The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry

“I’m sorry.” A.J. locates the lighter in his drawer. He slams the drawer shut. “Where’s Amelia?”

“Are you going to propose?” Maya asks.

“No, darling. Not at this particular moment. I’ve got to deliver a lighter to an alcoholic.”

She considers this information. “Can I come with you?” she asks.

A.J. puts the lighter in his pocket and, for expediency, scoops up Maya, who really is too big to be carried.

They go down the stairs and through the bookstore and outside to where A.J. had left Friedman. Friedman’s head is haloed by smoke. The pipe, which droops languorously from his fingers, makes a curious bubbling sound.

“I couldn’t find your bag,” A.J. says.

“Had it with me all along,” Friedman says.

“What kind of pipe is that?” Maya asks. “I have never seen a pipe like that before.”

A.J.’s first impulse is to cover Maya’s eyes, but then he laughs. Had Friedman actually traveled on the plane with drug paraphernalia? He turns to his daughter. “Maya, do you remember when we read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland last year?”

“WHERE’S FRIEDMAN?” AMELIA asks.

“Passed out in the backseat of Ismay’s SUV,” A.J. replies.

“Poor Ismay.”

“She’s used to it. She’s been Daniel Parish’s media escort for years.” A.J. makes a face. “I think the decent thing would be for me to go with them.” The plan had been for Ismay to drive Friedman to the ferry and then the airport, but A.J. can’t do that to his sister-in-law.

Amelia kisses him. “Good man. I’ll watch Maya and clean up here,” she says.

“Thank you. It sucks, though,” A.J. says. “Your last night in town.”

“Well,” she says, “at least it was memorable. Thanks for bringing Leon Friedman even if he’s a bit different than I imagined him.”

“Just a bit.” He kisses Amelia then furrows his brow. “I thought this was going to be more romantic than it turned out to be.”

“It was very romantic. What’s more romantic than a lecherous old drunk looking down my blouse?”

“He’s more than a drunk . . .” A.J. mimes the universal gesture for toking up.

“Maybe he has cancer or something?” Amelia says.

“Maybe . . .”

“At least he waited until the event was over,” she says.

“And I, for one, think the event was the worse for it,” A.J. says.

Ismay honks the car horn.

“That’s me,” A.J. says. “Do you really have to spend the night at the hotel with your mother?”

“I don’t have to. I am a grown woman, A.J.,” Amelia says. “It’s just that we’re leaving early for Providence tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I made a very good impression,” A.J. says.

“No one does,” she says. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Well, wait up for me, if you can.” Ismay honks the horn again, and A.J. runs to the car.

Amelia begins cleaning up the bookstore. She starts with the vomit and has Maya round up less objectionable detritus like flower petals and plastic cups. In the back row sits the woman who hadn’t had a lighter. She wears a floppy gray fedora and a silky maxidress. Her clothes look like they could be from a thrift shop, but Amelia, who actually shops in thrift shops, recognizes them as expensive. “Were you here for the reading?” Amelia asks.

“Yes,” the woman says.

“What did you think?” Amelia asks.

“He was very animated,” the woman says.

“Yes, that’s true.” Amelia squeezes a sponge into a bucket. “I can’t say he was completely what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?” the woman asks.

“Someone more intellectual, I think. That sounds snobby. Maybe that’s not the right word. Someone wiser maybe.”

The woman nods. “No, I can see that.”

“My expectations were probably too high. I work for his publisher. It was my favorite thing I ever sold, actually.”

“Why was it your favorite?” the woman asks.

“I . . .” Amelia looks at the woman. She has kind eyes. Amelia has often been fooled by kind eyes. “I had lost my father not long before, and I guess something in the voice reminded me of him. Also, there were so many true, true things in it.” Amelia moves onto sweeping the floor.

“Am I in your way?” the woman asks.

“No, you’re fine where you are.”

“I feel bad just watching you,” the woman says.

“I like sweeping, and you’re dressed too nicely to help.” Amelia sweeps the room in long, rhythmic strokes.

“They make the publisher clean up after readings?” the woman asks.

