Book of Speculation Sampler

Adventures in Making a Fake Old Book

Erika Swyler Author of THE BOOK OF SPECULATION

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Table of Contents 1 L e tte r f r o m th e Au th o r

2–21 B o o kbin din g Adve n tu r e s: E ri k a S wyl e r t a k e s u s o n a f a scinating jou rney i n t o t h e c raf t i n g o f t he ha nd - bo u nd , g i lded m anus crip t s o n t ea-s t ai n ed pap e r t ha t w e r e s e nt to book pu b l i s h ers i n S ept em be r 2 0 1 3 .

22–3 6 The Bo o k o f S p e c u la ti o n : C ha p t e r 1 A sam pling of n o o rd i n ary s t o ry. A u ni q u e l i t e r a r y debu t filled wi t h f o rt u n e-t el l ers , m e r m a i d s , d o o m e d lovers , an d a f ami l y c u rs e t h a t w i l l p u l l you d eep i n t o i t s s t o rm . . .

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D e ar F ellow Bo o k l o ve r , When submitting The Book of Speculation for p ubli cation, I fa c ed a pro b l em. I n ee d e d t o c o nv e y t he ma g ic of a very o l d b o o k, a s ed u c t i v e p o w e r t ha t l e a d s my librarian pro t ago n i s t , S i mo n , d o w n t he r a bbi t ho l e of a fam ily cu rs e. Th e s o l u t i o n was bo t h o bv i o u s a nd r idi culous : I’d r epl i c at e S i mo n ’ s ex p e r i e nc e a nd c r e a t e a bo ok as allu ri n g as t h e o n e h e re c e i v e s , s o m e t hi ng w ith pictures , let t ers , an d t aro t c ard s . I ha d t o m a k e b oo ks . In teachi n g mys el f b o o kb i n d i ng , I f e l l d o w n my own rabbit h o l e o f n eed l es , d r i l l s , t e a s t a i ni ng , illustration, gild i n g, an d mo re pape r d u s t t ha n o ne p e r son s hould ev er i n h al e. I h ad no c ho i c e bu t t o document m y li t t l e mad n es s o n Tu m bl r .

By jou rney’s end , I h ad a b o o k n o t j u s t f o r bi bl i o p hi l e s , b ut a s ea of han d mad e b o o ks t h at , t o m e , f e l t a s p owerful as the t i d es t h at t h reat en Si m o n’ s ho m e .

Sincerely,

Er ika Swyler

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I ’ve d o n e a bit of sk e tchin g

for my book project,

all of which needed to be printed on stained paper and then distressed.

A note about working with hand-stained paper: Printers hate it.

This is a smattering of what escaped being eaten by my printer yesterday. My printer was very hungry.

A note about printers eating paper: I’m a really ugly crier.

A note about ugly crying: It really cleans out the sinuses. I’m super perky today, but that could be because I ate three-quarters of a bundt cake.

I’ve got a bunch of books to make and the art that goes with them is essential. Today I’m up to my elbows in tea and coffee, making more paper, a nd running it under an iron to make sure the edges don’t catch in the printer.

Ironing paper: Mine is a life of mystery, danger, and uncontrollable passion.

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Mine is a life of mystery, danger, and uncontrollable passion.

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I can now drink caffeine through my skin.

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Stain i n g p a p e r tod ay .

My hands look like they belong to

a career smoker. Over the past few months I’ve stained about a ream of paper for my book. Here’s what I’ve discovered:

• PG Tips bags are the best as far as durability.

• Leaving the bag near the edges of the paper makes for a really l ovely darkness at the edges.

• Coffee stains more quickly than tea, but the stain is very even and not quite as pretty.

• Very hot water makes the paper take the dye more quickly.

• Very hot water s leepy writer.

is

detrimental

to

the

naked

hands

of

a

• Ten minutes in the oven at 190 degrees dries things perfectly and warps the paper just so.

• I can now drink caffeine through my skin.

• I will die without caffeine.

• Caffeine, caffe ine, caffeine.

• It’s a bad idea to chew tea bags.

• They don’t taste as good as you’d hope.

