The Leaving Season by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Epub3
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company

We opened in winter, just before the holiday rush. When I first walked into the 250- square-foot room, I was disappointed. But where I saw one too-small window, not enough shelving, and some floorboards that needed a good scrub, he saw a giant blue vase in the corner with an apple blossom branch, a corner nook that would make a perfect checkout desk. As an opening gift, he cut out strings of red paper birds to hang from the shop’s ceiling in a Valentine homage to Chaucer’s “The Parliament of Fowls.”

The first few weeks running the bookshop were hectic and exciting. Some days, R. would sit at the counter, with a sketchbook and charcoal to keep him entertained. On most days, though, I’d drop my older son at preschool in the church basement and bring my younger with me to the shop, nursing in a corner between customers. On a few blissful days, I’d leave him with a sitter.

I was amazed at what a few hours away from my children could do for my desire to be nearer to them. I found enjoyment and color spilling back into the many hours I spent together with the children, especially when it meant I was coming home to them after being at the bookshop, a place where I was able to remember who I had been, who I might still be. The stillness of the shop was a gift. It felt like years since I was able to sit and read, much less write. Feeling a sudden burst of ambition, I pitched a monthly column to The Paris Review about running a rural bookshop, and they accepted. Armed with a deadline and paycheck, I felt more forthright in claiming my time.

All the same, within that first month I could feel R.’s interest in the shop waning. He’d determined the space was too small to hold his printing press; his idea for a collective with classes dwindled into a single wall showcasing his framed prints. Although we’d initially planned to split the hours behind the counter, R. quickly decided his time was better spent in the studio. In those cold months, the bookshop had fifteen customers on a very busy day. Most of the time, the only person in the room was simply the person behind the desk.

I pushed R. to stick with the plan at first. But I soon noticed inaccuracies in our handwritten receipt book. Sometimes the Pennsylvania sales tax would be rounded down to five, or up to ten percent. Sometimes it wouldn’t be there at all. When I asked him about it, he waved with annoyance. What’s the big deal? I explained to him that as an LLC we had to keep careful accounting of our sales, that we would owe that money to the state, so if we didn’t collect it, that cash would have to come out of our profits. I could see him stop listening halfway through my lecture.

When he’d first arrived in New York, he’d

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