Josephine Carr, author of My Very Own Murder and The Dewey Decimal System

Chapter 9

For questions about the penis, go to the 612.61s (e.g., A Doctor's Guide to Men's Private Parts), and for explicit, colorful drawings of the penis, go to Reference 611 (Atlas of Human Anatomy).

You noticed. No sex.

I was in bed, I was fantasizing, and there was no sex. I guess I've just forgotten what it's like. I try to imagine a penis and all I come up with are things that look like penises. The actual contraption makes me squirm and feel silly. I agree with you and I understand your frustration. This whole endeavor, loving Aleksi Kullio, is starting to seem hopeless. You are losing faith in me. I am losing faith in me, but that's how, in essence, the times they are a-changing. I never used to have any faith to lose.

I should see a therapist -- that's what you'd like to suggest. No thanks. The concept of therapy, talking about myself and explaining everything to an actual person, is too anxiety provoking. Anyway, I have you, don't I? Even if you are growing impatient with the slow speed of my forward movement, you have to concede that I have moved. I am moving. I will move. Promise.

On Monday morning, I had seven E-mails waiting for me to read. I recognized every name except one: kuku@aol.com. I almost deleted it, since the risk of a virus had seemed particularly intense after the library's experience with foul smells, but the ku combination made me hope that Aleksi Kullio might have replied to that charming note I'd written to him about the library's intended acquisition of the Stravinsky biography. I hadn't really expected an answer, but at the same time, I was well aware that my library notepaper gives my E-mail address.

Dear Ms. Sheffield:
Thank you for the kind note concerning the Stravinsky bio. I actually read it in galleys because I had been asked to do a blurb. Not that I usually blurb, but Stravinsky is hard to resist. When you receive the book, I believe you'll find my comments quoted on the back cover. I hope to find the time to visit the library soon. Since my mother was a children's librarian in Finland, where I grew up, you can imagine that the library is like a second home to me. Again, thank you for the perspicacious thought.
Best wishes, Aleksi Kullio

I stared stupidly at the E-mail. His mother was a librarian, and not only that, but a children's librarian. My heart pounded so hard I thought I'd crack a rib. I called Suzanne immediately.

Before I could explain what had happened, she started chattering.

"Ally, I'm sorry I couldn't get in to follow Michelle today. I was all set and walking out the door when your dear namesake, Ally, vomited all over my mother's new sweat suit. I know it's not pleasant to be puked on, but you'd think a sweat suit was haute couture by the way she hollered. There was no way I could leave after that, plus I had to take Ally -- your dear namesake -- to the doctor because she just kept on vomiting."

"It's perfectly all right," I said, wedging my way into her manic, word flight. 'How's Ally? What did the doctor say?"

"Oh, it's just a twenty-four-hour bug." Suzanne sounded exhausted. "The next phase, which we have most assuredly begun, is diarrhea. I parked her on the toilet with a basket of books next to her. You have never seen such a god-awful mess in all your life! She must have gone through five sets of underpants before I --"

"I get the picture," I interrupted. "Can you talk for a few minutes? I have very important news."

"She's totally fine on the pot and I'm on a cordless so I'm right with her -- now TELL me!"

Was there something about infants and toddlers that made parents talk with almost constant exclamation marks? I'd noticed in the last couple of years that everything happening in Suzanne's household was of life-or-death stature. She pooped for three hours straight! He screamed for ten hours! He smiled for the first time! She read a word in her storybook! He's adorable! She's gorgeous! It was no wonder, despite the exclamation marks, that Suzanne always sounded either drugged or drunk. Today was a unique combination: drugged and drunk.

"I got an email from Aleksi Kullio," I said. "Let me read it to you."

When I'd finished, Suzanne was silent. "What do you think?" I said, impatient for her response.

"It's an omen," she declared in a soft voice.

"That's what I thought."

We breathed in and out together, sharing a sense of significant serendipity.

"Ms. Sheffield?" Ed cracked open my door so that I would be able to hear his voice, but I could see him clearly through the door's glass panel.

"I have a visitor -- I'll call you later, okay?"

"As soon as possible!"

I held the receiver away from my ear. "Yup."

I hung up and waved Ed into my office. "Yes?"

"Uh, could I speak to you for a minute?"

"Of course -- please come in."

He shuffled into the office and gingerly closed the door behind him.

I sat down and gestured to the chair off to the side, but he remained standing, one finger of each hand touching the desktop.

"I need some help with Mr. Albright's birthday present," he said.

I'd forgotten about Yvonne's party plans, scheduled for tomorrow, and I was troubled to think of Ed's considering it a requirement that he purchase a gift.

"Ed, you don't need to --"

"I work at the library," he said firmly, "and I want to get him something. I had the idea of a shirt." He glanced at me tentatively, gauging my response.