• Seriously, your dentist will be disappointed with you.

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Pa p er , I love you. erikaswyler.tumblr.com

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I m a y h a v e j u st fal l e n in l o v e

with my pile of

paper scrap.

I may have just whispered sweet nothings to it and asked it to hold me tenderly and keep back the darkness. Or som ething.

Sometimes when you’re deep in a project you get a little weird about it. Or maybe you wer e that way all along and just never had an outlet for it before.

Paper, I love you. Come, take my hand. Shh. No words. Just come.

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E rror s , R a g e B ak in g , an d Wea po nry . . .

I’m in production mode, which is kind of wonderful but terrifying at the same time.

There was an error at the printer. All my copies came back in the wrong font, which can be fixed, but sets me back by a day (half a day if I’m super lucky). Things like this are why I like to leave substantial wiggle room on projects because EVERYTHING always goes wrong.

I *might* be taking out my frustration with a pastry blender. For those who don’t have one, the pastry blender is the brass knuckles of the baking world. If I was any good at welding, I clearly would have already equipped mine with a set of brass knuckles.

I’m not sure what’s more frightening than a 5 '3" woman running at you full speed, brandishing a pastry blender/brass knuckles, screaming, “ PREPARE TO DIE!!!” Or something. Actually, I do know what would be more frightening—I’ve got a seriously heavy meat cleaver.

I’m also good with a cast-iron skillet. My battle skills are pretty much relegated to kitchen tools.

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I 'm pretty sure it's made from spun unicorns.

T h is i s wh a t cu ttin g cove r s lo o ks li ke.

The paper is Indian handmade leatherite krinkle, and I’m pretty sure it’s made from spun unicorns.

I’m using it for my c overs for a few reasons:

1. It’s cost effective.

2. Leather is super pricey and one is sending something to a vegan.

never

knows

when

3. I haven’t done leatherworking since I was a child.

4. This paper is gorgeous.

5. I take it back—it’s made of fairy wishes and angel dreams.

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6. I have to venture into the paper room at New York Central Art Supply to get it, and that’s reason enough. (That place is the Narnia of paper.)

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I’m kind of doing something traditional, but then not really at all. erikaswyler.tumblr.com

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Th e li t t l e p ape r d r il l that co uld.

The binding I’m working on is a modified Japanese stab binding. By modified I mean that I’m drilling as opposed to stabbing, using a soft cover in place of boar ds, and wrapping the spine where it would typically b e left open. I’m kind of doing something traditional, but then not really at all.

Unexpected things about this process: The paper the printer used is of much better quality than what I used in my two prototypes for this binding, hence, drilling is taking twice as long because the pape r is thick enough that the drill bit gets stuck in the b ook block if I don’t do a “two steps forward, one step back” method.

Consequently, this book is already a needy lover.

Note: E verything about this post sounds like innuendo.

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I'm sewing books this weekend.

B u ryi n g t h e thr e ad in the sp i ne.

I’m sewing books this weekend, which always takes longer than it should.

Each binding is slightly different, as each book block’s pages are a little d ifferent, each sheet of cover paper has its own particular curl, and the thread itself has knots and twists in it that make no two pieces of it alike.

And here I thought I’d never sew again outside of home ec class.

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A g ing b o o k s .

I’ve sacrificed my makeup brushes to the cause. They hold just the right amount of tea to get into the pages without letting the dye bleed all the way up the page. Besides, who needs makeup when you’re permanently dyed by tea and coffee?

The problem with making an “old” yet readable manuscript is that staining and aging processes tend to make pages very stiff. I’ve compromised here by staining the edges, so that anyone who encounters this object will see an old book at first glance, but still have something that’s easy to read. So far it works well. The trade-off is that I have to be very controlled with the staining process. Rather than soaking pages in a nice big tub, I’ve had to go in with this little brush for detail w ork. The edges have been distressed with a rasp and emery boards to give them the appeara nce of age, and so that they better take the dye.

Somewhere along the way writing turned into an art project.

Somewhere along the way writing turned into an art project.

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T h e p i le g r o ws.

The first photo is a before and after. Yes, those are two copies of the same manuscript.

