The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend (11 page)

She turned away from him and leaned against the shop window. He glanced at his watch again. He really should get going soon.

Sara had almost forgotten that Tom was standing there next to her. It seemed stupid that the shop should be standing empty, she thought, even though she wasn't quite sure why this particular shop should be any different to the others, or why it deserved its fate any less. She tried to picture a shop selling computer games or something similarly modern. Not computer games, she thought decisively. A bakery would work. Everyone likes fresh bread. Though maybe there wasn't enough of a customer base in Broken Wheel to support an entire shop.

For a while, she amused herself by imagining it as a Starbucks. She could just see the stressed-out teenagers in green aprons behind the dirty grey counter while George tried to work out what a decaf non-fat mocha latte extra-shot espresso was, and whether he wanted one. She glanced at Tom. For some reason, she didn't think he would be particularly impressed by a Starbucks. He looked back at her with an amused wry half-smile. Sara wasn't sure if he was laughing at her or at some private joke he had no intention of sharing.

And it was there, outside Amy's empty shop, that the shadow of an idea started to form. Still much too vague to tell anyone about it, or barely even admit to herself, but it was an idea, definitely an idea.

‘Tom,' she said, ‘could you drive me home?'

 

 

 

 

Broken Wheel, Iowa

May 11, 2010

Sara Lindqvist

Kornvägen 7, 1 tr

136 38 Haninge

Sweden

My dear Sara,

I really can't say which of the American classics you should read. In actual fact, I think about as much of the notion of ‘classic' as you do, but at least the literary critics who compile those lists have a good sense of humor. How else can you explain them adding Mark Twain's wonderful books to their lists, given his view that ‘a classic is something everybody wants to have read, but no one wants to read'? Unless it's some kind of disguised jibe, but they surely can't be that petty?

Though I don't think that justice is the main argument against classics lists. Or rather, in a way it's clearly a question of justice, but not against those who don't make it. No, the books I feel sorry for are the ones they add to these lists. Take Mark Twain again. Once, when Tom was young, he came to me complaining that he had to read
Huckleberry Finn
for junior high.
Huckleberry Finn
! Our critics and educators have got a lot to answer for when they manage to make young boys see stories about rebellion and adventure and ballsiness as a chore. Do you understand what I mean? The real crime of these lists isn't that they leave deserving books off them, but that they make people see fantastic literary adventures as obligations.

You can have the names of some of my American favorites in any case, so long as you promise you won't feel obliged to read them.

Paul Auster. I prefer
The Brooklyn Follies
to his
New York Trilogy
, even if it's blasphemy to say so.

I reread
The Great Gatsby
by F. Scott Fitzgerald this summer. I read it as a ‘classic' when I was young and I never appreciated it to the extent it deserves until now. I'm afraid that my real favorites are reserved for the women though. Maybe I'm just biased.

I don't think any book has moved me as deeply as Toni Morrison's
Beloved
did, and there's no author I admire more than Joyce Carol Oates. I think the only reason she hasn't won the Nobel Prize (what are you lot playing at over there? can't you have a word with them?) is that she writes too much. Productivity like hers just overwhelms the male critics' sense of self – she writes more quickly than they can critique her. How are you supposed to be able to review a new work if you can't manage to read fifty other books by her first?

Best,

Amy

‘
YOUR FATHER AND
I have talked about this, and we think that it's time for you to come home.'

‘Home?' Sara said. She couldn't go back now. She'd just learned how to use the gas stove, for God's sake.

‘We feel it's for the best.'

Her parents used ‘we' when they wanted to present a united front at the same time as emphasising that they outnumbered her.

‘Why?' Sara said.

‘You've been there quite long enough. We understand that you wanted to meet that Amy woman, and now you have.'

Sara sighed. She would have to tell them. ‘About that –' she began, but her mother interrupted her.

‘We're not even sure it's
polite
to stay any longer. I'm sure she says it's all right, but really, what kind of person lets a perfect stranger stay with them for weeks? When Per and Gunilla –'

‘Who?' Sara asked, not that she cared particularly. Her mother's conversations were always full of people Sara didn't know.

Her mother happily ignored her. ‘When Per and Gunilla had American relatives coming for a visit they only stayed for two days. And they stayed in a hotel! And they were related. Well, distantly at least. I'm sure Amy never dreamed that you would stay for so long.'

‘Amy is dead,' said Sara.

For the first time in her life, she left her mother speechless. The silence stretched out between them for so long that Sara eventually said: ‘Hello?' in case her mother had actually hung up on her.

‘Dead?' said her mother. Sara heard her passing this crucial information on to her dad, despite the fact that he must have already heard as he was suddenly talking animatedly in the background. Her father was seldom bothered about what Sara did, but when he did care, he made his opinions known. Her mother could be relentless and persistent, no matter how small the issue; her father could be loud, but only on special occasions. This was one obviously.

‘But where are you staying?' her mother asked.

‘In Amy's house.'

More silence. More discussions in the background. ‘That settles it, then,' Sara heard her father saying, but her mother still seemed to be focusing on the practical side of things.

‘But how can you be staying there? Who gave you permission?'

‘It was a … collective decision.'

Her father had apparently managed to take control of the phone, because his voice suddenly boomed in Sara's ear. ‘This is ridiculous! Is it even legal?'

‘Wait a minute,' her mother said. ‘When did she die? And, well,
how
?'

‘This is not something you should be involved in,' her father said, as if the police might knock on the door any minute now. Sara couldn't help but notice that neither of them had expressed any kind of sympathy about Amy's death.

‘She was my friend,' she said. ‘And … and I've got other friends here now. I can't just leave.'

‘Of course you can,' said her mother, at the exact same time as her father said: ‘Just change your ticket and come home.'

