I'll Give You Something to Cry About: A Gathering of Stories

By Corey Mesler

TO BE held in cupped hands and passed around with wonder, the storied worlds of I’ll Give You Something to Cry About constitute a grouping born of spellbinding cosmic dust. Once more assuming the mantle of Story’s guardian, Corey Mesler sets to work at not only protecting and preserving, but pondering, playing, prodding, and perambulating within the bounds of narrative creation and exhaustion. Whether in the form of wife- and life-stealing bear, manuscript-eating desk, disillusioned newlywed couple, title-swapping library collection, or man bent on redefining his neurotic existence, these tales—fabled, monstrous, Southern, intimate, meta, everyday, other, biblical, and minor—effect a coalescence of teller and listener that is nothing short of celestial.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Queen's Ferry Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983907121

Corey Mesler

Corey Mesler has published in numerous journals and anthologies. He has authored four novels: Talk: A Novel in Dialogue (2002), We Are Billion-Year-Old Carbon (2006), The Ballad of the Two Tom Mores (2010), and Following Richard Brautigan (2010); two full-length poetry collections: Some Identity Problems (2008) and Before the Great Troubling (2011); and two books of short stories: Listen: 29 Short Conversations (2009) and Notes Toward the Story and Other Stories (2011). He has also published a dozen chapbooks of both poetry and prose. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize numerous times, and two of his poems have been selected for Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac. He also claims to have written “Countin’ Flowers on the Wall.” With his wife, he runs Burke’s Book Store, one of the country’s oldest (1875) and best independent bookstores. He can be found at www.coreymesler.com.

Book preview

"All things had opposites close by, every decision a reason against it, every animal an animal that destroys it."

—Patricia Highsmith

IT STARTED, like many stories, with a stranger appearing. We had just sat down to dinner, Eveline, the kids and me. Eveline had made up special a pot of organ-grinder stew. Flint and Fletcher, my twins, were already elbow-deep in their bowls when there was a knock on the door. Who could that be? Eveline said. I rose, pulled the napkin from my collar, and went to see. I crossed the living room and opened the front door and there he was. I can’t say I wasn’t startled because I was and I don’t startle easy. It was a bear, a Kodiak, I believe. He was dressed like my Uncle Julip. At first I thought it was Uncle Julip, whom we hadn’t seen in years. Can I help you? I said, because what else could I say? Yes, the bear answered. I was wondering if Eveline lives here. Yes, I said without thinking. I am an old friend of hers, the bear said. From Eau Claire. Come in, I said. We were just about to—well, never mind. Have a seat. I’ll get Eveline. When I went back to the kitchen the twins had finished dinner. They looked at me with curious smiles. As did my wife. Ahem, I said. There’s someone to see you, Eveline, I said. Well, Diggory, who is it? Eveline rightly asked. I didn’t get his name. It’s no one I’ve met before. Eveline looked at me as if I were slightly dizzy. It’s a bear, I said. The twins wished to bolt from their chairs. They didn’t want to run away. They hoped to run toward the living room and our guest. I stopped them with my raised arm and a stern visage. A bear, Eveline said. It was neither a question nor a statement. It was something in-between. A bear, I confirmed. Eveline rose slowly from her chair. She looked pale. She edged closer to the doorway and, holding onto the front of my shirt, peered around my shoulder. She gasped. Is it someone you know? I asked. No, no, she said, and started to sob. I’ve never seen that bear before in my life. She collapsed against me and began to cry in earnest. I patted her and set her back down in her chair. Boys, I said. You and your mother stay here. I returned to our guest. For a fleeting moment I thought again that it was Uncle Julip. Hi, I said. Can you tell me what this is about? My wife doesn’t seem to know you. And, um, I didn’t catch your name. The bear, who had been studying the spines on our bookshelves, turned and smiled a placatory smile. I’m sorry, he said. My name is Nessim. And here the bear laughed a short laugh. When I knew your wife I wasn’t a bear. Ah, I said, though I didn’t know what was made more comprehensible. Suddenly, my wife screamed from the kitchen, Nessim! and ran out to jump into the bear’s outstretched arms. They held each other and rocked intimately for several minutes. I stood by, uneasy in my heart. Finally, my wife stepped back from the bear’s embrace. Diggory, she said. You’ve heard me speak of Nessim. He and I were college sweethearts. She didn’t say sweethearts. She said lovers. I didn’t like the sound of it then any more than I like typing it now. Lovers. My wife and Nessim.

