly, pushing her chair back and dusting herself off. “The fucking shop’s on fire.”
And it was.
There was something Audrey had read several years ago that had really stuck with her: Somewhere in the mid-western United States, there was a great big pile of burlap sacks. The state, she thinks now that it was Nebraska, actually advertised this pile as a major attraction, and people would pack up the kids and drive out and take pictures of the thing. Now, there’s not much wind deflection out near The World’s Biggest Pile Of Burlap Sacks, and the sacks were constantly in a state of flux, shifting against each other, causing what had previously been estimated as a negligible amount of friction. Then one day, the whole damn structure just went up in a blaze.
The same manner of thing was going on now at the Riverby Book Cellar, only with, as one could imagine, books in the place of burlap sacks. The windows in the Cellar are ancient, dating back to the mid-to-late seventeen-hundreds, around the time the home country was at war with the colonies. The glass was blown in such a way as to have a knot in the middle that, in this particular instance, acted as a magnifying glass would on the back of an ant.
Perhaps it was because the epicentre of the flame was the Alexander Pope shelf (near the bottom, in a dusty, cracked, dry corner) that it didn’t register with Audrey right away. Her hatred for Pope could actually be traced back to a little over ten years ago when a particularly arrogant instructor of hers, Staunton Macleach (seriously), refused to reveal whether Pope’s The Rape Of The Lock was satirical or really quite serious. Audrey was strangely infuriated by the entire affair, not to mention she found the Rape one of the most tedious works she’d ever dealt with, and released that bile onto the poet himself. So it was perhaps unfair that she would unconsciously let the man’s works burn, but there was no one there to blame her, so she really didn’t feel the urge to ruffle her character just for the sake of Alexander Pope. There was something growing, though, in the back of her mind, near her inner monologue region, and that sentence changed just the tiniest bit.
So it was perhaps unfair that she would unconsciously let the man’s works burn, but there was no one there to blame her, so she really didn’t feel the urge to ruffle her character just for the sake of a few books.
Quietly, completely composed, Audrey shuffled upstairs to the kitchen, filled a pitcher with cold tap water, and brought it back downstairs. Now, as she stood over the conflagration (so small it could be easily dismissed), she wondered why she shouldn’t just let the whole damn place burn to the ground, and her neighbours with it.
Then a spark hit her bare left foot and burned through. She screamed, panicked, and threw the water over the flame.
“It’s just too much excitement for a body to bear,” said a smooth, brogued voice from behind her. Audrey turned.
“Tom! Tom, I’m afraid I didn’t hear you come in, Tom.” He was ridiculously attractive, just as she remembered, all round and soft and pear-shaped. Audrey looked down at the small burn-hole in her foot and felt like a fool. “When did you get back?”
“Yesterday. I got here yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh. Well, then.” Her eyes darted about as she felt the blood roar about in her ears. “Did someone die?”
“Well, yes.” There was no reason for Tom McGuinn to lie. Death was the only reason he’d ever come back to this backwater. Death or failure.
There was a long silence, a cough from one of them, and a brief shuffling.
“Does the shop catch fire often?”
“Not anymore.” Audrey thought it was a fairly clever comeback, considering she couldn’t feel her right leg up to the knee.
There was a long, awkward pause.
“Well, who was it?” She felt graceless and large, as ugly as she could feel around Tom McGuinn. “Who died, Tom?”
“It was my grandmother. I thought you knew.”
“Well,” Audrey hobbled a bit on her foot to keep it from going numb, “I’ve been busy.”
Her words were choppy because she was lying. She had been, most days, bored practically to tears. She saw Tom look about the shop critically.
“Clearly,” his voice glistened with a soft mist of humour.
“Slow day, Tom.” Her smile was sheepish.
At this point, and any medical expert will confirm this, it was a miracle of nature and God that Audrey Gould hadn’t died. Her heart rate had increased by nearly thirty beats per minute, her muscles were coiled tightly enough to cramp and snap, and her nervous system had kicked down the door, contracting and tightening everything. She couldn’t move.
“Audrey -”
“Tom -”
Their voices coiled in the air and settled there in the dust. Audrey was standing in the offending shaft of sunlight, and the glow filtered through her solid frame as though she were a ghost, hanging in a fog of lust and fear and memory. Tom, however, looked as unfazed as always. He wanted for nothing, and was always more than pleased with what he got. But his face was heavy, Audrey knew, and his life was too complicated for her to understand, so she assumed it was simply too difficult for Tom to show emotions. It was better for her that way because -
“Are you unmanned, Audrey?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Married. I asked if you were married.”
“Tom…”
It was clear in that moment, a single snapshot of bright, lucid confidence, that Audrey was going to lose Tom. She was going to say something, whether she tried to or not, that was going to send him away.
“I’ve been - ”
“Where have you been,” she whispered, leaning her face into an invisible hand.
“I’ve been in New York, Audrey. And everything I see there reminds me of you.”
“Tom -”
“There are buildings there that are fifty storeys high, all dedicated to books, Audrey, just books. You would love it there.”
“Tom - ”
“You think I don’t know,” he interrupted quickly and emotionally, silencing Audrey Gould. “You think I never noticed, that you kept it such a precious secret.”
“I couldn’t tell you!” Audrey’s voice rang loudly along the high rafters, startling the mouse no one had discovered yet. She strengthened her tone and shouted, “I couldn’t tell you that I love you!”
But he isn’t there.
Tom McGuinn’s grandmother had died seven years ago of simply being too old. That was when Tom had moved from Dublin to New York with his wife Adele. Audrey had read about it in the local paper. Tom had never come back to England, nor did he have any intention of doing so.
So he wasn’t there.
And it was all the better, as far as Audrey was concerned.
She wouldn’t have gone with him anyway.