Each binding is a little different, as the thread and the paper don’t always behave quite as I’d like. I’m approaching the halfway point for this step.

I think things are looking good, but it’s tough to say because I’m too close. I keep finding myself adding impossible wishes:

I I I I I

wish wish wish wish wish

I’d had the money to bind this in leather.

I had the money and time and skills to gold leaf the cover.

I had a book press. using book board wouldn’t have been totally impractical. it were fashionable to be covered in paper dust.

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I wish I’d had the money to bind this in leather.

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Wit h a t wi st.

I knew when I started on this that as I neared the end of the project I’d be binding faster, and probably better. The other day I figured out how much cooler things look with a simple twist of the thread in the middle. I could kick myself for not doing all th e bindings this way—but part of the point of this project is that everyone who gets a copy gets a unique piece.

I think this twist is really cool, so, there’s that.

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Everyone who gets a copy gets a unique piece.

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A ge d a n d g i ld e d . B y me .

All that’s left to do is let them cure, tuck the loose art pieces into the pages, and send them on their way.

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A sea of boo ks, each one hand bound.

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I 'm A n A u t hor ...

I woke this morning to an announcement in Publishers Weekly. This isn’t unusual in and of itself—except that this time the announcement was about me.

I’ve sold my novel, The Book of Speculation, to St. Martin’s Press.

What?! Yes. Yes, this is the project that’s under my “adventures in making a fake old book” tag. It’s also the project that’s been my baby, and will continue to be so until it’s up and walking and can finally run away from me. That will be in June 2015.

Though my route to this point has been circuitous and not without comedic mishaps—tea-stained fingernails, accidental inhalation of plastic, lost draft due to a ham dinner/laptop collision, boring dinner guests with P. T. Barnum facts—my experience so far has been in direct contrast with almost every negative thing I’ve ever been told about traditional publishing. I’ve been encouraged. Yes, it took a long time to get to here, but that’s just the time it had to take.

Holy cow. I sold my novel.

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coming June 2015 from st. martin's press

A dva n c e R e a d e r s ’ E d i t i on F i na l A rt to b e R e v e a l e d 21

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about the book of speculation: B o o k s m a t t e r t o S i mon Wa t son , a yo u n g l i b r a r i a n who f i n ds h i m s e l f i n c r e a s i n g l y d r a w n t o t h e o n e t h a t h a s a r r i v e d o n h is do o r step. It se em s to b e s o me ki n d o f jour n a l fr o m th e o w n er o f a tr aveli n g ca r n i v a l i n t he 1 7 0 0 s , w h o r e po r ts m any str an ge and ma g i ca l t hi n g s — i n cl u di n g t h e dr o w ni ng de ath o f a c i r cu s mer ma i d . It i s t h a t w o m a n w h o ti es th e b o o k to Si mo n ’ s f a mi l y , wh e r e g e n e r a t i o n s o f “m e r m ai ds” h av e d r o wn ed , l i ke Si m o n ’ s m o t h er , o n J uly 24 — w h i c h i s j u s t s i x weeks aw a y . C o ul d th e r e po ssi b ly b e a c u r s e o n Si mo n ’ s f a m i l y ? Wh a t do e s i t h ave to do w i t h a n o l d ci r cu s log, a n d c a n h e sto p i t i n ti m e to sav e hi s s i s t er ?

Turn

the page to start reading . . .

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CHAPTER ONE June 20th Perched on the bluff’s edge, the house is in danger. Last night’s storm tore land and churned water, littering the beach with bottles, seaweed, and horseshoe crab carapaces. The place where I’ve spent my entire life is unlikely to survive the fall storm season. The Long Island Sound is peppered with the remains of homes and lifetimes, all ground to sand in its greedy maw. It is a hunger.

Measures that should have been taken—bulkheads, terracing—weren’t.

My father’s apathy left me to inherit an unfixable problem, one too costly for a librarian in Napawset. But we librarians are known for being resourceful.

I walk toward the wooden stairs that sprawl down the cliff and lean into the sand. I’ve been delinquent in breaking in my calluses this year and my feet hurt where stones chew at them. On the north shore few things are more essential than hard feet. My sister, Enola, and I used to run shoeless in the summers until the pavement got so hot our toes sank into the tar. Outsiders can’t walk these shores.

