Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Clemence continues sorting in the bookstore.
By the end of November, there’s been enough progress that there’s room to walk down the central aisle two abreast, which she and Toby do on their way to the closet under the stairs—the reason why the books aren’t getting sorted any faster.
She intends to spend the first hour of each shift on the shelves, but that hour keeps getting shorter.
Toby has taken to appearing behind her, a hand on her shoulder, asking, “Clemence, can I see you about something?” She doesn’t understand the subterfuge because there’s no one else around.
In the darkness of the closet, reality falls away.
Clemence doesn’t have to think about the cauliflower, or the caterpillar, everything Toby had been willing to endure simply to preserve her dignity.
Such willingness only making it easier for her to overlook his neuroticism, and propensity for rashes.
The fact that he has never invited her over to his place, and that he doesn’t intend to.
“I don’t really like other people interfering with my stuff,” he says, and he’s not crazy about coming back to her apartment, either, after what happened with the cat, no matter how carefully she’s promised she’s cleaned.
“With an old house like that,” he says, “it’s impossible to eliminate allergens.
All those crevices are practically impenetrable. ”
I’m not going to laugh, Clemence tells herself when he says this, and she doesn’t even mind that he’s refusing to let their relationship proceed in a standard fashion, in any standard fashion, because, well, let’s just say that all the crevices are penetrable in the closet under the stairs.
Their situation forcing them both to be creative, to find different ways to connect with each other.
It’s never boring, which Clemence knows it could easily be if she began turning up at his place for regular booty calls.
Toby is straightforward about where he stands and who he is, and so although he’s odd, he’s never disappointing.
And while Toby in the daylight can be middling, Toby in the dark delivers satisfaction like she’s never known before, though it has been suggested by others that Clemence might be fooling herself.
“The closet is not a metaphor,” says Clemence, arguing Naomi’s assertions.
“The closet is a closet, and this is my life. I am allowed to do things that feel good. Surely you, of all people, should understand that.” A lecture about compartmentalization is more than a bit rich coming from someone who keeps her sex trapeze in a spare room drawer.
But even if the closet is a metaphor, what’s wrong with that?
A retreat of sorts, a space where what exists between her and Toby is natural and easy, and there’s nothing for him to hit his head on.
Where Clemence doesn’t have to worry that her apartment is too small or unfashionable or tainted by cat hair, where she doesn’t have to consider what her family is going to think, whether she’s ever going to be ready to settle things with her ex-husband, or where her next paycheque is coming from.
With Toby in the closet, Clemence doesn’t even think about the jumble sale, which is a miracle, because these days she’s even dreaming about the jumble sale.
Jumble sale nightmares—a city made of jumble, towering cardboard boxes heaped with Royal Doulton china dolls, feather boas, and unlabelled vhs tapes, and in her dreams, there’s always an earthquake, the jumble collapsing all around her, gaudy beads and baubles raining from the sky.
The reality itself is not so different from the dream, the church storage room overflowing out into the hall.
They’ve stopped accepting donations officially, but boxes and bags keep arriving, anyway, late at night, after hours, discovered on the church steps in the morning.
News has spread throughout the neighbourhood of the anti-jumble campaign, and so people have ransacked their basements and attics to show their support for St. Saviour’s.
The abusive posts on social media and defacement of the posters in the street have done more to spread the word than anything Clemence might have planned in her publicity campaign, and there was a week or so when she’d suspected that Reverend Michelle had orchestrated the entire controversy.
She’d been a theatre major in a former life and no doubt she had it in her.
But in the end, it was Reverend Michelle who solved the mystery of who had it in for the jumble sale, who had been calling them FACIST SCUM.
Church ministers have to be far more enterprising than in previous times, because there are fewer excellent women within the congregation to orchestrate everything.
Clergy actually had to work now, undertaking investigations to get to the bottom of tracing the identities of online trolls, on top of writing sermons and whatnot.
“It was simply a question of connecting the dots,” Reverend Michelle explains when she calls Clemence into her office.
“And in the end, it was obvious. I assume you know Mary-Ann Arbuckle, or that you’ve heard about her. ”
And Clemence says, “No.” Her voice is unsteady. Where is this going?
