The Best Little Bookstore in Brooklyn

The door unlocked with a click and Marjorie exhaled. A bright tone resounded above her head as she stepped from the already blazing sunshine to the safety of air conditioning. She meandered to the checkout area at the farthest corner; when designing the place, she envisioned customers entering and feeling at peace, not immediately bombarded with a line and clang of the cash register. Each detail was made so book-lovers would feel as at home here as she did. The length of the lines had dwindled over the years, and that charming clang had been replaced with the empty noiselessness of an iPad, but her bookstore remained as charming as ever. The perfect hidey-hole in the middle of Park Slope, if she did say so herself.

Her purse glided from her shoulder as she ran her hand over the cherry wood turntable. Once the vinyl she chose began to crackle, she stopped to admire the counter, a brilliant find from an antique store that no longer existed. The best part was the built-in glass case displaying the first-edition books that were never for sale. One began to catch her eye when the entry bell rang out again. Tricia burst through the door, carrying two cardboard cups and her usual aqua backpack.

“Morning, Marge,” she crooned, drawing out the words in a warm melody.

“How are ya, kid,” Marge echoed. They developed this greeting ritual about a month after Tricia started her job as the store’s “Sales Associate” - a title Marjorie figured sounded most professional on the Help Wanted sign she had made two years ago - had it already been two years? - and the routine remained unchanged.

Tricia set the coffees down and pulled her laptop ostensibly out of thin air. She began to scan the room while her piano-player fingers tapped at the keyboard.

“Everything looks spic and span to me,” Marjorie stated, eyeing a stiffness in her coworker. Tricia usually brought in the cheer and liveliness, but today she only looked anxious.

“That chair’s dusty. I got it,” Tricia chirped before Marjorie could object. The 28-year old bounced off from the seat she had taken moments ago and grabbed a Swiffer duster from the closet behind them. I miss bouncing, Marjorie thought. She was far from fragile, a by-product of having lived in New York for nearly five decades, but for a minute she let herself yearn for swift movements without yelping joints.

Another side effect of being a New Yorker was a lack of faith, yet she believed Tricia was an absolute godsend. At her interview, Marjorie was immediately taken with her glowing skin and tightly-coiled hair - to which Tricia later said made her feel fetishized (at least she thinks that was the word used). But it was the girl’s wit, tech savvy, and clear passion for books that got her hired. That, and she was the only interviewee who didn’t make Marjorie feel like a nursing home patient. Since then, the girl was the best addition she’d ever made. It was Tricia’s idea to have a read-along every Friday for neighborhood kids; it was Tricia’s idea to have a section dedicated to up-and-coming Black authors; it was Tricia’s idea to host a block party for the store’s thirtieth anniversary, happening in a matter of weeks. When asked, she explained concepts that were unfamiliar to Marjorie such as misogynoir and viewing the gender binary as a construct. How everything ran before her was an entire mystery.

The chocolate leather chair was now gleaming as Tricia turned to the glass side table. “You may be dusting a lot today,” Marjorie warned. “It’ll be a slow one, I swear everyone’s allergic to the scent of bound paper on Tuesdays.”

“It’ll pick up later. You know, um. While we have the time...” Tricia chewed her words while spending longer than usual hanging up the Swiffer. “I wanted to discuss some...some numbers I’ve been noticing.”

“Numbers? Oh, hold on, let me grab my book.” Marjorie turned towards the underbelly of the desk, filled with scrawled reminders, flyers, and various novels waiting to be put back into their temporarily shelved homes. The little black book she used to record each transaction was not in its usual place, tucked in the left-hand drawer.

“Yeah, that’s part of it. So, you know how I’ve been transferring the store’s records from your notebooks into a database?”

“Well of course, but you know I don’t really understand what you’re doing there, it’s your expertise.”

“Sure, but I’ve been going over your notes from the past few months and...I’ve just seen some discrepancies.”

“Discrep - what? That’s certainly a big word.”

“It’s a medium word.” Tricia paused. Marjorie noticed the leftovers of her soft smile being upstaged by hardening eyes.

“The sales you’ve recorded don’t seem to match with the actual revenue. It’s a hard time for independent bookstores, that’s not, like, a secret. But it’s already almost June and...based on what we have in store and in the bank, we haven’t even made the sales we did by the end of February last year.”

Another pause.

“But your book says otherwise. I think - well, it seems like you’ve been adding sales out of...nowhere.”

Marjorie was silent as she willed the growing throb in her chest to lessen. Everything around her had started to melt; the pine green walls dripping onto the books, spilling into the deep burgundy carpet in a mass multicolor puddle. She looked up at Tricia, who was, for the first time, making her feel old. Old and pitiful.

“Dear, you must be off.”

“I wish I was, Marge, but I’m not.”