At the bottom of the steps Frank McAvoy waves to me before turning his gaze to the cliff. He has a skiff with him, a beautiful vessel that looks as if it’s been carved from a single piece of wood. Frank is a boatwright and a good man who has known my family since before I was born.

When he smiles his face breaks into the splotchy weathered lines of an Irishman with too many years in the sun. His eyebrows curl upward and erikaswyler.tumblr.com

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THE BOOK OF SPECULATION

disappear beneath the brim of an aging canvas hat he’s never without.

Had my father lived into his sixties he might have looked like Frank, with the same yellowed teeth, the reddish freckles.

To look at Frank is to remember me, young, crawling among wood set up for a bonfire, and his huge hand pulling me away from a toppling log. He summons memories of my father poised over a barbecue, grilling corn—the smell of charred husk and burning silk—while Frank regaled us with fishing stories. Frank lied hugely, obviously. My mother and his wife egged him on, their laughter frightening the gulls. Two people are now missing from the tableau. I look at Frank and see my parents; I imagine it’s impossible for him to look at me and not see his departed friends.

“Looks like the storm hit you hard, Simon,” he says.

“I know. I lost five feet.” Five feet is an underestimate.

“I told your dad that he needed to get on that bulkhead, put in trees.”

The McAvoy property lies a few hundred yards west of my house, farther back from the water with a terraced and planted bluff that’s designed to save Frank’s house come hell or, literally, high water.

“Dad was never big on listening.”

“No, he wasn’t. Still, a patch or two on that bulkhead could have saved you a world of trouble.”

“You know what he was like.” The silence, the resignation.

Frank sucks air through his teeth, making a dry whistling sound.

“I guess he thought he had more time to fix things.”

“Probably,” I say. Who knows what my father thought?

“The water’s been coming up high the last couple years, though.”

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ERIKA SWYLER

“I know. I can’t let it go much longer. If you’ve got somebody you trust, I’d appreciate the name of a contractor.”

“Absolutely. I can send someone your way.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I won’t lie, though, it won’t be cheap.”

“Nothing is anymore, is it?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“I may wind up having to sell.”

“I’d hate to see you do that.” Frank’s brow furrows, tugging his hat down.

“The property is worth something even if the house goes.”

“Think on it some.”

Frank knows my financial constraints. His daughter, Alice, also works at the library. Redheaded and pretty, Alice has her father’s smile and a way with kids. She’s better with people than I am, which is why she handles programming and I’m in reference. But we’re not here about Alice, or the perilous state of my house. We’re here to do what we’ve done for over a decade, setting buoys to cordon off a swimming area. The storm was strong enough to pull the buoys and their anchors ashore, leaving them a heap of rusted chains and orange rope braid, alive with barnacles.

It’s little wonder I lost land.

“Shall we?” I ask.

“Might as well. Day’s not getting any younger.”

I strip off my shirt, heft the chains and ropes over a shoulder, and begin the slow walk into the water.

“Sure you don’t need a hand?” Frank asks. The skiff scrapes against the sand as he pushes it into the water. erikaswyler.tumblr.com

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THE BOOK OF SPECULATION

“No thanks, I’ve got it.” I could do it by myself, but it’s safer to have Frank follow me. He isn’t really here for me; he’s here for the same reason I do this walk every year: to remember my mother, Paulina, who drowned in this water.

The Sound is icy for June, but once in I am whole and my feet curl around algae-covered rocks as if made to fit them. The anchor chains slow me, but Frank keeps pace, circling the oars. I walk until the water reaches my chest, then neck. Just before dipping under I exhale everything, then breathe in, like my mother taught me on a warm morning in late July, like I taught my sister.

The trick to holding your breath is to be thirsty.

“Out in a quick hard breath,” my mother said, her voice soft just by my ear. In the shallow water her thick black hair flowed around us in rivers.

I was five years old. She pressed my stomach until muscle sucked in, navel almost touching spine. She pushed hard, sharp fingernails pricking.

