Pursuit Of The Cygnus Thief

Chapter 34 - Dorothy, Anne, But Never Laura

Chapter 34 - "Dorothy, Anne, But Never Laura"

By Roseyone

Muncies' Book Row was dominated by a mixture of cafes, antique shops, galleries and bookstores, but the neighborhood was also sharply divided by north, south, and denizens. The north end was neat, clean, its sidewalks were only for walking, its stores catered to regular folks who neither raised their voices in public nor stared.

Slouchy, chaotic, and noisy, the south end brimmed with atypical types who were frequently beatniks or brown, musicians, or artists. The sidewalks there were cluttered with vendors who sold goods; used or new, good and savory, original or copy, clothing, food, art, and oddity, which they offered for dickering price and in abundance beneath large colorful parasols. My half hour long quest to purchase "The Tribe That Lost Its Head" by Monserrat, along the north end of Book Row had been a failure. I'd found the book easily enough, but my pinned up twin braids had once again done nothing to mitigate the impression a high bodice framed by puffed sleeves projected. The book I wanted was considered too grown-up, even dirty; in one bookstore, I'd been called a liar for insisting on my real age.

Somewhere along the way, I'd gained two barnacles, girls perhaps a year younger whom, judging from the large bulky purses they carried and hot pepper lips, had recently raided their mothers' belongings. There was no sign of hard pack dust on their sandaled feet, these two Muncie girls had seen me for a hick, after that they'd had little else to do but dog my heels for amusement and mean. The name calling was usually the same, I was an easy, visual target, but I could take it. I had a thick skin. These two were more literary than most, but they offered nothing I hadn't heard before. Dorothy was as dull a barb as Anne, while the moniker Laura Ingalls bore all the sharp of jello, and far less wit. This latter insult, when offered however; was less clever than the rest, and not the least bit applicable. It was that combination; unclever and missing the mark, not the rude literary references to my appearance, that could sometimes rile me.

My personal magpies stalked from a few yards distance as I crossed the trolley tracks that split Book Row between north and south. Their giggles, jeers, comments; repeatedly confirmed that the two shared stupidity, a loud, obvious condition, and were focused on me. I wanted that Monserrat book more than I wanted to offer a verbal bombing. I needed that book, it was somewhere to go. I let the insults ride unchallenged and concentrated on the search. When they'd again had no success quoting Anne of Avonlea, my pursuers returned to Dorothy and clicked their heels. 'There's no place like home...' when that again failed to rouse me, the two circled back to Laura Ingalls and the little house. 'Hey, did your Paw say you could leave the prairie?'

Beyond my own reflection, in the plate window of Blackwells' Books, I spotted a cashier tending to a countertop overrun with piles of hardcovers. Nearby, another worker stood on a ladder above more than the dozen customers who browsed shelves at the front part of the store, he looked busy too. These were good signs I thought. The frazzled looking cashier seemed unlikely to squander her attention on the content of my purchase. Behind me, my pursuers paused on the sidewalk near a shaved ice pushcart and began to whisper to one another. I watched their reflections for a bit, walked over, and pulled on the stores' front door.

The air inside was hushed, cool, and heavy with the reassuring scents of paper, binding glue, and ink. I returned the cashiers' lifeless welcome with a wave of my hand, she gave me double-take, then announced where I could find the childrens' section. Done with me, the cashier returned to the pile of books on her counter. I looked up at the aisle labels that depended from small gauge chains anchored in the painted tin ceiling. From the corner of my eye, I saw that the store clerk on the ladder had stopped to stare down at me. I pretended not to see him. I refused to be drawn his way and give him any reason to notice me further. I found the bestseller aisle and strode toward it just as my pursuers' burst through the door laughing. I wondered when the Muncie girls would lose interest, and whether it really had to come to a head.