The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“It was on the floor.”


“Fine,” she says. And I learn the meaning of a long-suffering sigh.

If I was hoping for softness, the Alice who opens the door lacks it. She helps lift me onto the couch, arms under my shoulders, with the efficiency of an ER nurse.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Yes, you are.” Before she leaves she slings a bag over one shoulder. “I’ll take those books now.”

The Tenets of the Oracle. “You said it would look bad if you brought them back. I promise I’ll do it. Just give me a day.”

She chews on her bottom lip and though she’s angry it’s lovely, drawing attention to a dark freckle in the valley between lip and chin. “What’s going on, Simon? I feel like you’re not here anymore.”

I tell her that it’s Enola.

She sighs. “It always is.”

“She likes you,” I say. “She thinks you’re good for me.”

She leans against the door and though she’s here, she’s somewhere else, too. “It’d be nice if you were good for me,” she says.

“I do want to leave here, eventually,” I say. “I don’t want to take the money.”

“Good,” she says absently. “Keep that elevated.” And then she’s out the door. I push up on my hands to watch her go. She’s at her car when she calls, “I’ll cool off. Eventually.”

I wonder, just maybe, if she and Enola talk.

If Enola is right and there isn’t a curse, if we are just a sad family, the sort that’s chemically unable to stay alive, if we drown ourselves for that reason, then my sister just told me there’s nothing I can do for her. That is not a possibility.

Near the desk is a color printout of a flyer, an excerpt from H. W. Calvin’s Guide to Entertainments for the Discerning Gentleman—a guide to clubs, speakeasies, and brothels, a piece of propaganda from the burlesque days of Celine Duvel, before she became the Mermaid Girl of Cirque Marveau. A fine line sketch shows that Celine Duvel is one of us: dark hair, light skin, eyes like Enola.

Back at the book again I discover a twisted little secret. More torn pages. Enola has ripped out every single sketch of tarot cards, each one carefully scored and removed with a thumbnail. She lied to my face. Who does that to a book, defaces art like that? My sister, of course, systematically destroying things for reasons she won’t say. I should have photocopied everything. I should have never left her alone with it, not after seeing her destroy that first page. I hadn’t thought. Maybe we’re just sad, she said, as though she is deeply sad.

Always women. Drowned women make a paper river on my desk. No mention of a single son. Lovers, bereaved husbands, aggrieved fathers abound, but a son? A brother? No, only me. I am an anomaly. While she continually shuffles cards and defaces my already damaged book. How did it become so ruined?

The phone rings. It’s the man who sent me a book I shouldn’t have, that he shouldn’t have had, unless something terrible happened. It’s not a coincidence that the women die on July 24th; there are too many names. I pick up the call.

“Simon? I hadn’t heard from you. Have you had any success with Binding Charms? Is it helpful?”

“Yes, sort of. It’s intense reading.”

He hums agreement. “I know. I suspect that’s why I haven’t been able to sell it. It’s a lovely volume, but dense is an understatement. However, it was the best thing I had on hand. I—well, I know what I said in the note but you can keep it if you like, if you find it useful.”

Maybe it’s the pain in my leg offering the right amount of distraction but pieces of what I read in Binding Charms slip together with something Enola said. “Martin, I think I’ve figured out something. Something very bad happened to the people who owned this book. I think there was a flood or an accident.” I run a thumb across a water-ruined page. “Something bad enough that it could almost infect—is that the right word?—infect an object, or anyone who survived with a piece of it. I think this book survived something terrible, and that it’s marked because of it. I think my family may be too, and that’s what’s killing us.”

There’s a quiet pause. “I’ve been thinking. There’s a danger with books. Text often breeds a notion of infallibility. It’s very easy for someone like you or me to get lost in an object, to accept certain ideas as fact without proper exploration. I think perhaps we’ve both done that a bit.”