“Isn’t it?” Margene says. “You didn’t think all this child-rearing advice came for free, did you?”
In April, The Paris Wife. In June, A Reliable Wife. In August, American Wife. In September, The Time Traveler’s Wife. In December, he runs out of decent books with wife in the title. They read Bel Canto.
“And it wouldn’t hurt you to expand the picture-book section,” Penelope, who always looks exhausted, suggests. “The kids should have something to read when they’re here, too.” The women bring their own little ones for Maya to play with, so it only makes sense. Not to mention, A.J. is tired of reading The Monster at the End of This Book, and though he has never been particularly interested in picture books before, he decides to make himself an expert. He wants Maya to read literary picture books if such a thing exists. And preferably modern ones. And preferably, preferably feminist ones. Nothing with princesses. It turns out that these works most definitely do exist. One night, he finds himself saying, “As a form, the picture book has a similar elegance to the short story. Do you know what I mean, Maya?”
She nods seriously and turns the page.
“The talent of some of these people is astounding,” A.J. says. “I honestly had no idea.”
Maya taps on the book. They are reading Little Pea, the story of a pea who has to eat all his sweets before he can have vegetables for dessert.
“It’s called irony, Maya,” A.J. says.
“Iron,” she says. She makes an ironing gesture.
“Irony,” he repeats.
Maya cocks her head, and A.J. decides that he will teach her about irony some other day.
CHIEF LAMBIASE IS a frequent visitor to the store, and to justify these visits, he buys books. Because Lambiase doesn’t believe in wasting money, he reads the books, too. At first, he had mainly bought mass-market paperbacks—Jeffery Deaver and James Patterson (or whoever writes for James Patterson)—and then A.J. graduates him to trade paperbacks by Jo Nesb? and Elmore Leonard. Both authors are hits with Lambiase, so A.J. promotes him again to Walter Mosley and then Cormac McCarthy. A.J.’s most recent recommendation is Kate Atkinson’s Case Histories.
Lambiase wants to talk about the book as soon as he gets to the store. “So the thing is, at first I kind of hated the book, but then it grew on me, yeah.” He leans on the counter. “Because, you know, it’s about a detective. But it moves kind of slow and most things go unsolved. But then I thought, That’s how life is. That’s how the job really is.”
“There’s a sequel,” A.J. informs him.
Lambiase nods. “Not sure I’m on board for that yet. Sometimes I like everything solved. Villains get punished. Good guys triumph. That sort of thing. Maybe another one of those Elmore Leonards, though. Hey A.J., I’ve been thinking. Maybe you and me could start a book club for law enforcement officers? Like, other cops I know might like reading some of these stories, and I’m the chief, so I’d make them buy books here. It wouldn’t have to only be cops. It could be law enforcement enthusiasts, too.” Lambiase squeezes Purell on his hands and bends down to pick up Maya.
“Hey, pretty girl. How you doing?”
“Adopted,” she says.
“That is a very big word.” Lambiase looks at A.J. “Hey, is this square? Did this really happen?”
The process had taken the average amount of time, concluding the September before Maya’s third birthday. The major strikes against A.J. had included his lack of a driver’s license (he had never gotten one on account of his seizures) and, of course, the fact that he is a single man who had never raised a child or even a dog or a houseplant. Ultimately, A.J.’s education, his strong ties to the community (i.e., the bookstore), and the fact that the mother had wanted Maya to be placed with him had outweighed the strikes.
“Congratulations to my favorite book people!” Lambiase says. He throws Maya in the air, then catches her and sets her on the ground. He leans across the counter to shake A.J.’s hand. “Naw. I gotta hug you, man. This is hug-worthy news,” the cop says. Lambiase moves behind the counter to embrace A.J.
“Let’s have a toast,” A.J. says.
A.J. hoists Maya to his hip, and the two men go upstairs. A.J. puts Maya to bed, which takes forever (the intricate affairs of her toilet and two entire picture books), and Lambiase gets the bottle started.
“You gonna christen her now?” Lambiase asks.
“I’m neither Christian nor particularly religious,” A.J. says. “So no.”
Lambiase considers this, drinks a bit more wine. “You didn’t ask for my two cents, but you ought to at least have a party to introduce her to people. She’s Maya Fikry now, right?”
A.J. nods.
“People should know this. You gotta give her a middle name, too. Plus, I think I ought to be her godfather,” Lambiase says.
“What would that entail exactly?”
“Well, let’s say the kid’s twelve and she gets caught shoplifting at the CVS. I’d probably use my influence to intervene.”
“Maya would never do that.”
“That’s what all parents think,” Lambiase says. “Basically, I’d be your backup, A.J. People should have backups.” Lambiase finishes off his glass. “I’d help you with the party.”
“What would a not-christening party entail?” A.J. asks.
