Chapter Four
Lori
One of the hard things about going to church in the South was the number of men telling me how I should and shouldn’t behave.
On Tuesday nights, I usually attended a Bible study for young singles at Summerville Methodist. We met in the church kitchen at around sundown and sat in a circle of brown folding chairs and drank lemonade out of clear plastic cups. The leader was a guy named Brian, who was only a few years younger than me, whose shirts were always immaculately ironed and who, as it happens, had recently married Olivia, a girl he had met in the Bible study.
Because I drove there straight from the bakery, I hadn’t had time to return home and change out of my work clothes. I had forgotten my Bible at home that morning, but I was carrying the book on Norse mythology, which I had been reading during my breaks at work. Neil had a way of enlivening a group of stories that had never much interested me.
There was a guy in our Bible study who seemed to think it was his job to police what the rest of us read and wore and watched on TV. His name was Alvin Barclay, and he was a stout man of about middle height with a beard that crept down off of his face and onto his neck. He liked to wear plaid, and on this particular evening, he had unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt so that a tangle of chest hair peeked through. He glared at me in disapproval as I came in as if already looking for something to be upset about.
But he didn’t corner me until after the lesson had ended when we were all sitting around and visiting with each other. He strode over with a self-important air, grabbed a chair, turned it around, and sat down with his legs on either side, using the upper back as an armrest. “What you reading there?” he asked.
Somehow, I managed to stammer out an answer. “It’s a book on Norse mythology. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of Neil Gaiman, but he’s a genius storyteller. He wrote Coraline and American Gods.”
But Alvin had evidently stopped listening at the word “mythology.” “That don’t sound like somethin’ a girl like you should be reading,” he said with an air of suspicion.
“I don’t see why not,” I said defensively. Nothing irritated me like being told what I could and couldn’t read, and it had happened more times than I could count. “Mythology is really fascinating.”
“All evil is fascinating,” said Alvin. “That’s how the devil tricks us.”
I didn’t feel like this was true at all, though it was hard to form a logical argument when he was staring me down like that. “They’re just interesting stories from an ancient culture. Haven’t you ever seen a superhero film?”
“Yeah, I love them.” He pronounced “yeah” so it sounded like “yeh.”
“Well, these were the superhero movies of their day.”
I ought to have known by now that there was no winning this argument, but I still retained a modest hope that I could open his mind a little. “No,” he said with a slow shake of his head, “because mythology was created by the devil to sow doubt in our hearts and counterfeit the truth of the gospel. When Thor and the Hulk are fighting, I know what I’m seeing on the screen isn’t real. But the stories of Homer or whoever turned people away from the true God to worship Zeus and the Cyclops.”
“The Cyclops wasn’t a god,” I pointed out. “He was a giant monster, and no one ever worshipped him.”
“All the same,” said Alvin, “they should have kept their minds set on things above rather than wasting their time coming up with these weird stories.”
“Why do you watch movies at all, then?” I replied.
Alvin was silent.
That might have been the end of the conversation if Brian hadn’t come strolling over at that moment. He was one of those bland, cheerfully smiling men who seem to have a pre-rehearsed answer for everything. “Is everything okay over here?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s just,” Alvin pointed an accusing finger at me, “she’s reading books that a girl ought not to be reading. She should know better.”
Brian turned to me and raised an inquiring brow. I held up the book in question so that he wouldn’t think I was reading porn or something. A look of relief washed over his face.
“Well,” he said slowly, “if Lori wants to read about mythology, that’s her right. Some things are obviously black and white, but then there are gray areas where a person is allowed to make up his own mind.” I smiled in vindication, but then Brian added, “Reading this book might be pointless and a waste of her time, but that doesn’t mean it’s a sin.”
And before either of us could respond, he walked away looking pleased with himself.
When I returned home that night, the apartment was empty. I made myself a large cup of Twining’s Earl Grey and sat up waiting for Sam to come home, but she was still out by the time I fell asleep on the couch watching Midsomer Murders. I didn’t see her again until the next morning at work. She came scurrying in about half an hour before we were scheduled to open and found me sweeping the floor behind the counter.
“Sorry I didn’t come home last night,” she said as she reached for her apron. “Jamal and I made dinner, and I decided it would be easier just to sleep over at his place.” Although Sam and I technically lived together, she spent so much of her time over there that she might as well have paid rent.
“It’s funny how much I miss you during the nights you’re gone,” I said. “You’ve stayed over at his place enough that by now I should be used to it, but it always feels weird when I have the apartment to myself.”