"A shirt would be fine," I said.

"But not great?"

"He likes shirts -- I'm sure of it."

"What are you going to give him?" Ed said.

"Well, I hadn't quite figured it out."

"You better -- there's not much time."

"That's true."

"You could give him the pants to go with my shirt."

"I'm not sure that pants would be quite" -- I paused -- "appropriate."

"I know!" His body straightened up with excitement. "You give him the shirt and I'll do the pants. That would be just right."

I stared at him and could think of nothing to say. Other people might easily get out of such a predicament. I am aware that I tend to be softhearted. If I had had the time to formulate a good reply, I might have managed, but I didn't have any time whatsoever. Ed looked at me with eyes that reminded me of myself, and I had to agree.

"Okay, how about we go shopping on my lunch break?" I said.

Ed's smile resembled one of Charlie Brown's infrequent, wobbly smiles, the one where his mouth goes up and down in jagged little peaks.

As he left my office, I followed behind him, to check on how things were going out on the front lines. Yvonne, on loan to Reference from the circulation desk, stood at attention behind the long counter. She brought a certain military stature to librarianship, perhaps because she wasn't a professional librarian at all.

"How's it going?" I nudged her with one shoulder, trying to force a slump. She made the rest of us look bad.

"All right."

She was still standing tall, despite my jolt.

"I’ve been meaning to ask you about something," Yvonne said.

I glanced at her, trying to be receptive. Not easy to do with Yvonne.

"Remember that girl I mentioned to you?"

"The one you were going to report for truancy?"

"She’s been coming in after school, so that’s not the problem." Yvonne shrugged.

"Okay." I waited.

Yvonne said, "She never checks out books -- it’s so weird."

Bored, my gaze left Yvonne and ambled around the reference section. That’s when I saw the back of her head. You know, the head. Blond hair in a sleek helmet. I’d know that head anywhere.

"How long has she been here?" I asked Yvonne, forgetting about the teenage girl we’d been talking about.

"Who?" She looked around with open curiosity.

I put a hand on her arm to shush her. "The woman at the far table with her back to us. Blond hair."

"Oh, you mean Michelle," Yvonne said with a big smile. "That’s the new conductor’s wife, Michelle Kullio."

"I know." I raised my eyebrows.

Recollecting my original question, Yvonne said, "She’s been here all morning -- she’s writing a mystery novel and I helped her scope out some possible ways to murder someone. It was great fun."

Among Yvonne’s unfortunate traits was the small measure of obsessive-compulsive disorder she possessed. Her eyelids began opening and shutting like the lens of a camera operated by a three-year-old child.

I was cursing myself for missing the opportunity to interact with Aleksi's wife and, at the same time, wondering why she'd told me last week that she was ready to submit the novel when she hadn't even finished figuring out the story. Still watching Michelle, I asked Yvonne, "Did she tell you what it's about?"

"Obviously she wouldn't tell me 'whodunit,' but she did say who would be murdered. You'll never guess --"

"The conductor of a major orchestra," I interrupted.

Her pointy chin wagged like a dog's tail. "How did you know?" she said.

I put my finger to my lips in the traditional librarian's lament and Yvonne had the good grace to blush. "So she hasn't figured out yet how the murder will take place?" I asked.

"Nope," Yvonne said.

"I think I'll check and make sure that she doesn't need any more help."

Yvonne's face, already pink from my shushing her, turned Turkey red.

Great, I had hurt her feelings.

I approached Michelle from behind, exploring every nuance of her posture and appearance as if I were a private detective. There wasn't much to deduce. Her hair was immaculate and fake-looking, even if it was real, and her pale blue cashmere turtleneck sweater clung to her sinewy arms. I rounded the table so that I could smile at her before I spoke. "Excuse me, I'm the director of the Reference Department -- I believe we met last week? Have you found everything you need?" Her eyes rose from the thick reference book and gazed at me. She didn't say a word.

I waited.

Her eyes were wintry, like a city's dirty slush the day after a snowstorm.

I waited some more.

"I'd like to do my work without your constant interruptions," she said at last.

I felt the hot flush of humiliation on my cheeks. "Of course -- I apologize." I turned and walked back to the reference desk, where Yvonne stood watching me with an open mouth threatening a drool spill.

"She was nice to you?" I asked.

"Delightful."

"Well, I wasn't so lucky,' I said. "She told me to bug off." Yvonne, troubled, hunched her shoulders.

"I know you handled things beautifully -- it was my fault for being nosy," I said.

"We could plan a murder mystery that happens in the library," she said, trying to make me feel better.

"Only the victim can't be the director of the research division."

Yvonne gave a sly smile. "How about the head of the library?"

I gave her arm a slap. "You're bad."

