“The shop was named for my grandfather,” the woman explains. Evidently this is a story she likes telling because she’s just getting started. “Thomas Crampton, developed the entire block. We had a shoe store, too. Things were different then. Nobody had to go far to get what they needed. The grocers took up three storefronts, but then once the big supermarkets opened up, people stopped coming. The bookstore never brought in much of a profit, anyway; more of a hobby project. My mother inherited it all, and ran it with my father, and then it was my turn, and I’ve not made such a bad job of it, considering what Ihad to work with.”
And there she’d been, Clemence, walking around in the world, observing, imagining her instincts were good enough that she was getting the basic sense of things, thata tweed suit and a bad haircut might tell her everything she needed to know about this woman. It took a certain kind of nerve to suppose understanding of anything at all.
“You still own the buildings?” Clemence asks. An entire block, with retail and two floors of apartments above, gorgeous century-old buildings with tin ceilings and huge windows. This woman was sitting on millions of dollars.
“As long as Ican keep paying the taxes, yes,” she answers. “And I’m not selling. Don’t you start with that. I’ve heard the spiels before, and I’m wise to you.”
“But I’m not starting,” says Clemence. “Iwouldn’t be even if Icould, but Ican’t. Ireally can’t.” She looks around again, at the dust and disorganization. “You run both stores yourself?”
The woman shrugs. “At this point, they run themselves.” Only because customers rarely came in, but she was fine with that.
“I’m Clemence Lathbury,” says Clemence, putting out her hand. “And Iswear that I’m not haunting you.”
Her offer accepted. “Crampton Goldberg,” is the answer. “MissCrampton Goldberg.”
“Miss Goldberg.”
“Crampton’s fine.”
“I’ve come about the books,” says Clemence.
“Oh, the books,” says Crampton, as though they were an afterthought.
“You’re not a big reader?”
“Iread some,” says Crampton, indignant. “Or at least Iused to. It’s hard to find the time.”
Clemence isn’t sure she believes this. This womanspends hours and hours in shops that nobody goes into—but Clemence also knows she is in no position to judge anybody for how they spend their days. The store’s cataloguing, though, there’s no excuse for that.
“Iwas confused,” says Clemence. “About the distinction —‘Women’s Fiction.’”
Crampton Goldberg actually rolls her eyes. “You’re one of those women’s libbers, Iguess.”
Clemence says, “Iguess, but isn’t that from, like, fifty years ago?”
“The books are written by women, aren’t they?” asks Crampton. “And it’s fiction. Idon’t see what the problem is. I’ve been in places where books are filed under ‘Fiction Novels,’ and Idon’t see you out there complaining about that.”
“Actually,” says Clemence, “Icomplain about that a lot. ‘Fiction Novels’ is an egregious crime, but this isn’t any better. Why don’t you have a ‘Men’s Fiction’ section, then?”
“We do,” says Crampton. “We call it ‘Literature.’”
“But why?” demands Clemence. “And don’t you see?”
“Why it matters?” asks Crampton. “No. Idon’t. There are problems enough to deal with in this world without people like you going around inventing things to be offended by.”
“I’m not offended,” says Clemence. “Ijust think it’s wrong.”
“And what are you going to do about it?” asks Crampton. “Boycott? Because no one shops here, anyway. Believe me, Iwouldn’t know the difference if you boycotted me or not.”
“But doesn’t it bother you?” asks Clemence. “To see women as somehow second tier?”
“Why would it?” Crampton Goldberg is as unmovable as her city block. “Iknow who Iam. What anybody else thinks or where a novel happens to land on the shelf—that doesn’t have anything to do with me. And it’s got even less to do with you. You don’t like it? You can leave any time.” She waits. “You’re not going.”
But Clemence Lathbury is unmovable, too, until she hears a sound behind her, the pale book man clambering down the staircase, presumably after a shift among the books on billiards and badminton. His footfall is heavier than his slight figure might suggest.
“Toby, one of these days you’re going to bring the building down,” Crampton is saying, her voice far away now that he’s locked eyes with Clemence, who now realizes this could become very bad. Clemence had only seen Toby behind the counter before, but now she’s examining him head to toe and determining how likely it is that he will die of something tragic like tuberculosis or scarlet fever. So pale, his forehead high and vulnerable, full pink lips, and he’s wearing a cardigan, which Clemence has always imagined on a man is a public acknowledgement of one’s desire to be enveloped, and what if she is up for the job?
“You’re back,” he’s saying.