‘You can always stop for a few days in New York,' said her mother.

‘No. I can't come back yet. In any case, my ticket is non-refundable.' Sara wasn't sure that it was but it was the first thing that popped into her head. ‘And I like it here. People here have been … they've been nice to me.' She thought about the kindness they'd shown her since she arrived. ‘I owe them a lot.'

‘You're
in debt
?' said her father. His voice had increased in both volume and shrillness. ‘You're involved in some crazy woman's death, you've spent all your money, you've –'

‘She was my friend!' said Sara. ‘And it's not that kind of debt.' She took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. ‘This is something I have to do,' she said. ‘And I don't see why I shouldn't stay for as long as I'd planned. I'm sorry if you don't like it, but there it is.'

Sara suddenly felt much clearer about staying than she had at the start of their conversation. Her parents had unwittingly reminded her of just how little she had to get back for. And in a flash that shadowy idea came to life. She knew exactly how to repay everyone, how she could help.

The more her parents tried to convince her to go back to Sweden, the more determined she became not only to stay but to make something of her time in Broken Wheel.

‘Well, if you're staying, you're on your own,' said her father. ‘Don't come running to us when something happens.'

When, not if. Sara didn't care. She was going to do this.

This town was in desperate need of a bookshop.

‘A bookstore?' Jen asked.

She might not have sounded openly hostile, but she was clearly sceptical. Andy looked strangely at Sara, and Caroline simply sat there with an inscrutable expression on her face.

Sara was standing on the stage in front of them. She wished she hadn't had to do that. Wished she could have sat up in the projection room instead. She was wearing her most businesslike clothes: a pair of black trousers which, with a little imagination, looked like part of a suit, and a white three-quarter-sleeved shirt which almost looked like it had been ironed. It didn't help.

‘I'd like to …' She swallowed and began telling them about the rest of her idea in one single breath, before she had time to change her mind: ‘I'd like to open a bookstore in Amy's old place. Using her books. As a tribute, to her.'

She had rehearsed that last part at Amy's house, but it didn't sound quite so good now.

‘You want to sell Amy Harris's books?' Andy asked.

‘Not for myself, for the town. It wouldn't be
my
bookstore. I'm not allowed to work on my visa.'

The American embassy had emphasised that she was not, under any circumstances, permitted to work; a fate worse than death would await her if she tried. It had actually been surprisingly difficult even to get hold of a proper tourist visa. She had been encouraged to use the visa waiver programme instead, giving her an automatic ninety days in the US.

Her reasoning had been that she wanted a longer visa just to be on the safe side, to have the possibility of extending her stay if her money stretched further than she thought, and for the simple freedom of it, but that had only made them more anxious. The American embassy, she discovered, weren't keen on words like extension or freedom. Choosing to visit a small American town and wanting to stay longer than originally planned were deeply suspicious, much too similar to simply deciding to stay. They would probably have preferred it if she hadn't wanted to come to the US at all.

‘It would be more like …
our
bookstore,' she said. ‘I would just be helping out.'

‘
Our
bookstore,' said Andy.

‘A bookstore.' Sara could hear the head-shake in Jen's voice.

‘The place is going to need cleaning,' she said. ‘And redecoraing, probably. I can do it myself, though. I'll pay and everything.'

‘It's not a bad idea,' Caroline mused. ‘It could do with a clean. It's not like you would be registering the store or anything.'

‘But –' Sara protested. She was extremely law-abiding.

That spurred Andy on. ‘Of course you wouldn't,' he said. ‘Just think of the taxes.'

‘No real point,' said Caroline. ‘I doubt you'll make any profit, so it's not exactly as though we'd be cheating the IRS out of any money.'

The way she said this implied she was someone who didn't think it was even possible to cheat the tax authorities out of money. They had considerably more experience of the noble art of evasion.

Sara always followed the rules. Especially when it came to tax. Not once in her life had she made any claims for expenses, for fear of being accused of fiddling them. But at that moment, she wasn't thinking of the tax authorities or about visa rules, or any of the thousands of other reasons there must have been for not opening a bookshop in an unfamiliar town.

She was thinking about being able to give something back to the town. Whether they knew it or not, they needed books. That much was clear. And she was thinking about Amy's books, about how they would be read and appreciated once more, like they should be. She could order more, as well, to fill in any gaps. Used books, not so expensive, personally selected – and paid for – by her. People could donate their own books too. They would start on a small-scale, of course, but it could work. She had the money and she had the time. She could
do
something.

Andy and Jen looked at one another.

‘Are you sure you want to open a bookstore?' Andy wondered.

‘I think you should just let us organise a nice picnic instead,' said Jen. ‘Or maybe a trip into the woods?'

‘I'm going to open a bookstore,' Sara told George.

The words came out the moment George opened the car door.George simply nodded.

‘I mean, I wouldn't own it,' she added quickly. She was worried that people would think she was just trying to make money from Amy's books. ‘Just help out. While I'm here. I worked in a bookstore in Sweden, so I know how it works.'

That wasn't entirely true. She had never been in charge of the shop. And she had definitely never opened one of her own.

‘I think it sounds like a good idea,' George said.

Though he was the only one.

After the meeting at the cinema, Sara was well aware that no one in Broken Wheel had much time for her temporary insanity, as Andy called the project. Still, they had all agreed to meet her in the shop the next day. Now they were grimly inspecting the dust and the dirt. The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling cast a stark, merciless glow across the abandoned room, but at least it showed that the shop was still connected to the mains.

‘I want it to be yellow,' said Sara. She was picturing the shop before her bathed in light and in colour, a cosy meeting place for books and other stories, with big armchairs you could sink down into and plenty of time for long conversations. Books, too. Thousands of books, in every colour and shape imaginable.