Sam tied back her hair and studied her appearance in the reflection of the window. “That was how I felt when you drove up to Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving. Don’t take this the wrong way, but at first, I was looking forward to having a few days to myself—Jamal wasn’t flying in until the end of the week. But after about two days of not having to go to work and not having anyone to talk to, I just felt bored. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Even painting didn’t help.”
While Sam sanitized the kitchen and I cleaned the baking bins, I told her about my argument with Alvin Barclay the night before. “Why does it seem like everywhere I go, there are people trying to control how I look and what I wear and the kinds of books I’m allowed to read?”
Sam stood, rinsing her hands in the sink. “Maybe because you’re small and a girl, so they think they can walk over you. Nobody messes with me, but that’s because they know better. Maybe if you got a couple tattoos, they’d leave you alone.”
“It just feels like I can’t carry a book around in public—any book—without somebody walking up to me and telling me I shouldn’t be reading it and that I’m a bad person for wanting to read it. Reading is a good thing, and it doesn’t happen nearly enough. We should encourage it.”
“Maybe they feel like you’re judging them,” said Sam. “Because they know they should be reading more books, but it never occurs to them until they see you walking around with your nose in a book. And then they feel guilty because they spent the last week playing Halo or whatever.”
“I never understood the appeal of video games, personally,” I said sadly. I had tried to play The Last of Us once and found it unbearably boring. “But see, boys can spend all day playing games, and no one ever jumps down their throat about it. It almost makes me wonder if there’s some latent prejudice against girls who are curious and bookish and intelligent.”
“Oh honey, there is,” said Sam.
“And I wish boys would realize that’s what they’re really saying. But they never phrase it like that. Instead, they hide their terror of smart girls in a lot of pious-sounding nonsense about ‘keeping our minds pure’ and ‘setting our thoughts on heaven.’ Anything to keep the mass of women subservient and blameless!”
Sam’s face broadened into a smile; she loved it when I got on my soapbox like this. Aunt Trish had made the mistake of giving me a copy of Walden to read when I was eleven, and I had never recovered. Before very long, I had acquired a reputation around middle school for being the girl who wanted other girls to be educated and think for themselves. “Nothing is more dangerous to the world,” I had said, “than a woman with a brain who isn’t afraid to use it.” My teachers had all loved me—my classmates, not so much.
“Anyway, sometimes it’s hard to keep my opinions to myself during work,” I told Sam. “Like when I see a guy trying to get the attention of a girl who has headphones on and clearly doesn’t want to talk. Or the times I’ve seen a mom being mean to her kids. But like you said, we’re running a business, not a crusade.”
“I usually just go home and vent all my rage to Twitter at the end of the day,” said Sam. “And you, of course.”
“I have to remind myself that there are always going to be people who are rude, and controlling, and sexist, and who have terrible opinions. There’s not much I can do about it during work hours, but as long as you’re here, I’ll bake you a pie and try to sell you on whatever book I’m reading at the moment.”
“I’ve been thinking we ought to get a bookshelf for the dining area.” Sam put on her gloves with a loud snap. “And maybe talk some of the local libraries into donating their used and discarded books. That was how I first ran across The Feminine Mystique: in a coffee shop I had ducked into to get out of the rain in Jersey.”
“Oof, you’re making me wish we had a bookshelf standing over there already.” I turned and stared into the corner where the shelf would presumably go. Already, I could picture kids gathered excitedly in front of it, fighting over the last copy of Frog and Toad Are Friends. There were few things that made me happier than the sight of kids reading. “And then maybe once a week we’ll bring someone in from the library to read to them.”
I was still making plans and pondering how we could get the libraries to contribute when the store opened at nine. We had an unusually boisterous crowd that morning. As if the sight of Old Joe pulling into the parking lot in his red Corvette wasn’t bad enough, he was soon joined by Alvin Barclay and Cheryl Cartwright, a woman in her fifties who gave tarot readings and was slightly batty. She had an obsession with prophecy and ghosts and was convinced that the spirits of the dead could talk to her.
“My dear woman!” she cried in a fervent tone, grabbing Sam by the arm as she walked by. “I perceive that you have lost something, something that was of great value to you.”
Sam shook her head. “Not recently, though if you find what’s left of my sanity, you’re welcome to return it.”
But Cheryl wasn’t going to admit defeat so easily. “When’s the last time you saw your purse? Are you sure it hasn’t been…stolen?”
“Unless you’re trying to tell me that you stole it, then no, it hasn’t,” she replied with unflappable calm. “It’s still sitting in the back office where I left it this morning, under lock and key.”
Cheryl sat down at the front counter with a resigned shrug. “I’ll have a raspberry muffin to start with,” she said in the same loud tone, still keeping an eye on Sam.
