The Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap (12 page)

“Hey, this letter, did you really get rejected by the Kiwanis club here??!! That’s a hoot! We have one in Norton [the next town over]. Wanna join?”

Seventy lovely people flowed through our doors that Sunday summer afternoon. I made four pitchers of iced tea. Our photocopier godparents took me to Little Mexico that night in celebration. (Jack left the day after the interview to lead his annual Scotland and Ireland tour; he got to read the article online from abroad, while yours truly had to cope with the tea. Not that I’m complaining, mind.) Business in the months that followed picked up considerably. Our regulars congratulated us; new friends came to visit, and a few of the old ones we’d lost came back as though nothing had ever happened.

We e-mailed Stephen that we’d name our next cat after him. And some—not all, but most—rifts healed. We weren’t going anywhere now, and everyone knew it; equally important, people understood that we didn’t want to fight. A bookshop run on imagination and love of life, yes, and thank you; fighting and rivalry, not so much. A lot of people in the region wanted a bookstore, and we wanted to live in Big Stone Gap.

So time worked its magic. Right after Stephen’s article, a couple of civic functions asked for some upscale books as door prizes, we donated several boxes to the hospital, and I started helping a church we didn’t attend cook lunches for unemployed people. At the request of a mother whose library program had fallen through the night before, Jack read Scottish poems to the local kindergarteners in full kilt and regalia; shortly thereafter we got asked to do a “celebrity reading” for Dr. Seuss’s birthday at the local elementary, and then the music department at the high school called about a program of Scottish songs, and a new customer wanted to know if I would make balloon animals for her child’s birthday party.…

Thus the ill wind blew itself out. The Kiwanis letter still hangs in our shop, but its poison leached out the bottom, dried up, and flaked away long ago. Now it’s a reminder not to take ourselves or others so seriously; that this, too, shall pass. Local power players bring in out-of-town friends or family and point it out with a belly laugh: “That’s the letter I was telling you about. Isn’t that just typical small-town crap?” Browsers relate eye-rolling stories of their own clashes with cliques. Most humans are blessed with the natural ability to laugh at ourselves, and time—coupled with a good sense of humor and refusing to play “an eye for an eye” games—heals most wounds.

C
HAPTER 9

Catty Behavior, or How Beulah Taught Us to Stand Tall, Quit Whining, and Have Fun

There were cats, cats, sitting on the mats,

At the (book)store, at the (book)store.

There were cats, cats, sitting on the mats

At the Quartermaster’s (book)store.

—British children’s folk song (the Jack and Wendy version)

T
HE PHOTO STEPHEN TOOK FOR
the
Times
article showed my husband leaning on the back of a waist-high sleepbuilt. Looming large at shelf front, eyes looking into the souls of her readers, our younger cat Beulah (Customer Relations Specialist) reclined on the cushion kept there for her comfort and convenience.

We are convinced Stephen’s lovely article—charming though it was about our zest for life, Scottish shortbread giveaways, and beautiful woodwork—would never have made the Sunday paper’s front page without Beulah’s cool stare. The picture exuded charm, and people inundated the shop for weeks afterward, demanding to meet Miss Beulah. They bought books while waiting their turn for her attentions. She became known as Beuls to her familiars.

Beulah is an unusually pretty cat of distinctive coloring. Soft hues of gray, pink, and peach blend within her fur. Some cat-savvy patrons call her a dilute tortoiseshell; others say she is peaches and cream. With a pale fawn tuxedo bib and Hemingway thumbs, Beulah is what Scots term a
stotar,
or in plain English, a good-looking female.

All of this annoys our older cat, Val-Kyttie, to no end. Val-Kyttie is Scottish, has thick black fur tinged with reddish-brown, and is green-eyed—in both senses of the word. That cat is jealous all over. (She also has one white toe ring and a white bikini on her stomach. A word of warning: if you ever come to visit our shop, do not make the mistake of believing Val-Kyttie is friendly, and try to see the bikini. We can’t pay for your stitches.)

Val-Kyttie and Beulah have the relationship of teen sisters forced to share a room: adversarial. Named for the famous Wagnerian ride of the Val-Kytties, the elder of this pair came to us tiny and fearless at four weeks of age, from a home for distressed gentlecats in Edinburgh. In later years she flew the Atlantic to become yet another expatriate Scot. When we adopted the American Beulah at just ten months of age, Val-Kyttie was six. Forever after, she would refer to her little sister only as “that girl the church sent over.”