That evening was very uncomfortable. We all sat in the living room as if we had just come from a wedding or funeral. Nessim and Eveline talked nonstop, only occasionally inviting me into their conversation. The twins, after being assured that Uncle Julip had not come to visit, went to their room to play with their soldiers. I sat like an ass as I watched my life leak away. I knew Eveline would leave with the bear, with Nessim. I knew as surely as I knew the twins were not mine. Eveline was pregnant when I met her and now I knew their father was a bear. Or had become a bear. I am still unclear about that part of the story. Nessim never did explain why he was now a Kodiak and Eveline was unaccountably incurious. I smiled here and there. I shifted in my seat. But I knew that at the end of the evening the bear would take my wife and children away from me and I would let them go without protest. Who wouldn’t want a bear as a lover and provider? Who wouldn’t choose a bear over a man? I didn’t blame Eveline then and I don’t blame her now. I know that I am the stranger and that I have always been the stranger. Some nights I weep. I begin weeping when the sun sets and I go to sleep weeping. Other nights I am better, not quite so desperate, not quite so bereft. I still have my books and I still have my dog, Artegal. Sometimes Artegal looks at me as if he too wished he were elsewhere, some place rough and untamed, some place unsullied by the pale desires and halfhearted proclivities of the human race.

WRESTLING GRECO-ROMAN STYLE

IT WAS happening all over the library. Books were swapping titles all by themselves. It started gradually, or seemed to. No one knows exactly when the first two books decided to trade names. The head librarian, Bernard Malamute, was at a loss to explain what was going on. He ran about patting his forehead with his embroidered handkerchief, afraid someone was going to blame him for all the confusion.

FIRST, LITTLE Larry Dendale brought back his copy of The Cat in the Hat.

Something’s wrong with this book, he said, handing it to Isabel Petticoat, the assistant librarian who was at the desk that morning.

Wrong? Isabel Petticoat said. Wrong? There’s nothing wrong with books, sonny. There’s nothing wrong, most certainly, with Dr. Seuss.

But it isn’t Dr. Seuss, Larry persisted.

Why, it says so right there on the cover, dear, Isabel said, calming somewhat. Perhaps the child was having trouble reading. This was the sort of problem she was born to handle.

But inside, Larry said.

Isabel sprouted a worried look. She gingerly took the little blue book from Larry’s small peach fingers.

She opened to page one. All she could do for a few minutes was stare. There was no phrase from all her training to relay at this time. This was a sticky wicket, indeed.

The first page read, in bold print: The Stranger by Albert Camus.

And further in, sure enough, it was a novel, a novel for adults, a novel that was decidedly not The Cat in the Hat.

***

LATER, LUCY Enos brought in the latest Danielle Steel, which inside proved to be Hydraulics Explained and Illustrated by Dr. Fenimore Aloysius Cooper. Tom Thompson brought in his P. G. Wodehouse novel, which clearly said Young Men in Spats on the cover, but instead turned out to be Three Plays by Eugene O’Neill. Sharilyn Monroe brought back The Juniper Tree because she wanted to read The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. Ms. Petticoat found The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie under the title The Juniper Tree.

Thankfully, the mischief was that easy to decode.

There was William Joyce’s George Shrinks between covers that were meant for Anthony Browne’s Gorilla, The Digging-est Dog called Waiting for the Barbarians, John Fowles’ The Collector misidentified as Without Feathers. Three by Tey in Dostoevsky’s Demons, Nicholson Baker’s U and I renamed The Pipefitter’s Handbook. William Steig’s classic Dominic in the jacket of John Updike’s Bech: A Book. And all, vice versa.

On and on it went. The first day there were a couple of dozen returns. By the end of the week it was in the hundreds. Mr. Malamute ran about in circles, unsure what he was to do though he was sure he was to do something. People would stop using his library if he couldn’t be trusted.

Ms. Petticoat was more practical and began pulling books from the shelf, comparing titles and contents. Soon, she had a pile at her feet the size of a Chesapeake Bay retriever. And the percentage of mistitled books seemed to be growing as she worked. The books were swapping names faster than she could get to them.

***

NEWS OF the miracle at the library’s main branch spread through the small town of Lewiston. Lark Bootah, correspondent for Channel 5, seemed to be reporting from the library every evening. His five o’clock broadcast became the most watched show in Lewiston after Ed and Amazing Animal Videos.

How did this start? Lark Bootah asked a perspiring Bernard Malamute on the first newscast.

Heaven only knows, Bernard said, smiling, hoping a pleasant demeanor would defuse some of the situation’s catastrophic shock waves. Appearing on the news was not helping.

How did you first discover that books were swapping titles, apparently right under your nose?

Mr. Malamute tried to ignore the implication that there was something he should have done to prevent this. Or something wrong with his nose.

A reader brought in a book, of course. A wrong book. A book gone bad, Bernard Malamute said. The sweat was gathering like an army on his broad brow.

Which book was it? Lark Bootah asked in a sincere whisper, meant to indicate the gravity of the predicament.

Bernard Malamute swallowed. He was suddenly reduced to whispering himself.

"The Cat in the Hat," he said finally, his voice cracking.

"The Cat in the Hat," Lark Bootah repeated, and the camera closed in as a single tear ran down his handsome cheek.