“Now in, fast. Quick, quick, quick. Spread your ribs wide. Think wide.”

She breathed and her rib cage expanded, bird-thin bones splayed until her stomach was barrel-round. Her bathing suit was a bright white glare in the water. I squinted to watch it. She thumped a finger against my sternum. Tap. Tap. Tap. “You’re breathing up, Simon. If you breathe up you’ll drown. Up cuts off the space in your belly.” A gentle touch. A little smile. My mother said to imagine you’re thirsty, dried out and empty, and then drink the air. Stretch your bones and drink wide and deep. Once my stomach rounded to a fat drum she whispered, “Wonderful, wonderful. Now, we go under.”

Now, I go under. Soft rays filter down around the shadow of Frank’s boat. I hear her sometimes, drifting through the water, and glimpse her now and then, behind curtains of seaweed, black hair mingling with kelp.

My breath fractures into a fine mist over my skin.

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ERIKA SWYLER

Paulina, my mother, was a circus and carnival performer, fortune-teller, magician’s assistant, and mermaid who made her living by holding her breath. She taught me to swim like a fish, and she made my father smile.

She disappeared often. She would quit jobs or work two and three at once. She stayed in hotels just to try out other beds. My father, Daniel, was a machinist and her constant. He was at the house, smiling, waiting for her to return, waiting for her to call him darling.

Simon, darling. She called me that as well.

I was seven years old the day she walked into the water. I’ve tried to forget, but it’s become my fondest memory of her. She left us in the morning after making breakfast. Hard-boiled eggs that had to be cracked on the side of a plate and peeled with fingernails, getting bits of shell underneath them. I cracked and peeled my sister’s egg, cutting it into slivers for her toddler fingers. Dry toast and orange juice to accompany.

The early hours of summer make shadows darker, faces fairer, and hollows all the more angular. Paulina was a beauty that morning, swanlike, someone who did not fit. Dad was at work at the plant. She was alone with us, watching, nodding as I cut Enola’s egg.

“You’re a good big brother, Simon. Look out for Enola. She’ll want to run off on you. Promise you won’t let her.”

“I won’t.”

“You’re a wonderful boy, aren’t you? I never expected that. I didn’t expect you at all.”

The pendulum on the cuckoo clock ticked back and forth. She tapped a heel on the linoleum, keeping quiet time. Enola covered herself with egg and crumbs. I battled to eat and keep my sister clean.

After a while my mother stood and smoothed the front of her yellow summer skirt. “I’ll see you later, Simon. Goodbye, Enola.” erikaswyler.tumblr.com

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THE BOOK OF SPECULATION

She kissed Enola’s cheek and pressed her lips to the top of my head. She waved goodbye, smiled, and left for what I thought was work. How could I have known that goodbye meant goodbye? Hard thoughts are held in small words. When she looked at me that morning, she knew I would take care of Enola. She knew we could not follow. It was the only time she could go.

Not long after, while Alice McAvoy and I raced cars across her livingroom rug, my mother drowned herself in the Sound.

I lean into the water, pushing with my chest, digging in my toes. A few more feet and I drop an anchor with a muffled clang. I look at the boat’s shadow. Frank is anxious. The oars slap the surface. What must it be like to breathe water? I imagine my mother’s contorted face, but keep walking until I can set the other anchor, and then empty the air from my lungs and tread toward the shore, trying to stay on the bottom for as long as possible—a game Enola and I used to play. I swim only when it’s too difficult to maintain the balance to walk, then my arms move in steady strokes, cutting the Sound like one of Frank’s boats. When the water is just deep enough to cover my head, I touch back down to the bottom.

What I do next is for Frank’s benefit.