"No one would want to murder Gordon, anyway," Yvonne said with a dreamy expression.

"Except for one of the three zillion women he's dated and dumped." Someone had to be responsible and warn her to cross Gordon Albright off her list of eligible bachelors.

"I don't know." She shook her head doubtfully. "They keep coming to the library and flocking around him, like they have no hard feelings."

"How does he manage that?"

Yvonne leaned forward on the counter, resting her chin on folded arms so that her face was hidden behind a computer terminal. "I have a theory," she whispered.

I crouched over. "What?"

She gave me a look meant to imply a need for total secrecy.

"I won't tell anyone, promise." My eyes opened wide with sincerity. "Come on, you know I can keep my mouth shut."

Her whisper was so low I thought I misheard. I had to ask her to repeat it.

"I said," she hissed, "that I don't think he sleeps with them."

I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep the guffaw from escaping, turned, scuttled back to my office, slammed the door, and screamed with laughter. Behind me, the door opened and slammed shut again.

Yvonne bent over double, gasping with laughter. Tears streamed down our faces.

"I really mean it!" she howled. "He doesn't have sex so they don't get mad at him!"

I collapsed onto the floor, rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around my waist. Obscene snorting noises spurted out of my mouth and nose like a fireman's hose gone berserk.

We didn't even hear the door open, so Gordon's bemused voice came as a shock.

"What's so funny?" he asked. We shrieked.

Gordon clasped both hands over his ears. "A fancy lady just marched out of here like she was ready to kill -- can you get a grip and tell me what's going on?"

I hobbled over to my desk and groped for the tissue box. Yanking out several, I handed the box to Yvonne. We honked and mopped, working to get a grip, as requested.

I sank into my chair and dropped my head to the desk, where I beat it gently, moaning with painful merriment. When I next managed to get control of myself, Gordon's subdued expression sobered me.

"A little joke," I whispered. Yvonne decided to skedaddle out of my office.

"I love a good joke," he said.

I grinned. "Not this one, baby cakes."

He cocked his head sideways and said, "Exactly what has gotten into you?"

I was beginning to wonder the same thing, but I segued into an entirely different subject by telling him about Michelle Kullio. As I developed her character, I started traipsing around the office on my tiptoes, as if I were wearing high heels, with my hips swishing from side to side. Quite unlike Michelle Kullio's gait, if I were honest. Then I unfastened the top three buttons of my blouse, pretended to light a cigarette, and blew smoke in Gordon's eyes.

He blinked. "She's a foxy lady and she's got something foxy going on -- I'm sure of it." I glared at him and plopped into my chair.

Gordon walked around my desk and put his large hand on my forehead. It felt like a hot blanket. I almost fell asleep right then and there.

"You're acting very strangely," he said. "I thought maybe you were febrile."

"I am febrile; you were febrile; He/she/it will be febrile," I intoned.

He ambled back around my desk and toward the door. I noticed his rear end, which was, frankly, as terrifically appealing as Aleksi Kullio's tiny ass.

Gordon was right. I never even think of words like ass and yet I felt perilously close to saying the word aloud. You have a nice ass, Gordon. You are an ass, Gordon. And the thing was that, in fact, he didn't have a particularly nice ass, and furthermore, he wasn't an ass.

"Maybe you should have a long lunch break." Gordon stood with one hand on the doorknob.

I looked at his crotch, then hurriedly back to his face. I had suddenly been gripped by the need, the irrepressible need, to see a penis. He was an old friend, a colleague, and I trusted him. Couldn't I ask him to do me a little favor? I swallowed, about to speak, and then swallowed again.

"Lunch," I murmured. Penis à l'orange? Roasted penis with fennel? Penne and penis?

"I think a longer lunch is in order," I agreed with Gordon.

"How are you and your mom getting along these days?" he asked, probing.

"The usual. I made a mistake and went to one of her dinner parties on Saturday night."

Gordon leaned against the doorjamb. "Why was it a mistake?"

"She seated me next to some guy, a landscape architect, and it was obvious we were supposed to hit it off."

"I guess you didn't." He grinned.

"The guy was an asshole, a handsome, smart asshole, but an asshole nonetheless."

"You think all men are assholes."

"I absolutely do not."

Gordon lifted one foot off the floor and gave it a little swing. "Yeah, you do -- it's 'cause you resent your father not being around when you were a little girl."

'That is utter bull --"

He interrupted, "Last week, when you said I was a serial womanizer because my mother was a bitch, I accepted your statement. I didn't get all defensive."

"That's because I was right and you couldn't deny it."

"And I'm right this time, but you always refuse to acknowledge any painful truths about yourself." He grinned again, as if he didn't care whether I believed him or not.

I didn't.

"I like you," I said, triumphant.