“I’ve got horrible handwriting you know, sloppy, it’s chicken scratch. You may have misread here and there.”

“I can read your handwriting just fine, and it’s not just here and there, it’s happening on every page.”

A flame started kindling inside her stomach. “I see. Alright. And where are those pages? Where is my book? Awfully strange the one day I can’t find it, you bring this up.”

“Listen, I don’t know where the book is, that’s not the point. I want to know why you’ve been adding sales.”

“Well, you practically run things at this point, you tell me.”

Tricia opened her mouth, closed it and looked at the ceiling. She stayed in this position for a minute; perhaps it was twenty. Marjorie chose to focus on the sleeve of her red jacket, eyes glazing until she saw red all over.

“I’m gonna step out. We can talk about this later.”

“Trish, I need you to work today. The block party is in two weeks.”

“I can take some flyers with me. Let’s just cool off, you’re upset -”

“I’m not upset, you work for me, and you can’t just leave whenever you feel like it. I say what goes, I’m your boss.”

“Not acting like one,” Tricia muttered.

“You’re fired.”

In all her life experience, Marjorie could recall just three moments when she felt immediate regret. The first was not being at her mother’s funeral, the second was marrying Clarence, and the third was what just came out of her mouth. Tricia froze, wearing the same blank face she had when a customer asked to see the owner. Marjorie looked away so she wouldn’t be trapped by those frozen eyes. She willed herself to say she didn't mean it, she was in a crabby mood, she was only pulling her leg, why on earth would she fire the best employee she’d ever had, who had become more like a friend. A best friend. They should sit down, every problem has a solution. But her throat was too full of fire for any use.

“If that's what you want.”

Tricia loudly shut her laptop and roughly stuffed it in her backpack, swinging it over her shoulder with so much force that it hit her back with a thud. A shine rose in her eyes for a moment before she blinked and turned towards the door. Her chin was high but her walk was steady, like she was ready to stop if asked to. But she was not asked to. Marjorie didn't blink until the ding of the bell marked an exclamation point on Tricia’s absence, echoing throughout the empty store.

Senses that were blurred came back into focus: the sour aftertaste of black coffee, a faint smudge on the corner of her glasses, Aretha Franklin shouting out to “Think”. As she centered herself, she concluded that Tricia had to come back. Or did she? It wouldn’t be that hard to find someone else with two to three years of bookselling experience just weeks before the store’s biggest event. Tricia had to come back. All she needed was the damned black book. That girl would know. She hid it, or stole it, perhaps. Probably wanted to buy the place once it fell under. There weren’t that many added sales, were there? Marjorie had thought it would go unnoticed, just a few extra numbers. Looking back now she supposed it was a near-literal cooking of the books. A stupid idea. But her bookstore was worth having stupid ideas for.

The hunt began. Marjorie prowled about the store, scanning the bookshelves for anything bound in black suede. She peered around the windowsill plants, shoved her hand in furniture crevices where phones and keys often met their fate, even found herself on hands and knees to see if it had fallen, only to realize with regret that she had to get back up. Her breath quickened as the book continued to be invisible. She cursed herself for being a small business owner in the most unforgiving city in the world. It was nothing but an impulse decision after a bitter divorce that mutated into furious determination, leading her friends to discuss a possible mid-life crisis. But she proved everyone wrong, because it was a success. At least for a while. She cursed her pride, and she cursed herself for being alone.

She kept cursing until something else caught her eye. A book, her favorite book, propped up inside the glass display case. The wrinkled ashen cover of Fahrenheit 451 carried her into the tobacco-coated study of her father’s, where he’d excitedly explain how a small batch of copies was bound in asbestos, thus making them impossible to burn. It was her most precious possession, yet for the past year a voice nipped at her ear, a cruel idea that she’d bury as soon as it arose. Just sell it. If she did, an offer of twenty grand would be the minimum. Her father would do the same, she tried to convince herself. It would also feel like selling one of her organs in a back alley with the word betrayal screaming in her face. Marjorie shook her head, combing through every possible answer. Alas, this heirloom was the best she had. Now all she had to do was call Tricia, tell her everything, find a buyer, and -

A sharp thump hit the door. Marjorie whipped her head around, too jumpy to make any customer feel at ease. But no one was in front of the door, simply the same old passerby rushing back and forth in their own fishbowls of journeys and errands. She opened the door and nearly tripped on the flat package below. Marjorie tore the manila folder and hesitantly pulled out what she had been looking for. Peeking out of the little black book was a lavender index card that read:

Fell in my bag as I was leaving.

I guess it was in front of us the whole time? Pretty cliché.

Hope the answer is just as evident.

Trish

A chuckle escaped and twisted into a sob. Clutching the envelope to her chest, Marjorie made a mental note to expunge every mistake. She marched back inside and took out her phone. With an exhale that shook her ribs, she dialed and waited for an answer.