Last Thursday was delivery day. The Crow’s quarterly edition came back from the printers and I spent the day running back and forth to post office and dashing in and out of bookstores with armloads of our humble little magazine. One of the problems with Delivery Day taking me in and out of most the independent bookstores in the county is that I invariably leave with more books than I went in with, at least in weight and expense.
Walking past the sci-fi/fantasy shelf at The Avid Reader, I spied a paperback that my local library had been unable to procure for me and I snatched it up. It rode with me on my route, in the front seat.
When I got home, I let Luke loose on the front yard and sat down exhausted on my favorite bench to share a pumpkin cupcake and a cup of tea with my paperback in the last few rays of afternoon sunshine. I paused every half page or so to advise Luke in his endeavors to run out into the street or turn the neighbor’s driveway into a river.
Later I herded the kiddo inside and began work on dinner. I turned a page or two while I stirred ground turkey in the pan. The fan over the stove whirled and the washing machine chugged. On the floor, Luke and Mr. Bear had a loud argument over the banging of play pots and pans on the tile floor. The kitchen speakers were streaming music from my computer in the next room. Slow Gherkin was trapped like rats in Myers Flat. I could sympathize.
Despite our constant companionship over the course of the afternoon, I had managed to turn only a handful of pages. My little paperback sat heavy on the counter while I started the beans and yelled for Luke to cease and desist his current path of destruction.
“Sorry,” I said with a nod to the book. “This is how we roll around here.”
The book sat motionless with its spine toward me.
“It’s not that you’re not interesting. I’ve just got my hands full.”
Silence from the little book. If I asked it how it was, it would most surely say, “Fine.”
“At least I’m using a bookmark,” I defended. “Can you imagine what kind of state you’d be in if I dog-eared your pages or butterflied your spine every time I picked you up and set you down?”
No response from the little paperback.
Plates on the table. Mr. Potato Head parts scattered on the floor. Beans on low. I picked up the book again, for a line or two.
The ghoul that has recently taken up residence in the volume control in my kitchen suddenly jacked the music up several decibels.
I gave up. The turkey needed stirring and it was a good song anyway. I set the book down.
“Bedtime is in just a couple of hours, if it’s any consolation,” I said.
The paperback sat with its bookmark sticking out in my direction.