“It’s not a big deal. You have it in the store. You buy Maya a new dress from Filene’s Basement. I bet Ismay can help with that. You get food from Costco. Those big muffins, maybe? My sister says they’ve got a thousand calories a piece. And some frozen stuff. Nice stuff. Coconut shrimp. A big hunk of Stilton. And since it’s not going to be Christian—”
A.J. interrupts. “For the record, it’s not going to be un-Christian either.”
“Right. My point is you can serve booze. And we invite your brother-in-law and sister-in-law and those ladies you hang out with and everyone else who has taken an interest in little Maya, which I’ll tell you, A.J., is just about the whole town. And I’d say some nice words as the godfather, if you decide to go that way. Not a prayer, ’cause I know you’re not into that. But you know I’d wish the little girl well on this journey we call life. And you’d thank everyone for coming. We all raise a glass to Maya. Everyone goes home happy.”
“So it’s basically like a book party.”
“Yeah, sure.” Lambiase has never been to a book party.
“I hate book parties,” A.J. says.
“But you run the bookstore,” Lambiase says.
“It’s a problem,” A.J. admits.
MAYA’S NOT-CHRISTENING PARTY is held the week before Halloween. Aside from several of the children in attendance wearing Halloween costumes, the party is indistinguishable from either a christening christening or a book party. A.J. watches Maya in her pink party dress, and he feels a vaguely familiar, slightly intolerable bubbling inside of him. He wants to laugh out loud or punch a wall. He feels drunk or at least carbonated. Insane. At first, he thinks this is happiness, but then he determines it’s love. Fucking love, he thinks. What a bother. It’s completely gotten in the way of his plan to drink himself to death, to drive his business to ruin. The most annoying thing about it is that once a person gives a shit about one thing, he finds he has to start giving a shit about everything.
No, the most annoying thing about it is that he’s even started to like Elmo. There are Elmo paper plates on the folding table with the coconut shrimp, and A.J. had blithely gone to multiple stores to procure them. Across the room in Best Sellers, Lambiase is giving a speech that consists of clichés, albeit heartfelt and applicable ones: how A.J. has turned lemons into lemonade, how Maya is a silver-lined cloud, how God’s closed door / open window policy really does apply here, and so forth. He smiles at A.J., and A.J. raises his glass and smiles back. And then, despite the fact that A.J. does not believe in God, he closes his eyes and thanks whomever, the higher power, with all his porcupine heart.
Ismay, A.J.’s choice for godmother, grabs his hand. “Sorry to abandon you, but I’m not feeling well,” she says.
“Was it Lambiase’s speech?” A.J. says.
“I might be getting a cold. I’m going home.”
A.J. nods. “Call me later, okay?”
It is Daniel who calls later. “Ismay’s in the hospital,” he says flatly. “Another miscarriage.”
That makes two in the last year, five total. “How is she?” A.J. asks.
“She’s lost some blood and she’s tired. She’s a sturdy old mare, though.”
“She is.”
“It’s a bad business all-around, but unfortunately,” Daniel says, “I’ve got to catch an early flight to Los Angeles. The movie people are buzzing.” The movie people are always buzzing in Daniel’s stories, though none of them ever seem to sting. “Would you mind going to check on her at the hospital, make sure she gets home all right?”
Lambiase drives A.J. and Maya to the hospital. A.J. leaves Maya in the waiting room with Lambiase and goes in to see Ismay.
Her eyes are red; her skin, pale. “I’m sorry,” she says when she sees A.J.
“For what, Ismay?”
“I deserve this,” she says.
“You don’t,” A.J. says. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“Daniel’s an asshole for making you come out,” Ismay says.
“I was glad to,” A.J. says.
“He cheats on me. Do you know that? He cheats on me all the time.”
A.J. doesn’t say anything, but he does know. Daniel’s philandering is not a secret.
“Of course you know,” Ismay says in a husky voice. “Everyone knows.”
A.J. says nothing.
“You do know, but you won’t talk about it. Some misguided male code, I suppose.”
A.J. looks at her. Her shoulders are bony under the hospital gown, but her abdomen is still slightly round.
“I look a mess,” she says. “That’s what you’re thinking.”
“No, I was noticing that you’re growing out your hair. It’s nice that way.”
“You’re sweet,” she says. At that moment, Ismay sits up and tries to kiss A.J. on the mouth.
A.J. leans away from her. “The doctor says you can go home right now if you’d like.”
“I thought my sister was an idiot when she married you, but now I see you’re not that bad. The way you are with Maya. The way you are now, showing up. Showing up is what counts, A.J.
“I think I’d rather stay here tonight,” she says, flipping away from A.J. “There’s no one at my house, and I don’t want to be that alone. What I said before is true. Nic was the good girl. I’m bad. I married a bad man, too. And I know that bad people deserve what they get, but oh, how we hate to be alone.”