"Is Vera here?" I asked. A fragrant candle burning near the register encouraged my hope as the cashier, my gateway to England, processed the question. I tried not to stare at her pierced face: her eyebrows, a nostril, and the corner of her mouth. I could barely think, wondering about her tongue. Her name tag said Chutney; surely her mother had not named her Chutney. The woman shrugged and I feared I'd missed Vera; she'd already left for England. But Chutney nodded toward the back. I hurried through stacks rising on either side of me like narrow canyons, the atmosphere cooler and quieter among the shelves. I grew excited by the musty paper smell and the promise of a different kind of future. I'd always wanted to live in a novel, a living cosmos bound by cloth covers, awaiting a reader's attention to launch its narrative. Attending a literary festival seemed very close to my dream of living in a book.
I sensed a gothic villain on my trail and quickened my pace, passing Tolstoy, Wharton, and Zola. Frida Kahlo's eyebrow glared at me from a poster on the end of the next stack. At the turn, I collided with Rochester's mad wife, a small Asian woman reading while she walked, scaring us both. Shouldn't they post that warning from the surgeon general in here?
Stepping into the office doorway, my heart still pounding, I found Vera at her desk, surrounded by books. She peered at me over her reading glasses, reminding me of the silver-haired bookmobile lady from my elementary school who placed her hands on my shoulders almost twenty years ago, gently turning my body away from the childish picture books to behold the novels. "I think you're ready for these," the bookmobile lady had said. A mighty chorus filled the air and an intense beam illuminated dust motes as I reached for my first chapter book.
"You all right, Lily?" Vera asked, her finger resting on the last word she'd read, her voice so soft and inviting I wanted to sit next to her and read whatever page she was on. Last time we talked, she'd said we were kindred spirits, swallowing mid-sentence, confessing to the same dream of living in a novel. I'd asked if participating in her husband's literary festival was like living in a novel and she said it depended on one's approach.
I cleared my throat and spoke. "I accept your invitation to the literary festival." When Vera first invited me to the lit fest, the books in her office listened politely, knowing I couldn't afford the flight. Now that I wanted to go, books stacked on the floor and covering every horizontal surface held their musty breath awaiting her response. Vera lifted her glasses to the top of her head where they rested on her gray Georgia O'Keeffe braid.
"You accept what?" She marked her page and gently closed her book.
Why did she ask? We'd talked about this.
She pointed to a chair. "Please sit."
Her reaction surprised me; Vera pretending not to understand, as if we'd never discussed me going to England. Navigating piles of books, I walked around her desk and lifted a box of paperbacks from the old dinette chair. Had I read too much into her invitation? Suddenly, the reasons they wouldn't take me multiplied: I had no passport, I spoke no foreign languages, and my literary skills were limited to turning pages. "You gave me the postcard for Literature Live. You said I was ready for it."
Vera shrugged. She smiled at her desk and willed the phone to ring; a woman in the act of backpedaling. Had she used the same line on everyone in the store that day? "Are you planning to be in England this summer?" she asked.
I wasn't imagining things. Vera had said I was ready. She said I should go to England and leave my problems in Texas. Staring directly at her, I picked a ragged cuticle on my thumb, resisting the urge to bite. Perhaps projects excited her as long as they remained in the abstract. Practical considerations, like what I would do and who would pay, killed her buzz.
"For some reason I thought you were planning to travel," she said.
"I'm planning to change careers," I said. "And when we talked about your husband's literary festival, we were talking about me needing a job." I leaned forward. "Can't I audition," I asked, pressing my hands together, "for a small part?"
"Audition? I wasn't aware you were an actress," Vera said.
I ticked off high school musicals on my fingers: The Music Man, Camelot, and Fiddler on the Roof. Nothing in college. "And I volunteered with Dallas Community Theatre." I passed out programs when I first moved to Dallas, before I had friends. The sorry smile on Vera's face stopped me from launching into my living-your-literature-like-living-your-faith philosophy. "What?" I asked.
"Auditions were held months ago." Vera frowned.
I held my thumb. "What about a nonspeaking part?"
"You don't understand." Vera shook her head and then revealed the major obstacle lurking beyond the range of my hope. "Visitors don't do the acting," she said. "Visitors watch productions and attend lectures."
I bit my cuticle and blood gushed.
"The festival hires professional actors who perform for the paying public." She tapped her pen on a pink message pad. "But, you know," she mused, pointing her pen at me, "I like your idea. Firing the salaried actors and replacing them with the paying public is an interesting approach." Vera pushed her chair back and offered me a tissue for my thumb. "Let's fire the actors. I wonder how that would work."
I wrapped my thumb in the tissue. "I don't think you would fire all of them," I said, accepting credit for the business concept she'd converted from my misunderstanding. "You'd keep a couple of professionals to coach the amateurs."
Vera's eyes grew wide. "We'd save money."
We stared at each other, not blinking.
"So, can I go?"
"I'm thinking." Vera put the pen down. Something about firing the actors had changed the dynamics and she began to seem like her old self.
"Do you have any other jobs?" I asked.
"Like what?"
"I have a business degree. I could help you in an administrative capacity."
"We have Claire for that." Vera bit her pen.
"I can take tickets."
"You'd have to fight the volunteers for that job." Eventually, she folded her arms and spoke slowly. "We do have one sticky situation you might help with. Let me call my husband and see where he is with that. Hold on." Vera picked up her phone and dialed England, home of her husband, executive director of the lit fest. "Let's fire all the actors," she mused, punching numbers twice before getting an answer. "Nigel dear, any word from Her Ladyship?" Vera swept a few stray hairs off her forehead and I realized what a big adventure this would be, the very word Ladyship opening portals of newness for me.
"I was hoping she'd have executed something by now," Vera continued. "No, I don't think it means anything other than she's busy and we're low priority." Her tone changed when she said, "Nigel, how's this for an idea?" Vera looked at me as she spoke. "Have you ever considered firing the actors and allowing visitors to perform the enactments?" The air-conditioning cycled on while we waited for Nigel's reaction. "Exactly," Vera said. "Not this year, of course." Then Vera smiled at me. "I'm sitting across from the breath of fresh air, even as we speak."
I smiled my breeziest smile.
"Listen, the main reason for the call is to ask where we are on the Miss Banks Situation." Vera wobbled the pen between her fingers. "I want to know if we have a Plan B in the likely event Elizabeth Banks no-shows, because the breath of fresh air sitting across from me is also a lovely young actress." Vera smiled at me. "Think of a young Anne Elliot, brunette, blue eyes, who could fill that opening and help us in the Randolph Department."
The Randolph Department?