The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry

by Gabrielle Zevin

In the fifteen or so years he has known her, A.J. thinks Ismay has aged like an actress should: from Juliet to Ophelia to Gertrude to Hecate.

She was pretty and smart, which makes her death a tragedy. She was poor and black, which means people say they saw it coming.

I was on my way to a PhD in American literature before I quit that to open this bookstore. My specialty was Edgar Allan Poe. ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ is a decent primer on what not to do with children.”

Not to mention, A.J. is tired of reading The Monster at the End of This Book, and though he has never been particularly interested in picture books before, he decides to make himself an expert. He wants Maya to read literary picture books if such a thing exists. And preferably modern ones. And preferably, preferably feminist ones. Nothing with princesses. It turns out that these works most definitely do exist. One night, he finds himself saying, “As a form, the picture book has a similar elegance to the short story. Do you know what I mean, Maya?” She nods seriously and turns the page. “The talent of some of these people is astounding,” A.J. says. “I honestly had no idea.”

He smiles at A.J., and A.J. raises his glass and smiles back. And then, despite the fact that A.J. does not believe in God, he closes his eyes and thanks whomever, the higher power, with all his porcupine heart.

“Plays, the odd bit of poetry. Then there are the books I teach every year: Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Johnny Got His Gun, A Farewell to Arms, A Prayer for Owen Meany, some years Wuthering Heights, Silas Marner, Their Eyes Were Watching God, or I Capture the Castle. Those books are like old friends.

TBR ..

Finally, a nice-looking jacket is important. I don’t care how good the insides are. I don’t want to spend any length of time with an ugly object. I’m shallow, I guess.” “You are one heck of a pretty woman,” Lambiase says. “I’m ordinary,” she says. “No way.” “Pretty is not a good reason to court someone, you know. I have to tell that to my students all the time.” “This from the woman who doesn’t read the books with the ugly covers.” “Well, I’m warning you. I could be a bad book with a good jacket.” He groans. “I’ve known a few of those.” “For instance?” “My first marriage. The wife was pretty but mean.” “So you thought you’d make the same mistake twice?” “Nah, I’ve seen you on the shelf for years. I’ve read the synopsis and the quotes on the back. Caring teacher. Godmother. Upstanding community member. Caretaker to sister’s husband and daughter. Bad marriage, probably made too young, but tried her best.” “Sketchy,” she says. “But it’s enough to make me want to read on.” He smiles at her.

He has a headache, which he does no favors by drinking several glasses of red wine.

Chekhov's headache...