Free Larkspur by Sheila Simonson Page B

the eye.
    "Did Dennis say how his mother was?" Dennis had called two hours before, and Ginger
and I hadn't had a minute to discuss what he'd said.
    "He took her to the hospital."
    "Really?"
    "Just nerves."
    "No, we have no more copies in stock, madam." That to a woman in her fifties who
looked like the stereotype of an English teacher. She wanted Llewellyn's poems. "Try the public
library."
    Ginger rang up a map of Portugal. Portugal? "You were going to leave at six."
    "I won't desert you. No, sir, that's out of stock." I told the man, who looked like the
stereotype of an accountant, that we might have copies of Llewellyn's poems by the end of the
week. I recommended H.D. if he liked imagist poetry. He left without H.D. I wondered whether
he'd have bought Ma's latest if he'd known she was Llewellyn's literary executor.
    So it went. We didn't have time to eat. The TV camera and its auxiliaries left by three,
the better to make the five o'clock news, but they were replaced by a dozen assorted children on
bikes and skateboards. Two teenaged girls rode up bareback on a roan horse, and sat and stared.
The horse crapped on the asphalt. Dozens of cars drove by, some with bad mufflers, all with
gawkers. The reporter's camper stayed. The "customers" kept coming.
    None of the intruders who entered the store had anything intelligent or even kind to say,
but about half had enough shame to think they had to buy something. One non-buyer handed me
a tract about the wages of sin. I told her the Bible Life Bookstore's address on Main Street. She
called me a jezebel, on what grounds I know not, and flounced out, having exercised her First
Amendment rights.
    Ginger stayed with me. At five minutes to nine I dimmed the lights, and by nine-fifteen I
had rung up the last sale, a school-year calendar boosting the Monte J.C. Women's Athletics
Program. I yanked the shades down and locked the front door.
    Ginger and I looked at each other. "Phew," she said.
    "Let's total out the register. Can you take the money to the night deposit?"
    She nodded. "Dennis is picking me up."
    "Thanks. Thanks for staying, too. I'm going to have to put in an emergency order with
the supplier in Sacramento." And hope he could get me a dozen copies of Llewellyn's Collected Poems at $29.50 retail.
    "Were you serious about closing the store tomorrow?"
    "Absolutely. It's Sunday. All the religionists in the county would come in and lecture me
and feel righteous about not buying anything. Besides, I think I ought to close. Staying open isn't
respectful."
    She raised her eyebrows. "How about Monday?"
    "Monday will be business as usual. Well, not quite. You'd better count on a one to nine
shift all of next week, though I'll close again for a half-day if the funeral is held here. I don't
imagine it will be. Llewellyn lived in San Francisco."
    She tried not to lick her chops. Ginger was attending classes full time, but she needed as
much work as she could get. Her kids were in college, too. "I'll drop my one o'clock."
    "The art history class? I thought you liked it."
    "Sure, but they teach it every semester, and besides I need more time to study." She
looked virtuous.
    I had to laugh. "Don't do anything hasty. This flurry of business will probably peter out
in a couple of days."
    I let Ginger out the front door when I saw Dennis's pickup pull in. That was a ploy to
distract the Chronicle reporter, while I escaped out the back. I set a record shutting off
the backroom lights and locking up and zipped out the alley. I took the back way in to my
apartment.
    My telephone answering tape was full of urgent messages from members of the press
looking for exclusive stories--and a somber request from my mother to call her whenever I got in,
even if it was 2:00 a.m. in New York.
    I dialed home, and Mother answered on the fourth ring. My father had heard a news
story around three their time, and they'd been worrying ever since. I should have called them
from the lodge. I knew that, and my bad