“Slowly, Simon,” my mother told me. “Keep your eyes open, even when it stings. It hurts more coming out than going in, but keep them open. No blinking.” Salt burns but she never blinked, not in the water, not when the air first hit her eyes. She was moving sculpture. “Don’t breathe, not even when your nose is above. Breathe too quickly and you get a mouthful of salt. Wait,” she said, holding the word out like a promise. “Wait until your mouth breaks the water, but breathe through your nose, or it looks like you’re tired. You can never be tired. Then you smile.” Though small-mouthed and thin-lipped, her smile stretched as wide as the water. She showed me how to bow properly: arms high, chest out, a crane taking flight. “Crowds love very small people and very 29

ERIKA SWYLER

tall ones. Don’t bend at the waist like an actor; it cuts you off. Let them think you’re taller than you are.” She smiled at me around her raised arms. “And you’re going to be very tall, Simon.” A tight nod to an invisible audience. “Be gracious, too. Always gracious.”

I don’t bow, not for Frank. The last time I bowed was when I taught Enola and the salt stung our eyes so badly we looked like we’d been fighting. Still, I smile and take in a deep breath through my nose, let my ribs stretch and fill my gut.

“Thought I was going to have to go in after you,” Frank calls.

“How long was I down?”

He eyes his watch with its cracked leather strap and expels a breath.

“Nine minutes.”

“Mom could do eleven.” I shake the water from my hair, thumping twice to get it out of my ear.

“Never understood it,” Frank mutters as he frees the oars from the locks.

They clatter when he tosses them inside the skiff. There’s a question neither of us asks: How long would it take for a breath-holder to drown?

When I throw on my shirt it’s full of sand; a consequence of shore living, it’s always in the hair, under the toenails, in the folds of the sheets.

Frank comes up behind me, puffing from dragging the boat.

“You should have let me help you with that.”

He slaps my back. “If I don’t push myself now and again I’ll just get old.”

We make small talk about things at the marina. He complains about the prevalence of fiberglass boats, we both wax poetic about Windmill, the racing sail he’d shared with my father. After Mom drowned, Dad sold erikaswyler.tumblr.com

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THE BOOK OF SPECULATION

the boat without explanation. It was cruel of him to do that to Frank, but I suppose Frank could have bought it outright if he’d wanted. We avoid talking about the house, though it’s clear he’s upset over the idea of selling it. I’d rather not sell either. Instead we exchange pleasantries about Alice. I say I’m keeping an eye out for her, though it’s unnecessary.

“How’s that sister of yours? She settled anywhere yet?”

“Not that I know of. To be honest, I don’t know if she ever will.”

Frank smiles a little. We both think it: Enola is restless like my mother.

“Still reading tarot cards?” he asks.

“She’s getting by.” She’s taken up with a carnival. Once that’s said, we’ve ticked off the requisite conversational boxes. We dry off and heft the skiff back up on the bulkhead.

“Are you heading up?” I ask. “I’ll walk back with you.”

“It’s a nice day,” he says. “Think I’ll stay down here awhile.” The ritual is done. We part ways once we’ve drowned our ghosts.

I take the steps back, avoiding the poison ivy that grows over the railings and runs rampant over the bluff—no one pulls it out; anything that anchors the sand is worth whatever evil it brings—and cut through the beach grass, toward home. Like many Napawset houses, mine is a true colonial, built in the late 1700s. A plaque from the historical society hung beside the front door until it blew away in a nor’easter a few years back.

The Timothy Wabash house. With peeling white paint, four crooked windows, and a sloping step, the house’s appearance marks prolonged negligence and a serious lack of funds.

On the faded green front step (have to get to that) a package props open the screen door. The deliveryman always leaves the door open though I’ve left countless notes not to; the last thing I need is to re-hang a door 31

ERIKA SWYLER

on a house that hasn’t been square since the day it was built. I haven’t ordered anything and can’t think of anyone who would send me something. Enola is rarely in one place long enough to mail more than a postcard. Even then they’re usually blank.

The package is heavy, awkward, and addressed with the spidery scrawl of an elderly person—a style I’m familiar with, as the library’s patrons are by and large an aging group. That reminds me, I need to talk to Janice about finding stretchable dollars in the library budget. Things might not be too bad if I can get a patch on the bulk-head. It wouldn’t be a raise, a one-time bonus maybe, for years of service. The sender is no one I know, an M. Churchwarry in Iowa. I clear a stack of papers from the desk—a few articles on circus and carnivals, things I’ve collected over the years to keep abreast of my sister’s life.