Old Joe, who had watched the altercation with a look of undisguised glee, turned to me and said, “It’s a lot of nonsense what the women get up to these days. Liberated from home and husband, woman will indulge her maddest instincts.”
“You best be careful, Joe,” I said in a warning voice. “Remember who you’re talking to.”
But Joe didn’t appear to be paying attention. “I can still remember the scandal Nancy Reagan caused when she brought an astrologer into the White House. Why does it seem like it’s always the woman who gets hoodwinked with Ouija boards and tarot cards and all this other flim-flammery? The man has more sense.”
“You obviously don’t know much about Abraham Lincoln,” said Sam. “He consulted with mediums before issuing the Emancipation Proclamation.”
“And wasn’t it Arthur Conan Doyle who got tricked by a couple of teen girls who claimed they had photographic evidence of fairies?” I added. “Men get fooled all the time; you just never see it because you don’t want to.”
Old Joe’s ears turned slightly pink. It was clear he wanted to scold me for talking back, but he knew better than to do it in my own shop.
Fortunately for him, though, Alvin came to his rescue. “Joe’s right, though. These days it seems like half the town is obsessed with the occult. Just last night, I caught you in church reading a book about magic.”
“It wasn’t a book about magic; it was a book of myths,” I said in exasperation. “They are not remotely the same thing.”
“It’s because the spirits are restless,” said Cheryl in her spookiest voice. “There are dark times ahead for this country, and they know it. They’ve seen the portents. Those of us who are spiritually sensitive have all felt it: a great wave of fear and bigotry and hatred in which love will grow cold and a man’s enemies will be his next of kin.”
“Cheryl, people have been saying that for forever,” I pointed out.
“No, but she’s right,” said Alvin—words that I never thought I would hear from his mouth. “We’re heading into the last days, and things are only going to get worse and worse.”
Cheryl beamed, pleased to have found some support from the unlikeliest of allies. “Last night, I had a dream. I saw a geyser of blood erupting out of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, rising and rising until it covered the tops of the Rockies. The whole country from the Jersey Shore to Big Sur was buried beneath it. No one was able to escape.”
I slid her plate across the counter. “And here is your muffin.”
I had hoped that eating might distract her, but in this, I was disappointed. She continued, “And you know who are going to be the leaders when the day of reckoning comes? The prophets. The mystics. The visionaries. And everyone who doubted us and everyone who made fun of us and laughed us to scorn will be looking to us for wisdom and protection.” She cast a beady eye on Sam as she said this. “Soon, even you will marvel at my foresight!”
Sam laughed lightly. “Cheryl, I doubt that.”
Just then, the front door was flung open, and Jamal came running into the room. “Sweetie, you left your wallet.” He flung a brown leather wallet across the counter toward Sam. “I found it this morning when I was cleaning up.”
“Aha!” Cheryl cried in a shrill voice of triumph. “You see!”
“Weird, I didn’t even know it was missing,” said Sam. She came out from behind the counter and gave Jamal a hug. “Sorry I can’t kiss you, but people are eating.”
“It’s okay, I’ll get kisses later,” said Jamal. “This is my planning period, and I need to hurry back before class starts.” Jamal taught eleventh grade English literature at the high school. “Where do you want to eat after work?”
“I’ll think about it and let you know.” Sam gave him another hug, this one longer than the last. “See you.”
With a trace of reluctance, Jamal turned around and left, casting a single glance back at Sam as he went.
The silence was interrupted by Old Joe.
“See, this is what happens when traditional gender roles are called into question,” he said in a tone of irritation. “You have a man running in here to deliver a girl her missing wallet. How humiliating for him! Might as well have brought you your purse while he was at it!”
“My purse is in the back office,” Sam said again, “and gender roles have got nothing to do with it. It was an act of kindness, the sort of thing people do when they love each other.”
Old Joe merely shook his head darkly. “Women wearing pants and men carrying women’s wallets. If General Sherman were alive to see what’s become of this country, he would weep!”
While they argued, I stood at the counter feeling increasingly perplexed. “I don’t—what does a man bringing a woman her wallet have to do with anything?”
“I think Old Joe thinks it’s emasculating,” said Sam as the door opened again, and a couple of young guys entered the store. “Like, he must feel like some kind of pansy for having to carry that thing.”
“Shame,” I replied. “What were you thinking, forcing him to treat you with respect?”
“Yep, that’s me, the destroyer of men’s masculinity.”
“Where does it end?” shouted Old Joe. “He’ll be buying your feminine products next!”
“Oh, Joe,” said Sam, hardly able to contain her laughter. “He already does.”