The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“Cartomancy?” he says with a light laugh. “I’m sure I must have something around. There’s always at least a little interest in the subject. Hang on a moment.”


I hear him walking around, the subtle thump of slippered feet, followed shortly by the sound of claws scrabbling on hardwood and a muttered, “Down, Sheila.” So, he keeps a dog in the shop. I imagine it’s a beagle. Something about Churchwarry screams beagle. He descends a staircase, a subtle change in creaking boards. “Let’s see. I don’t typically keep a large occult section—my father was more a classics man—but it’s never a bad idea to have a few volumes. Ah. Oh, here you are, you sneaky bastard. The Tenets of the Oracle. That’s all I’ve got at the moment. Lovely edition. 1910.”

I jot the title on an envelope and tuck it into my notebook. “Would you mind seeing if there’s a particular card in it? That is, if you aren’t busy.”

“Oh, not at all. Marie will be delighted that I’m speaking with a customer.” He chuckles and I can’t help but imagine a long-suffering wife, with wispy gray hair and plump cheeks. I describe the card and listen to him flipping softly through pages.

“Yes, that’s it. The sketch you described sounds very much like the Tower. The simple interpretation says that signifies abrupt change, probably violent.” There is quiet muttering. “There’s a much more detailed explanation, though it’s beyond me. I don’t know how helpful it will be as our book predates The Tenets by a century at least. You might look it up for yourself, though. The Tenets is a fairly common book—though my copy is splendid, should you be interested. Gilded edges. Embossed cover.”

“Something tells me I can’t afford your copy.”

“And the longer I hang on to it, the less I can afford to keep it. The two-sided problem,” he sighs.

“Lenders and sellers.”

“Neither with a penny to rub together,” he says, cheerfully. “I do enjoy talking to you, though. I hope you’ll tell me if you find anything else.”

“I will, Martin,” I say, and am startled to realize that I mean it. But there is no more time for reflection. The library beckons.

I shower, shave. The face looking back at me is tired. Messy black hair, a nicked chin, red bumps rising from an old razor and humidity that never lets sweat dry. Alice kisses this face. We’re having drinks at the Oaks tonight. There will be a band, a jazz quartet, I think—maybe funk? Music and drinks might make it a date, or two friends listening to music and having a drink. I press on my bleeding chin. Is this my breakfast face?

I grab the book and envelope. In the car, I stare back at the house. A gutter hangs precariously from the roof. When did that happen? I glance at the clock. I’ll need to get my hands on some braces. Easy-enough fix.

Ruminating over leaks, roof rot, jazz or funk quartets, I arrive at the library. The girls in circulation won’t look me in the eye. Marci turns away when I pass. The only greeting is an atmosphere of shame, which has a broad embrace.

I am losing my job.

A dignified man might go straight to Janice’s office, but I’m not dignified. I need my desk. The last stand I can make is sitting in the chair that has so become a part of me.

Not five minutes pass before the thumping of heels on high-traffic carpet approaches. Janice wears a dark pink suit today, a ragged edge material that’s too warm for July. Today’s earrings are silver periwinkle shells.

“Simon?”

“Can we do this here, Janice?”

She looks uncomfortable, her eyes maybe even a little shiny. Tears?

“It’s easier if we talk in my office.”

“If it’s all the same, I’d rather not walk by everyone again.”

A small parting of the lips, an ah. “I understand. Absolutely.” She begins the speech detailing how hard she fought, how if there was a way to scrape by without letting me go she’d have found it. I can’t listen, not even when she launches into how much she’s enjoyed working with me, seeing me grow. Pretending to listen is a favorite mask that wears comfortably.

“Reference will suffer for it,” she says.

Even if she means it, which she may, it rings of pity. There, by the periodicals, a thick red braid. Oh, hell. Alice gets to hear me get fired.

“I’m terribly sorry about this. There’s just nothing else to do.”

I hear myself agree to two weeks. Janice offers to make phone calls on my behalf. “Okay,” I say. Now I’m thanking her for letting me go, which is its own humiliation.

Fixing a broken gutter is pointless when there’s no money for the rest. With the passage of a few minutes both my homes are gone.