***

WHAT CONCERNED Mr. Malamute most was that people were abandoning the library. He felt as if he had betrayed the public’s trust. It wasn’t his fault. And, honestly, no one was really blaming him, but checking out books with mixed-up titles was a perplexing experience. As if the ground beneath one’s feet was shifting.

What is going on, most everyone wanted to know.

Bernard Malamute had no answers.

He tried reassuring people that they could find the book they really wanted by looking in its opposite cover. But few were comforted by this.

And, worst of all, the gentle folk of Lewiston were not substituting library loaners for purchases from their local independent bookstore. No, they were giving up reading. They were watching TV instead, and not just Ed. They were watching game shows.

This was a bad scene.

***

IT WENT on like this for over a month. Oh, there were a few understanding and loyal readers who still came in, opening their books to discover what was inside and then going to find what they really wanted elsewhere in the stacks.

Little Larry Dendale, bless his heart, still visited regularly. He checked out all of William Steig’s books, but it took him the better part of the afternoon, even with Ms. Petticoat’s assistance, to round them up from the far-flung corners of the library.

But the number of patrons was dwindling. One day no one came in. Ms. Petticoat looked at Mr. Malamute’s sad face and burst into tears. That afternoon when they locked up the library, Mr. Malamute turned toward his assistant and sighed.

Maybe tomorrow will be better, he said in the saddest voice one can imagine.

The following day was only slightly better. Little Larry Dendale came in and exchanged all his William Steig books for the complete works of Jan Brett.

It was an afternoon’s work for Ms. Petticoat. She gave Mr. Malamute a weak smile.

***

BERNARD MALAMUTE decided it was time to take action. He called all the big libraries, looking for help.

He called the Harvard Libraries, the New York Public Library, the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, the McGill University Libraries in Montreal, the Federal Citizen Information Center, the United States Military Academy Library at West Point. Finally, he talked to a very helpful woman at the Library of Congress. She said they would send someone.

And send someone they did. Norm DeGuerre was a veteran librarian, a man who had worked himself up through the ranks to become one of the top experts in the field of library science. Among librarians, he was as famous as the President of the United States.

Norm DeGuerre was a very serious man. He took books seriously. He took the right of citizens’ access to free books seriously. Bernard Malamute felt better just standing in his presence.

Ms. Petticoat ran about gathering a representative stack of problematic books. She placed them on the main desk, before Mr. DeGuerre’s serious mask of a face. Norm DeGuerre looked at the stack of books as if they were booby-trapped. Many seconds passed, during which Mr. Malamute and Ms. Petticoat wondered whether the famous Mr. DeGuerre was even going to touch the books.

Finally, he picked one up. It was immediately evident that this man had held many books in his hand. He knew how to handle them. It was like witnessing Doc Holliday with his pistol.

Norm DeGuerre put his nose to the book and sniffed. He ran a finger along the spine. He shook the book lightly, as if he were sifting it.

At last he opened it. Though the cover plainly read The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley, inside were the pages of The Story of San Michele.

Hm, said Norm DeGuerre. He picked up another book without opening it.

Mr. Malamute and Ms. Petticoat stood by nervously.

Beats me, Norm DeGuerre said with an air of finality. My advice is to close the library. And then he was gone.

This deflated our poor, beleaguered Lewiston librarians. Together, they slumped onto chairs behind the main desk.

***

IT WAS the next day that the miracle happened.

Bernard opened the library as usual that morning and as usual Isabel Petticoat took up her position at the main desk. She nervously thumbed through some misnamed books that were still lying there.

Hours ticked away.

Ms. Petticoat took some 409 to the counter and polished it to a burnished glow.

At about 12:15 p.m. little Larry Dendale burst through the doors, out of breath from running all the way from his house.

Little Larry Dendale was a tornado of joy. He could barely get out what he wanted to say.

My goodness, Larry, Ms. Petticoat said.

Read them! Larry shouted. READ THEM!

Whatever are you talking about? Bernard Malamute said, stepping out of the shadows.

If you read the books, just read them even if they’re wrong— Larry sputtered. Here, look.

Larry pulled out a copy of The Mitten that he had checked out the previous day. He handled it as if it were a trophy. Slowly, like a magician with a particularly slick trick, Larry opened the book. The cover said, The Mitten. And inside were Jan Brett’s beautiful illustrations and the charming story of the white mitten lost in the snow.

They match! Larry shouted.

They do, Mr. Malamute said. "But when you checked them out yesterday this book was called The Complete Paintings of Bruegel."

Right, Larry said. "But I read it all the way through and—presto!—it changed. See? All you have to do is read the whole thing even if it’s not the book you wanted to read. Just read it anyway. All the way through. Say you check out If I Ran the Zoo but inside is The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. If you read The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes anyway, as if you’d intended,