They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.
—Edgar Allan Poe, “Eleonora”
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” I asked my aunt. Laughter continued to rise up, little noise balloons bursting from the rows of bookshelves.
“It’s Norma.” Sadie smiled as she rang up a customer and cocked her head toward the stacks. “She’s holding court.”
Folding my jacket over my arm, I approached the cackling aisle—Au to Do (Jane Austen through Arthur Conan Doyle)—and peeked around the corner.
Three smartly dressed women, one of whom I recognized as a well-heeled resident of Larchmont Avenue, Quindicott’s poshest neighborhood, were in a lively conversation with our new part-time employee, Norma.
“Don’t be coy, sisters. You know what I’m saying is true.” Norma swept a hand through her cinnamon-brown pixie cut.
“Men are work. We all know that. They’re messy and difficult. They’re noisy. They snore, and they do the things we ask them to do in their own time or not at all.”
“Mostly not at all,” said Hazel Kraft, the bank president’s wife. The other women tittered.
“You see what I mean, then,” Norma went on. “I’m telling you this store is full of alternatives, because a book boyfriend is the better bet. He can sweep you off your feet, protect you like a Pinkerton, battle like a knight-errant, or be as deliciously daring as a pirate. He can take you on vacation, on an adventure, on an impossible quest. Why, a book boyfriend can even make sweet love to you.”
The women laughed as Norma lowered her voice conspiratorially.
“Best of all, you don’t have to cook for them, clean up after them, do their laundry, or even pay attention to them when you want alone time—which for me is the most important time of my day.”
Hazel Kraft frowned. “Sometimes I miss them when I’ve closed the book for the last time.”
“You can never really close the book, dear, because the warm feeling remains,” Norma insisted. “That’s because you’ve made a new friend—two of them really. The character you love, and the author, who likely has many more adventures for you to go on together.”
As Norma described potential “book boyfriends” as diverse as Sherlock Holmes, Walt Longmire, Jack Reacher, Philip Marlowe, Jamie Fraser, and Hercule Poirot, the ladies began chatting among themselves about their own favorites.
As they talked and laughed, Norma stepped back long enough to notice a boy, maybe fourteen, lurking nearby. She moved away from the group, and it looked to me like she was about to engage the youth. I quietly moved down a parallel book aisle so I could overhear that conversation—and peek between shelves to spy on them.
“You look like you’re lost,” Norma said to the youth, who simply shrugged.
“Don’t you like our young adult book selection?”
He made a face. “It’s a lot of girl stuff with romance and unhappy endings. Or adventure stories with girls as the heroes, while the guys just stand around, so who cares?”
I bit my tongue hearing that. I could have rattled off dozens of books we carried with boy protagonists. Or tried to persuade him to give a girl-led series a try. But Norma didn’t argue. Instead, she gently asked—
“What kind of books do you like, then?”
“Except for school assignments, I don’t really read books . . . much.”
“What’s your name?”
“Teddy Kraft.”
“Hazel’s your mom?”
“My stepmother. My real mom died when I was a kid.”
Norma nodded. “If you don’t read much, why did Hazel bring you?”
He shrugged again. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. My dad is out of town on business—again—and my best friend moved away last week. His mom got a good job in Boston.”
Norma nodded sympathetically. “That can be lonely, losing a buddy. Sounds like you need a new friend, someone who understands what you’re going through.”
Teddy didn’t reply.
“So, tell me, Teddy. Did you go to the movies with your friend? Watch TV?”
“Sure. All the time. Spooky stuff, mostly.”
“You like spooky stories, then?”
“Sure. They’re the best.”
“How about a whole book full of spooky stories, all of them written by an author who lost his mother when he was a baby? In fact, this author lost pretty much everything he ever loved. His home, his family, his friends and schoolmates. He even lost his young wife to tuberculosis. And do you know what he did?”
The boy shook his head.
“He put all the pain, all the loneliness, fear, and uncertainty he felt into his stories. And they are excellent stories. Some of the spookiest ever written. Poems, too. But along with the scary stuff you’ll find wisdom.”
As if by sleight of hand, a copy of The Portable Edgar Allan Poe appeared in Norma’s hand. She handed it to Teddy, who quickly leafed through the pages to the table of contents. Suddenly his sulking face lit up.
“ ‘The Fall of the House of Usher.’ ‘The Premature Burial.’ ‘The Pit and the Pendulum,’ ” he cried. “I saw these movies on TV. This Poe guy must have written them, right?”
“Something like that,” Norma replied, laughing. “You’ll find that the stories are a little bit different from the movies, but they are plenty spooky in their own way. There are a lot of big words, but this edition has notes to help you with those. So, are you interested?”
Teddy smiled and nodded.
“Your stepmother already has a full basket. Let’s slip this book in there with the rest of them, shall we?”
OKAY, JACK CONCEDED when I finished my story, you convinced me that Norma is as sweet as a hot cross bun on Easter Sunday. But I still don’t trust her.
“That’s no surprise,” I told the ghost. “Given your disposition, you’d suspect Mother Teresa of ulterior motives.”
Heaven’s got halos, baby, not the dirty earth. In my experience, everyone has a self-serving motive. And I’m suspicious of anyone livin’ on the lam when they don’t have to.
“There are plenty of people, perfectly respectable people, who choose to live off the grid.”
Off the griddle?
“The grid, Jack. Back in Aunt Sadie’s day they called it ‘dropping out,’ but it means the same thing. I’m sure Norma has her reasons for remaining a nomad.”
Yeah, but what are they? According to you, she’s some kind of book saint. So why hasn’t some Alvin stuck a ring on her pinkie?
“For goodness’ sake, Jack, why do you think she gave that book boyfriend speech? It’s not the 1940s anymore. Since your time, women have taken a giant leap forward. We have our own careers now, own our own businesses, forge our own futures. I’m living proof!”
Then why doesn’t Norma get a career? Or own a business, instead of traipsing around the country like a hobo?
I paused. “Maybe she’s trying to find herself.”
Or maybe she’s on the run, which is why you shouldn’t trust her, either.
Jack’s declaration was followed by another rumble of thunder. Just ahead I spied the first sign of my destination. The highest turret of the Finch Inn was peeking over the trees.
“We’re almost there,” I announced. “And you’ve failed to dissuade me. Despite your suspicions about Norma, I’m still offering her a job. I just hope she accepts.”
And I hope the broad’s not some escapee from a padded cell with a split personality and violent tendencies.
I would have laughed if it hadn’t been for the horrified shriek. A woman’s bloodcurdling cry blasted through the autumn air. I froze for a moment until I realized—it came from the direction of the Finch Inn!