“Well, consider yourself lucky,” says Reverend Michelle.
“She can be a lot to contend with.” She invites Clemence to look over her shoulder as she enters Mary-Ann Arbuckle’s name into the search bar, and the top result is the Sorauren Park Artisan Market, where Mary-Ann is listed as executive director.
And then Reverend Michelle clicks on the market’s social media page which is spammed with the same all-caps ranting about the St. Saviour’s jumble sale.
“I think she has strong feelings about fascism but doesn’t know how to spell it.
Apparently she’s upset because we’ve been poaching her vendors.
” She looks at Clemence, her eyes narrowed. “Have we been poaching her vendors?”
“I don’t know that I’d call it poaching,” says Clemence.
She elucidates, “It’s more that I was hoping to sprinkle a little artisanal dust on everything we do.
This is hardly big-game hunting. All the vendors I talked to were happy to sign on.
There’s nothing untoward about this. Neither fascist, nor scummy. ”
“Mary-Ann is tempestuous,” says Reverend Michelle.
“She runs her market like a despot. I know her a bit, and I’ve done my research—they’ve had at least two schisms. She had a falling out with a lavender farmer that resulted in a restraining order.
She bans vendors from her market on a whim—once because one woman’s name was too long and wouldn’t fit on the promotions. ”
“I heard about that one, “ says Clemence. “So, what am I supposed to do?”
“We could arrange a meeting. Have it on neutral ground. Assure her that we’re not a threat. We don’t even pop up. We’re only once a year. There’s no reason why the jumble and the artisan market can’t be good neighbours.”
But Jillian and Naomi think that this is a terrible idea. “She’s going to ambush you,” says Naomi. “That woman is notorious. What about the time she attacked a wood-turner with a walnut dildo?”
They’re out for dinner at a restaurant close to Naomi’s office, a holiday gathering for the three of them, and when the bill comes it will be as much as Clemence’s rent, but Naomi has already said she’s treating them.
Clemence wonders if she’s supposed to feel guilty for benefiting from her friend’s generosity, but the gnocchi with truffle oil is far too delicious for her think about this long.
Some things are meant to be, and it might the finest meal she’s had in, perhaps, ever.
“But we have to give reconciliation a chance,” says Clemence. “It’s either that or cancel the jumble sale.”
“Just watch your back, is all I’m saying,” says Naomi.
“And look out for concealed weapons,” Jillian adds.
“Because I’m not sure any church jumble sale is worth being bludgeoned with an artisanal dildo over,” says Naomi. “No offence.”
Clemence says, “I don’t think it’s going to come to that. Anyway, Mrs. Yeung is coming with us. It makes me feel protected.”
“That woman’s pretty hard to mess with,” admits Jillian.
“And how’s her son?” asks Naomi. “The lawn boy.” She remembers him from the night they watched him cutting the grass.
“He’s not a lawn boy—he teaches high school. And besides I told you, he’s married.”
“He didn’t seem very married from what you said. Finagling his way into your apartment. Carrying boxes. Why is he always carrying boxes?”
“He’s just very … helpful,” says Clemence.
“Is that what they’re calling it now?” asks Jillian.
“It is!” protests Clemence. “But I’ve hardly seen him since school started again. It’s been a long time since September. He has a whole other life.”
“And you’ve seen no sign of the wife,” says Naomi.
“Except that his jumble donation was full of her clothes.”
“What were they like?” asks Jillian.
“Very expensive and petite,” says Clemence. “I think I hate her.”
Naomi says, “Fair. Anyway, maybe you’ll see her at the jumble sale.”
“Trying to get her clothes back?”
“No! Supporting her mother-in-law. Like how we’re going to be there for you.”
“You are?” asks Clemence. Worlds colliding, and she’s not sure how she feels about that.
“I like second-hand stuff,” says Jillian. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“And I’m willing to overlook the fascism,” jokes Naomi.
“Just this once.” The server clearing their plates looks at them strangely as she overhears this, but Naomi doesn’t notice, leaning across the table toward Clemence with her chin in her hands, a sly expression on her face.
“And will your ‘unsuitable attachment’ be there?” she asks, her true jumble intentions revealed.