The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“Thanks, Liz.”


I hang up and wait for Liz’s email. From the corner of the desk the book stares at me. An interesting object in itself, it appears to be both diary and account book for a traveling show. Peabody’s Portable Magic and Miracles, a whimsically ludicrous name. Why my grandmother’s name is inscribed on a back page is a mystery. The early pages detail the running of the show, listing various towns, money made, and traveling routes. Elaborate handwriting makes the narrative sections a difficult read, but they center on the development of an act involving a mute boy, Amos. The last portion of the book is horribly damaged. The leather on the back is ruined and the ink on the last pages is a wash of brown, blue, and black—reduced to its base elements by chromatography and time. Thumbing through reveals a second owner; where the earlier pages were filled with sketches, the latter are neat, free of drawings and confined to lists of income, dates, and names. Then the water damage.

Janice’s door clicks open and closed as she works her way through the entire staff. Marci, the children’s librarian, has just gone in when I see it. There, in plain black letters, a name. Bess Visser. Dead. July the 24th, 1816. Drowned.

I know that name. Worse still, I know the date. The flinch is involuntary and almost painful. My mother drowned on July 24th.

“Simon?” Alice looks over my shoulder. Tired. Frank’s daughter is a neatly put together woman. I know her too well to call her beautiful, though an upturned nose, sharp chin, and thoughtful eyes make her so. She’s just Alice, which is everything and nothing, and awkward because I’ve seen her every day since I can remember. Unrealized or unrequited, choosing between the words doesn’t change what Alice and I are, or that she is off-limits. Because of Frank. Because of my parents. I run my hand down my face. She sighs.

“Janice will find the money,” I say.

“She always does,” Alice says. “Trust in the archive.”

“In the archive we trust. Liz at North Isle is sending over leads. Just in case.”

“Just in case. Right.” Her eyes land on the book and she traces her fingers across the cover. “This is really old.”

“Someone sent it to me. I’m not sure why.”

“Ah, a puzzle. You like puzzles.”

I would agree, but the book feels different now that I’ve seen a familiar name. Drowned on July 24th, like my mother. It’s a small piece of awfulness. “It’s a little off. My grandmother’s name is in it. I spoke with the guy who sent it. He’s a bookseller, antiquarian type. Says he got it at auction. I don’t know what to make of him.”

“Did you run a search on him? This is a library; research wouldn’t be unheard of.” She leans against the desk. The subtle curve between her waist and hip is juxtaposed against the reference stacks. Alice in contrast to encyclopedias.

“I haven’t had time. I walked in the door and then Janice…”

We’re both quiet. It’s difficult to breathe when the air is pungent with the stench of oncoming layoffs.

“Dinner. Take me to dinner,” Alice says.

“Sorry?”

“I’ll help. Give me the name of the guy who sent you the book and I’ll check into him for you. In return, you buy me dinner. Not at the Pump House, either. I want to go somewhere nice with good wine. Today is terrible and I want to go out.” She pushes back from the desk, bouncing on her toes.

“I promise I won’t take you to the Pump House.” For so many reasons. Because it’s filled with blaring televisions, bloated people bent over stale beers, and because I worked there and ate enough shift meals that just the thought of the Pump House is nauseating.

“Perfect. Pick me up at seven so I can grab a shower first. What was his name?”

“Martin Churchwarry. Churchwarry and Son Booksellers. Iowa.”

*

Alice’s apartment is in Woodland Heights near what’s left of a strawberry farm, and when I pull up she is waiting for me. I take her to La Mer because it’s where you take women to dinner. It’s on the water and at night the lights from Connecticut shine across the harbor like they’re crying. The waiters have accents and things come with sauces—there may be a Saucier. Alice wears a short pink dress, cut for people to admire her legs. I do. At work she wears practical pants and flats made for bending, stretching, and the dust that comes with libraries. In high school I saw her legs in her field hockey skirt. They were good then; they’re better now. Her hair is half pinned behind one ear, the rest loose down her back. This is not a date. This is Alice. She smiles when I tell her she looks nice, a slight twist of her mouth.

“You clean up well too,” she says. Then the waiter appears and Alice orders a glass of wine. “Have no fear, I won’t break your bank.”