For her part, Beulah tried to act as acolyte to Val-Kyttie’s high priesthood. She kept away, rolled over, left food, anything to avoid a fight, but it remained clear that Val-Kyttie had it in for Beuls from the moment we brought her in off the street. The daily tension between them would blossom into overt aggression if the humans went away overnight. On our return Beulah could be found crying in the basement, while Val-Kyttie licked her tail in feigned innocence. Her posture said, “What, down there yowling again? Hmmph, these young cats have no dignity. She should move on.”

A funny thing happened in the weeks after Stephen’s front-page picture of Beulah. As the waterfall from its publicity slowed to a steady current of regular customers, Beulah took up position on a table under the article, which we laminated and put on the wall. (I’m not sure why the Kiwanis rejection received an oak frame while Stephen got plastic, but there you go.) Jack swore that Beuls pointed her Hemingway thumb at the article when customers arrived, as much as to say, “See that? That’s me. I do autographs.”

Val-Kyttie was incensed by Stephen’s photo and made her opinions clear in that way only household pets can: statement poops. Val-Kyttie does not normally think outside the box, but for three days, she strategically located her excretions where they could do the most damage: at the head of the stairs; next to a bookshelf five minutes after opening. Her crowning sarcastic achievement appeared a foot outside her hooded tray, perfectly centered before its entry door.

Had she spoken aloud, Val-Kyttie’s message could not have been clearer: the photo should have been of her, the Senior Ranking Staff Animal. That cute little junior assistant in the tight miniskirt had usurped her matronly authority. After we’d spent a few days picking up statement poops while murmuring soothing endearments about understanding how she felt, Val-Kyttie, clearly fed up with our sensitive-parent routine, reverted to her trademark violence. As she’d done so often before, she stalked in a menacing manner to where Beuls sat washing her tuxedo bib. I prepared to intervene, but this time when Val-Kyttie closed in, gentle, compliant little Beulah reached out, claws extended, and swifter than a striking snake bopped her big sis a good one on the head. Then she ran like hell, but the point had been made. Val-Kyttie sat down, too stunned to pursue.

Jack is convinced that her picture in the paper empowered Beulah to stand up to Val-Kyttie. Not once since its publication have we found her crying for rescue in the basement. We didn’t spend any more time crying, either, and we knew just how Beulah felt. To everything there is a season: a time to hide in the basement, and a time to post things in prominent positions where everyone sees them; a time to get cut down, and a time to watch in astonishment as someone you don’t even know tells everyone how beautifully you’re blossoming.

Stephen gave us a hefty boost, with a ribbon tied ’round it.

For those of you feeling bad for her, Val-Kyttie did receive revenge for her stolen glory. One spring day, a customer admired Miss Beulah as Val-Kyttie lounged nearby, eavesdropping. Beulah, a skinny, slinky stray when she arrived, had filled out over the winter into a magnificent creature, very much resembling a woman at the opera in a fur coat. She sat, dignified and majestic, accepting compliments as the customer rubbed her head, prattling baby talk. “Aren’t you just the prettiest thing?! So regal, so beautiful! And when are your kittens due?”

I swear to you that Val-Kyttie guffawed as Beulah slunk away, tail dragging in humiliation.

In all the years our shop has been open, two customers have been put off by the cats—one allergic, one afraid—while a thousand or more have brought other people to meet them. Boyfriends introduced significant others to demonstrate a sensitive side, patting Beulah while sneaking “is it working” glances at their dates. Usually the girls were caught up in stroking Beuls, murmuring endearments as they fondled her cheeks and tail. The boys looked envious. Couples brought elderly parents. “This is the cat I was telling you about, Mom; isn’t she pretty?” Adults brought children. “See the kitty Mommy told you about? Pet gently, now.” Beulah, a tolerant cat by nature, rarely used the bolt-holes secreted throughout the shop, while Val-Kyttie, as shop manager, preferred not to fraternize with customers. The whole establishment catered in design and policy to every whim of the two permanent staff cats and the myriad fosters who have found forever homes via the bookstore. (To date we count twenty-nine cats, plus seven dogs.) One shelf beneath a window sports a three-by-five card taped flat, announcing “this space reserved for feline staff.” Whoever arrives first basks there on sunny days.