Amelia laughs. “No. I’m the bookstore owner’s girlfriend, too. I’m helping out for the day.”

The woman nods. “He must have been a huge fan of the book to bring Leon Friedman here after all these years.”

“Yes.” Amelia lowers her voice to a whisper. “The truth is, he did it for me. It was the first book we loved together.”

“That’s cute. Kind of like the first restaurant you go to or the first song you danced to or something.”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe he’s planning to propose to you?” the woman says.

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

Amelia empties the dustpan into the garbage can.

“Why don’t you think the book sold?” the woman asks after a bit.

“The Late Bloomer? Well . . . because it’s competitive out there. And even when a book is good, sometimes it still doesn’t work.”

“That must be hard,” the woman says.

“Are you writing a book or something?”

“I’ve tried, yes.”

Amelia pauses to look at the woman. She has long brown hair, well cut and super straight. Her purse probably costs as much as Amelia’s car. Amelia holds out her hand to introduce herself to the woman. “Amelia Loman.”

“Leonora Ferris.”

“Leonora. Like Leon,” Maya pipes up. She has had a milkshake and is now recovered. “I am Maya Fikry.”

“Are you from Alice?” Amelia asks Leonora.

“No, I came in for the day. For the reading.”

Leonora stands, and Amelia folds her chair and sets it by the wall.

“You must be a big fan of the book, too,” Amelia says. “Like I said before, my boyfriend lives here, and I know from experience that Alice isn’t the easiest place in the world to get to.”

“No, it isn’t,” Leonora says as she picks up her handbag.

All at once, Amelia is struck with a thought. She turns around and calls, “No one travels without purpose. Those who are lost wish to be lost.”

“You’re quoting The Late Bloomer,” Leonora says after a long pause. “It really was your favorite.”

“It was,” Amelia says. “ ‘When I was young, I never felt young.’ Something like that. Do you remember the rest of the quote?”

“No,” Leonora says.

“Writers don’t remember everything they write,” Amelia says. “How could they?”

“Nice talking to you.” Leonora starts heading for the door.

Amelia puts her hand on Leonora’s shoulder.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” Amelia says. “You’re Leon Friedman.”

Leonora shakes her head. “Not truly.”

“What does that mean?”

“A long time ago, a girl wrote a novel, and she tried to sell it, but no one wanted it. It was about an old man who lost his wife, and it didn’t have supernatural beings in it or a high concept to speak of, and so she thought it would be easier if she retitled the book and called it a memoir.”

“That’s . . . That’s . . . wrong,” Amelia stammers.

“No, it isn’t. All the things in it are still emotionally true even if they aren’t literally so.”

“So who was that man?”

“I called a casting office. He usually plays Santa.”

Amelia shakes her head. “I don’t understand. Why do the reading? Why go to the expense and bother? Why risk it?”

“The book had already flopped. And sometimes you want to know . . . to see for yourself that your work has meant something to someone.”

Amelia looks at Leonora. “I feel a little fooled,” she says finally. “You’re a good writer, you know?”

“I do know,” Leonora says.

Leonora Ferris disappears down the street and Amelia goes back into the store.

Maya says to her, “It has been a very weird day.”

“I agree.”

“Who was that woman, Amy?” Maya asks.

“Long story,” Amelia tells her.

Maya makes a face.

“She was distantly related to Mr. Friedman,” Amelia says.

Amelia gets Maya into bed then pours herself a drink and debates whether or not to tell A.J. about Leonora Ferris. She doesn’t want to sour him on the idea of author events. She also doesn’t want to make herself look foolish in his eyes or compromise herself professionally: she has sold him a book that has now revealed itself to be a fake. And maybe Leonora Ferris is right. Maybe it doesn’t matter if the book is, strictly speaking, true. She thinks back to a sophomore seminar she had taken in literary theory. What is true? the teaching fellow would ask them. Aren’t memoirs constructions anyway? She would always fall asleep during this class, which was embarrassing because only nine people were in it. All these years later, Amelia finds she can still drift off to the memory.