One of his eyebrows cocked (yes, I know I'm still on penises). Then he actually dropped his head against the doorjamb, like a little boy who's been embarrassed by the attention of a little girl.

"Gee, you do?" he murmured.

That was when it happened. Like a camera flash exploding in my head, I saw it! A penis! Clear as clear. There it was in all its dubious glory.

No wonder I'd forgotten what a penis looks like.

Something in my face must have registered my aesthetic judgment on the beauty of a penis. Gordon straightened up, gave a little cough, and made a quick exit.

After he left, I swung around in my chair and pressed the space bar on my keyboard. The computer burst with light, and Aleksi's E-mail emerged. Without stopping to think, I clicked on the REPLY button.

Dear Aleksi,
How nice to hear from you! I will certainly look forward to seeing your words on the back cover of the Stravinsky biography. I do want to mention that I met you briefly last week when I was getting a tour of the archives, where I am working to organize and categorize the orchestra's papers. While putting in a few hours on Saturday morning, I found correspondence between Stokowski and Stravinsky concerning the United States premiere of The Rite of Spring. Perhaps you'd be interested in perusing it?
I am gratified to hear that you'd like to visit our library. We have enjoyed helping your wife with research on her novel and we would, similarly, welcome you. Has your mother retired from her duties as a librarian? Well, enough rattling on. Let me know if you'd like to see the correspondence mentioned above.
With my very best wishes, Ally Sheffield

I pushed the SEND button and almost immediately checked to see if I'd received an answer from Aleksi. I swung my chair around until I was facing the wall, where I stuck both feet flat against the wall, like a climbing spider. I tried to call Suzanne back, but I got her voice mail. Terrible body juices were probably hurling through the rooms of her house. I thought about why Michelle Kullio had been so rude to me. Frankly, I got no closer to understanding her behavior, beyond deciding that she was a terrible person, and therefore, I didn't have to feel awkward about pursuing her husband.

I stuck my arm out and hit the space bar. Nada. Then I grabbed the phone and called my ophthalmologist. Using my mother's name (I think they were once lovers), I managed to grab a cancellation for a week from Friday for LASIK surgery. When I hung up the phone, a scant five minutes later, I checked for E-mails.

"Kuku" pulsated and glowed.

Dear Ally,
I would be extremely interested in the correspondence you mention! How can I get my hands on it?
Best wishes, Aleksi
P.S. I didn't know my wife was writing a novel.

I wrote back immediately.

Dear Aleksi,
I'll leave the correspondence with your personal secretary later this afternoon. I thought you'd be intrigued. Your wife seems to be writing a mystery novel. I hesitate to say more.
Yours sincerely, Ally

After I pushed the SEND button, I let out a small scream of excitement. Then I had one of those moments.

One of those moments packs a million moments into one, as if your entire childhood, all the bad moves and good moves of your life, every blessed part of you, suddenly coalesces into a sphere of incredible promise and beauty. It's a moment where everything and anything becomes possible, when you know that you can achieve whatever you want. Bliss bubbled in my blood even while I shook my head at my own blindness: it was all in the wanting.

I grabbed the phone again and dialed my father's home number in Boston.

"Hi, Dad," I said.

I don't call my father often, or really ever.

His voice was puzzled, but warm. "Ally, how are you, sweetie?"

I didn't seem to mind the sweetie, though it had driven me nuts for twenty years. "I'm great -- listen, I'm calling on the spur of the moment, but you know Aleksi Kullio began his first season last week?"

"I read the New York Times' review on Sunday."

"The opening night was terrific --"

He interrupted, "You were there and you didn't call to report?"

"Sorry, it's been busy."

I told him about the smells in the library and that I'd volunteered to clean up the orchestra's archives. "Mom gave me two tickets for this Friday's concert. They're doing that Bruch symphony you love, so I was wondering if you might want to come down and go with me." My enthusiasm had started to give out, like a balloon losing buoyancy. "Maybe you're working, though."

In truth, I felt more positively about my father than my mother, but that simply transformed antagonistic feelings into lukewarm. You could not dislike Joseph Sheffield. Mildness pervaded his identity, from his slight, nondescript body, graying brown hair, quiet eyes, and gentle voice, and even his love for music. One assumed that as a professional musician, he loved music, but he never expressed that love. What he exhibited was more like affection, and I'd always wanted to see enormous excitement or joy.

"I'd love to watch Kullio tackle that monster of an orchestra," he finally said.

"Do you want me to call for a reservation at the Latham?"

"I'll take care of it."

We made arrangements to meet for dinner, and triumphant, I slammed down the phone. You may well ask what I was feeling triumphant about. Don't ask me. I'm notoriously unreliable.

Josephine Carr
author of My Very Own Murder
and
The Dewey Decimal System of Love