The box contains a good-sized book, carefully wrapped. Even before opening it, the musty, slightly acrid scent indicates old paper, wood, leather, and glue. It’s enveloped in tissue and newsprint, and unwrapping reveals a dark leather binding covered with what would be intricate scrollwork had it not suffered substantial water damage. A small shock runs through me. It’s very old, not a book to be handled with naked fingers, but seeing as it’s already ruined, I give in to the quiet thrill of touching something with history. The edges of the undamaged paper are soft, gritty. The library’s whaling collection lets me dabble in archival work and restoration, enough to say that the book feels to be at least from the 1800s. This is appointment reading, not a book you ship without warning. I shuffle my papers into two small stacks to support the volume—a poor substitute for the bookstands it deserves, but they’ll do.

A letter is tucked inside the front cover, written in watery ink with the same shaky hand.

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Dear Mr. Watson,

I came across this book at auction as part of a larger lot I purchased on speculation. The damage renders it useless to me, but a name inside it—Verona Bonn—led me to believe it might be of interest to you or your family. It’s a lovely book, and I hope that it finds a good home with you. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions that you feel I may be able to answer.

It is signed by a Mr. Martin Churchwarry of Churchwarry & Son and includes a telephone number. A bookseller, specializing in used and antiquarian books.

Verona Bonn. What my grandmother’s name would be doing inside this book is beyond me. A traveling performer like my mother, she would have had no place in her life for a book like this. With the edge of my finger, I turn a page. The paper nearly crackles with the effort.

Must remember to grab gloves along with bookstands. The inside page is filled with elaborate writing, an excessively ornamented copperplate with whimsical flourishes that make it barely legible. It appears to be an accounting book or journal of a Mr. Hermelius Peabody, related to something containing the words portable and miracle. Any other identifiers are obscured by water damage and Mr. Peabody’s devotion to calligraphy.

Skimming reveals sketches of women and men, buildings, and fanciful curved-roof wagons, all in brown. I never knew my grandmother. She passed away when my mother was a child, and my mother never spoke about her much. How this book connects to my grandmother is unclear, but it’s interesting nonetheless.

I dial the number, ignoring the stutter indicating a message. It rings for an exceedingly long time before an answering machine picks up and a man’s weathered voice states that I’ve reached Churchwarry & Son Booksellers 33

ERIKA SWYLER

and instructs to leave the time and date in addition to a detailed message as to any specific volume I’m seeking. The handwriting didn’t lie. This is an old man.

“Mr. Churchwarry, this is Simon Watson. I received a book from you.

I’m not sure why you sent it, but I’m curious. It’s June twentieth, just six o’clock. It’s a fantastic specimen and I’d love to know more about it.”

I leave multiple numbers, cell, home, and library.

Across the street, Frank heads toward his workshop, a barn to the side of his property. A piece of wood tucked under his arm, a jig of some sort.

I should have asked him for money, not a contractor. Workmen I can probably find, the money to do the work is an entirely different matter. I need a raise. Or a different job. Or both.

A blinking light catches my eye. Voicemail. Right. I punch in the numbers. The voice at the other end is not one I expect to hear.

“Hey, it’s me. Shit. Do I call enough to be an it’s me? I hope you have an it’s me. That would be good. Anyway, it’s me, Enola. I’m giving you a heads up. I’m coming home in July. It would be good to see you, if you feel like being around. Actually, I want you to be around. So, I’m coming home in July, so you should be home. Okay? Bye.” I play it back again. She doesn’t call enough to be an it’s me. There’s noise in the background, people talking, laughing, maybe even the sound of a carnival ride or two, but I might be imagining that. No dates, no number, just July. Enola doesn’t work on a normal timeline; to her, leaving a month’s window is reasonable. It’s good to hear her voice, but also concerning. Enola hasn’t called in more than two months and hasn’t been home in six years, not since announcing that if she spent one more day in this house with me she’d die. It was a typical thing to say, but different in that we both knew she meant it, different because I’d spent the previous four years taking care of her after Dad died. Since then she’s erikaswyler.tumblr.com

34

THE BOOK OF SPECULATION

called from time to time, leaving rambling messages. Our conversations are brief and centered on needs. Two years ago she called, sick with the flu. I found her in a hotel in New Jersey, hugging a toilet. I stayed three days. She refused to come home.

