some of our friends, Vicky’s and mine, have not been very attentive since her death. But that, I decide, is because she was the attraction, not I. “Well,” I lift my glass, “here’s to a new life for you, too.”
“I am not a people person like you,” Joan says thoughtfully, “but I enjoy working here.”
“We make a good team.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“The only trouble is I feel I’m on a roller coaster—and way behind on reading all I should be reading. You know, Joan, the women who come in here know so much more than I do about feminism. They ask for books I have never heard of!”
“You don’t have to cater to everyone’s likes and dislikes.”
“I’m humiliated by my ignorance,” I say, as the timer rings to tell me it is time to take out the meat loaf and doctor the squash.
Joan follows me into the kitchen and opens the wine for me, a Chateau Neuf du Pape of which she appears to approve. “Has it occurred to you that you are going to be inundated with lesbian women, by the way?”
“How do you know they’re lesbians?” But it is true that Alice and Patience had seemed to me obviously a couple. And I wonder why.
“I know by the books they buy,” Joan answers.
“But I don’t like this word ‘they’ as though lesbians were some breed apart from other human beings.”
“I’m sorry,” Joan says quickly. She is blushing. “I didn’t think.”
“I don’t think of myself as labeled and stuck in a closet as someone outside the pale, you see.” I feel quite hot, not with shame, but with my own blundering unconsciousness.
“You do not label yourself so no one labels you,” says Joan.
“Someone who was in the shop today said money was a protection.” I stop to think about this. Joan can take silence. That is one reason I feel at home with her.
“Good meat loaf,” she says.
“Thanks.” But I am upset and cannot come to terms yet with why that is. Maybe Joan’s blush was because she had forgotten that I was one of the “they” we were discussing. Maybe I am upset by the idea that I have been sheltered and still am by Vicky’s money. Or maybe by Bagley’s obscene warning. Yes, it all ties together suddenly.
“Joan, when I dreamed up this bookstore I dreamed of it as a nourishing place where women of all kinds could come. It never occurred to me that the women were bound to be feminists, and some of them lesbians.” And suddenly I laugh. “The obvious never occurred to me. That is the joke.”
Joan smiles and lifts her glass. “Astonishing woman,” she says.
“I’m not even a feminist, I suppose. Not a militant one anyway. So here I am, the founder of a club which I don’t belong to myself.”
“Hoist on your own petard,” and Joan laughs now, an affectionate laugh.
“So what?” I ask her and myself. “I have avoided commitment for six decades of my life, but I’m in for it now, aren’t I?”
“I guess you are,” she says soberly.
“We’ll ponder this dilemma, if it is one, over chocolate mousse. It was Vicky’s favorite.”
Over coffee we talk about the shop from the point of view of business. Only the paperbacks are selling in any quantity. Who can afford twenty bucks for a novel? We are losing money in part because of reordering. For each of us this shop talk is a rest. And after supper Joan offers to go with me for Patapouf’s evening walk. I accept gladly. In the daytime the neighborhood is friendly and peaceful but after dark I sometimes feel a little afraid.
“I love looking at the lighted windows, don’t you?” All through the neighborhood top floors of houses seem to be rented to students, or so I imagine, as I look up and wonder what they are studying.
“I suppose so. I confess I am nervous,” says Joan.
“I’m nervous sometimes, but it is exciting, too. A whole new world after dark—a metamorphosis.”
Joan has been thinking, meanwhile, about the shop and before we part she suggests that I try to reach my
“I am not a people person like you,” Joan says thoughtfully, “but I enjoy working here.”
“We make a good team.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“The only trouble is I feel I’m on a roller coaster—and way behind on reading all I should be reading. You know, Joan, the women who come in here know so much more than I do about feminism. They ask for books I have never heard of!”
“You don’t have to cater to everyone’s likes and dislikes.”
“I’m humiliated by my ignorance,” I say, as the timer rings to tell me it is time to take out the meat loaf and doctor the squash.
Joan follows me into the kitchen and opens the wine for me, a Chateau Neuf du Pape of which she appears to approve. “Has it occurred to you that you are going to be inundated with lesbian women, by the way?”
“How do you know they’re lesbians?” But it is true that Alice and Patience had seemed to me obviously a couple. And I wonder why.
“I know by the books they buy,” Joan answers.
“But I don’t like this word ‘they’ as though lesbians were some breed apart from other human beings.”
“I’m sorry,” Joan says quickly. She is blushing. “I didn’t think.”
“I don’t think of myself as labeled and stuck in a closet as someone outside the pale, you see.” I feel quite hot, not with shame, but with my own blundering unconsciousness.
“You do not label yourself so no one labels you,” says Joan.
“Someone who was in the shop today said money was a protection.” I stop to think about this. Joan can take silence. That is one reason I feel at home with her.
“Good meat loaf,” she says.
“Thanks.” But I am upset and cannot come to terms yet with why that is. Maybe Joan’s blush was because she had forgotten that I was one of the “they” we were discussing. Maybe I am upset by the idea that I have been sheltered and still am by Vicky’s money. Or maybe by Bagley’s obscene warning. Yes, it all ties together suddenly.
“Joan, when I dreamed up this bookstore I dreamed of it as a nourishing place where women of all kinds could come. It never occurred to me that the women were bound to be feminists, and some of them lesbians.” And suddenly I laugh. “The obvious never occurred to me. That is the joke.”
Joan smiles and lifts her glass. “Astonishing woman,” she says.
“I’m not even a feminist, I suppose. Not a militant one anyway. So here I am, the founder of a club which I don’t belong to myself.”
“Hoist on your own petard,” and Joan laughs now, an affectionate laugh.
“So what?” I ask her and myself. “I have avoided commitment for six decades of my life, but I’m in for it now, aren’t I?”
“I guess you are,” she says soberly.
“We’ll ponder this dilemma, if it is one, over chocolate mousse. It was Vicky’s favorite.”
Over coffee we talk about the shop from the point of view of business. Only the paperbacks are selling in any quantity. Who can afford twenty bucks for a novel? We are losing money in part because of reordering. For each of us this shop talk is a rest. And after supper Joan offers to go with me for Patapouf’s evening walk. I accept gladly. In the daytime the neighborhood is friendly and peaceful but after dark I sometimes feel a little afraid.
“I love looking at the lighted windows, don’t you?” All through the neighborhood top floors of houses seem to be rented to students, or so I imagine, as I look up and wonder what they are studying.
“I suppose so. I confess I am nervous,” says Joan.
“I’m nervous sometimes, but it is exciting, too. A whole new world after dark—a metamorphosis.”
Joan has been thinking, meanwhile, about the shop and before we part she suggests that I try to reach my
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