One day I heard giggling and looked up to behold Beulah on one side of a shelf, pushing cookbooks with her paw toward the customer opposite. The lady caught them as they fell, pleased as punch. She even bought one. “If Beuls likes it, that’s all the recommendation I need,” she assured us as our cat sat on the mat, cleaning her push paw. The customer later brought us molasses cookies from the recipe book. Jack and I found them delicious, although Madam Customer Relations Specialist didn’t care for them.

Such is the life of a bookshop staff cat. It’s good work if you can get it.

C
HAPTER 10

Saved by the Cell (and the Napkin Dispensers, and the Corkboards)

The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.

—Oscar Wilde,
The Picture of Dorian Gray

A
S THE MONTHS ROLLED BY
, we understood that finding ways to advertise had to remain high on our daily task list—right next to evaluating trade credit, stocking shelves, and keeping the place clean. Stephen’s article had given us a rocket-propelled boost, and the customers he’d made aware of us were bringing customers themselves. Grassroots advertising can’t be bought. It meant we ran the kind of place people wanted friends to visit—a happy thing to know.

Still, we now understood that we had to make our own way forward. Special events helped, as did the unlimited flyer-book swap with Gary and Teri, but we spent a lot of time cooking up schemes to publicize both wares and events. Also, we had intended to outlaw cell phones in the store, but never got around to making a sign saying so. This proved fortuitous, because people talking on cell phones came into our shop often. One day a woman walked in, looked around, and pulled out her phone before either of us could say hello.

WOMAN:
[Pause] Hey, it’s me. Guess what, there’s a bookstore in town. [Pause] No,
our
town. [Pause] Yes there is, I’m standing in it. [Pause] Dunno. [To Jack] How long ya been here?

JACK:
Not long.

WOMAN [
into phone
]:
Not long. And it’s great! There’s lotsa Dean Koontzes. They have [reels off several titles]. Say again? [picks up three books]. Okay, got those. [Pause] I dunno. [To Jack] How much are these?

JACK [
points to sign:
PRICES ARE MARKED IN PENCIL ON FIRST PAGE OF BOOK
.]

WOMAN [
looks in books, incredulous
]:
Cheap! [Pause] Yeah, sure. [Pulls more titles from shelf] You oughta come down here. They got lotsa stuff. [Pause] Okay, bye. [Disconnects, smiles at us] I’m gonna get these for her. That was my son’s parole officer. She’s great. I hope he marries her.

Reader, did she marry him?

Perfectly capable of recognizing a good thing once it fell into our lap, we never did make that sign. Buzz about our shop flew along cordless lines, while the noise level we’d feared never materialized. Shoppers rang friends, family, and coworkers from the bookstore floor to tell them where they were and what great deals we had. Many people bought books for whomever they were talking to. Often, when the person on the other end showed up, they mentioned being referred by a friend.

Resuscitated by all that mouth to mouth, we nosed around for more free advertising opportunities. Our town boasted a popular diner-cum-pharmacy, the Mutual (made famous by Adriana Trigiani’s novels). In the real-life diner, eating plays second fiddle to social interaction, but the cast of characters is extensive and eclectic. Most of them don’t frequent the bookstore but become stalwart supporters of our being in town, all the same. We ate there once a week for at least a year before being “accepted” as one of the regulars. Other regulars include Bo and Jack, retired mining brothers with wicked senses of humor; Eulis the Korean War veteran, his wife, Annie, and their son, both men long-haul truck drivers; the Gathering of Women Who Lunch, which meets in the corner at the only table large enough to hold six people—and woe betide anyone who stakes a claim before the ladies arrive; plus town councilor Cotton, town maintenance men Donnie and Smokey, about-town handyman and grass mower David; Bill-I-Used-to-Drive-the-School-Bus; and the rest. We meet them there most mornings and gather the day’s news, plus a weekly supply of opinions.

Bill-the-Bus uttered my favorite Big Stone Gap quote of all time. The day after the nation elected its first African-American president, as the rest of the men sat and pontificated on the state and future trajectory of the union, Bill gripped the tray guard on the luncheon counter and cleared his throat. Since he was the oldest person in the shop, ninety-three at the time, everyone else stopped to listen to what he had to say.