Haunting Jasmine by Anjali Banerjee Page B

me. I need to sign the papers. I haven’t agreed to anything.
    In the late afternoon, an elderly man, hunched and stiff, slips into the children’s book room. He checks through the picture books. Dr. Seuss, animal books…
    “Can you help me?” he whispers, then looks around. “Ruma always helps me.”
    “Books for the children in your life?” I say. Tony is in another room, helping someone else.
    The man blushes and nods.
    “What kind of book are you looking for?” I haven’t read a picture book in decades. Outside, the rain is falling steadily.
    “Easy ones,” he whispers.
    “For a girl or a boy?”
    “Boy.”
    “How old is he?”
    The man scratches his chin with a thick forefinger and thumb, his nails worn down. “I have trouble keeping track.”
    A book falls with a thud, one aisle over. A voice whispers, He does not want it for a boy, he does not want it for a toy….
    “Excuse me? Hello?” I turn the corner, but nobody’s there. I return to the man.
    “Are you looking for books for… yourself ?” I say. I don’t mean to sound—or look—incredulous, but I can’t help it. The man must have just learned to read. He must be sixty years old.
    His face reddens in blotches. He tosses his book on the table and hurries toward the exit. I run after him. “Sir, wait!” But he leaves in a whirlwind of shame.
    “What was that all about?” Tony asks behind me. He peers out the window. “What did you say to him?”
    “I asked if the picture books were for him.”
    “Brava, Jasmine. Score.” Tony rolls his eyes.
    “The poor man. Should I go after him?”
    “Let him go. He’ll be back.”
    But the man does not return. I wish I’d caught his name.
    My eyes are itchy from dust, and I’m shivering. The heating system must be on the blink. I close the two open windows, which both popped open on their own, after I fiddled with them.
    In the evening, I’m about to close the store, when a slim, tanned woman in a double-breasted Burberry raincoat rushes in, cheeks flushed. She’s bony and compact, no part of her wasted. “Hello, Jasmine. I’m Lucia Peleran. Doctor Lucia Peleran. Welcome back to Fairport. Is the town the way you remember it?”
    I step back and smile. How does she know who I am? “My aunt must have told you about me.”
    “We’re delighted to have you back.” She gazes closely at my face, so I can smell the faint odor of peppermint on her breath. “If you ever need your back adjusted, you pop right on down to Fairport Chiropractic, and I’ll get you fixed right up. You look like you might be out of alignment.”
    I roll my shoulders and turn my head from side to side. “Nope, I feel just fine.”
    Her penciled eyebrows pull together. “No kinks? I would think a woman in your situation might have a few knots.”
    “In my situation?” My stomach tightens. What does she know?
    She waves a bony hand, her fingers like the bare twigs on a leafless shrub. “We’ve all been there, honey, believe me. Just about every woman in this town.”
    “Been where?” I’ve been shoved into an unwelcome spotlight.
    She leans in close. “I went on a terrible date right after my divorce, as well. He wanted to get me into bed. And I realized that it was too soon.”
    “Excuse me,” I say, clenching my hands. “I’m not interested in discussing my personal life.”
    She keeps right on going. “I needed to take care of myself, go to a spa, sit in a hot tub. An adjustment is what you need—”
    “I’m absolutely fine. I’ve been alone for nearly a year.” I told Auntie about my one disastrous attempt to go out on a blind date soon after the separation—a setup orchestrated by my best friend, Carol. I wore a red dress that caught in the car door. I burst into tears before we even reached the restaurant, and the poor man had to take me home. Auntie shared this personal story with strangers. I’m going to kill her.
    “The pain takes a long time to go away,” Dr. Peleran is saying. “My