“Oh, shit,” she muttered calmly, pushing her chair back and dusting herself off. “The fucking shop’s on fire.”
And it was.
There was something Audrey had read several years ago that had really stuck with her: Somewhere in the mid-western United States, there was a great big pile of burlap sacks. The state, she thinks now that it was Nebraska, actually advertised this pile as a major attraction, and people would pack up the kids and drive out and take pictures of the thing. Now, there’s not much wind deflection out near The World’s Biggest Pile Of Burlap Sacks, and the sacks were constantly in a state of flux, shifting against each other, causing what had previously been estimated as a negligible amount of friction. Then one day, the whole damn structure just went up in a blaze.
The same manner of thing was going on now at the Riverby Book Cellar, only with, as one could imagine, books in the place of burlap sacks. The windows in the Cellar are ancient, dating back to the mid-to-late seventeen-hundreds, around the time the home country was at war with the colonies. The glass was blown in such a way as to have a knot in the middle that, in this particular instance, acted as a magnifying glass would on the back of an ant.
Perhaps it was because the epicentre of the flame was the Alexander Pope shelf (near the bottom, in a dusty, cracked, dry corner) that it didn’t register with Audrey right away. Her hatred for Pope could actually be traced back to a little over ten years ago when a particularly arrogant instructor of hers, Staunton Macleach (seriously), refused to reveal whether Pope’s The Rape Of The Lock was satirical or really quite serious. Audrey was strangely infuriated by the entire affair, not to mention she found the Rape one of the most tedious works she’d ever dealt with, and released that bile onto the poet himself. So it was perhaps unfair that she would unconsciously let the man’s works burn, but there was no one there to blame her, so she really didn’t feel the urge to ruffle her character just for the sake of Alexander Pope. There was something growing, though, in the back of her mind, near her inner monologue region, and that sentence changed just the tiniest bit.
So it was perhaps unfair that she would unconsciously let the man’s works burn, but there was no one there to blame her, so she really didn’t feel the urge to ruffle her character just for the sake of a few books.
Quietly, completely composed, Audrey shuffled upstairs to the kitchen, filled a pitcher with cold tap water, and brought it back downstairs. Now, as she stood over the conflagration (so small it could be easily dismissed), she wondered why she shouldn’t just let the whole damn place burn to the ground, and her neighbours with it.
Then a spark hit her bare left foot and burned through. She screamed, panicked, and threw the water over the flame.
“It’s just too much excitement for a body to bear,” said a smooth, brogued voice from behind her. Audrey turned.
“Tom! Tom, I’m afraid I didn’t hear you come in, Tom.” He was ridiculously attractive, just as she remembered, all round and soft and pear-shaped. Audrey looked down at the small burn-hole in her foot and felt like a fool. “When did you get back?”
“Yesterday. I got here yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh. Well, then.” Her eyes darted about as she felt the blood roar about in her ears. “Did someone die?”
“Well, yes.” There was no reason for Tom McGuinn to lie. Death was the only reason he’d ever come back to this backwater. Death or failure.
There was a long silence, a cough from one of them, and a brief shuffling.
“Does the shop catch fire often?”
“Not anymore.” Audrey thought it was a fairly clever comeback, considering she couldn’t feel her right leg up to the knee.
There was a long, awkward pause.
“Well, who was it?” She felt graceless and large, as ugly as she could feel around Tom McGuinn. “Who died, Tom?”
“It was my grandmother. I thought you knew.”
“Well,” Audrey hobbled a bit on her foot to keep it from going numb, “I’ve been busy.”
Her words were choppy because she was lying. She had been, most days, bored practically to tears. She saw Tom look about the shop critically.
“Clearly,” his voice glistened with a soft mist of humour.
“Slow day, Tom.” Her smile was sheepish.
At this point, and any medical expert will confirm this, it was a miracle of nature and God that Audrey Gould hadn’t died. Her heart rate had increased by nearly thirty beats per minute, her muscles were coiled tightly enough to cramp and snap, and her nervous system had kicked down the door, contracting and tightening everything. She couldn’t move.
“Audrey -”
“Tom -”
Their voices coiled in the air and settled there in the dust. Audrey was standing in the offending shaft of sunlight, and the glow filtered through her solid frame as though she were a ghost, hanging in a fog of lust and fear and memory. Tom, however, looked as unfazed as always. He wanted for nothing, and was always more than pleased with what he got. But his face was heavy, Audrey knew, and his life was too complicated for her to understand, so she assumed it was simply too difficult for Tom to show emotions. It was better for her that way because -
“Are you unmanned, Audrey?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Married. I asked if you were married.”
“Tom…”
It was clear in that moment, a single snapshot of bright, lucid confidence, that Audrey was going to lose Tom. She was going to say something, whether she tried to or not, that was going to send him away.
“I’ve been - ”
“Where have you been,” she whispered, leaning her face into an invisible hand.
“I’ve been in New York, Audrey. And everything I see there reminds me of you.”
“Tom -”
“There are buildings there that are fifty storeys high, all dedicated to books, Audrey, just books. You would love it there.”
“Tom - ”
“You think I don’t know,” he interrupted quickly and emotionally, silencing Audrey Gould. “You think I never noticed, that you kept it such a precious secret.”
“I couldn’t tell you!” Audrey’s voice rang loudly along the high rafters, startling the mouse no one had discovered yet. She strengthened her tone and shouted, “I couldn’t tell you that I love you!”
But he isn’t there.
Tom McGuinn’s grandmother had died seven years ago of simply being too old. That was when Tom had moved from Dublin to New York with his wife Adele. Audrey had read about it in the local paper. Tom had never come back to England, nor did he have any intention of doing so.
So he wasn’t there.
And it was all the better, as far as Audrey was concerned.
She wouldn’t have gone with him anyway.