She wants to visit. She can. I haven’t touched her room since she left, hoping she’d come back, I suppose. I’d thought about turning it into a library, but there were always more immediate concerns, patching leaks, fixing electrical problems, replacing windows. Repurposing my long-gone sister’s room wasn’t a priority. Though perhaps it’s convenient to think so.

The book sits by the phone, a tempting little mystery. I won’t sleep tonight; I often don’t. I’ll be up, fixating. On the house, on my sister, on money. I trace the curve of a flourished H with my thumb. If this book is meant for me, best find out why.

© 2014

Erika Swyler

Author's note about the font used in this sampler: I chose 1786 GLC Fournier to be close to period specific. Most typefaces at the time were based off Bodoni, which is now so familiar as to be almost boring. This particular font has its roots in Bodoni and is anything but modern. I felt it conveyed the feeling of old newspapers and broadsheets while still being easy to read. I also fell in love with the apostrophe. I'm always falling in love with punctuation.

35

ERIKA SWYLER

is a grad uate of Ne w Y o r k Un i v e r s i t y.

H e r s h o r t fi c ti on has appeared in Women Ar t s Q uar t e r ly J o ur na l, L i t r o, Ander bo.c om, and el sewhere. Her w r i t i n g i s f e a t ur e d i n th e a nth ology Col on ial C omics, and her w o r k a s a p la y wr i gh t h a s r ec ei ved note from the J ane C hamber s Awa r d. B o r n a n d r a i se d on Long I sl and ’ s North Shore, Erika le a r n e d t o s wi m b e f or e s h e cou l d wal k, and happil y spe n t a ll h e r m o n e y a t tr a veli ng c a r nival s. She bl ogs at erika s wyle r .t um b lr .c o m a nd a ls o h a s a baking Tumbl r (ieatbut t e r .t um b lr .c o m ) w i t h a follow i ng o f six ty thousand . Erika r e c e n t ly m o v e d f r o m B r o o k ly n ba c k to her hometown, which i n s p i r e d t h e s e t t i n g o f th e book . T he Book of S pecul ation is h e r de b ut n o v e l.

erikaswyler.tumblr.com

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“The B o o k o f Sp e c u l a t i o n i s a lu s c io u s e xp e r ie n c e — d ar k , sw eet, an d w ild .”

— K at h e r i ne D u nn, au th o r of Geek Lo v e

150,000-COPY MARKET DISTRIBUTION • Reg io n al Author Tou r • P re -P u bl i cati o n L i br a r y / B o o ks e l l e r D i n n e r s • Nation al Pri n t P u bl i c i ty • Na ti o n al P r i n t Adve r t i s i n g • Pr e- Publicati o n Tr a d e A dverti si n g • On l i n e Adve r t i s i n g • Selection for Publisher s Lunch Buzz Books 2015: Spring/Summer • Featur ed Titl e at B E A • Nati o n al In d i e B o u n d Ca m p a i g n • Featur ed Title a t A LA • M aj o r L i br ar y M a r ke t i n g Ca m p a i g n • Net G alley E- m ail Ne w sl etter P r o mo ti o n • B o o k Cl u b P r o m o t i o n s on BookBr ow se, B o o k Re po rte r, a n d B oo k M ove m e n t • Par tner s hip wi th Tu mbl r • E a rl y Read er Re v i e w Ca m p a i g n • ReadingG r oupGo l d . c o m P r o mo ti o n • Tor. c o m P r o m o t i o n • S u m mer Reading Bl o g To u r • Au th o r Tu mbl r : www. e r i ka swy l e r. c o m • Wat ch for up dates th r o u g h 2014– 2015 at www.BookofSpeculation.com T he Book of Sp eculation • Erik a S wyler On-Sale: June 2015 978-1-250-05480-7 • $26.99/$31.50 Can. Also Available as an E-book: 978-1-4668-5779-7 • $12.99/$13.99 Can. Also Available on CD from Macmillan Audio