THAT CHRISTMAS AND for weeks after, Alice buzzes with the news that A.J. Fikry the widower / bookstore owner has taken in an abandoned child. It is the most gossip-worthy story Alice has had in some time—probably since Tamerlane was stolen—and what is of particular interest is the character of A. J. Fikry. The town had always considered him to be snobbish and cold, and it seems inconceivable that such a man would adopt a baby just because it was abandoned in his store. The town florist tells a story about leaving a pair of sunglasses in Island Books and coming back less than one day later to find that A.J. had thrown them out. “He said his store had no room for a lost-and-found. And that’s what happens to very nice, vintage Ray-Bans!” the florist says. “Can you imagine what will happen to an actual human being?” Furthermore, for years, A.J. had been asked to participate in town life—to sponsor soccer teams, to patronize bake sales, to buy ads in the high school yearbook. The man had always declined and not always politely either. They can only conclude that A.J. has grown soft since losing Tamerlane.
The mothers of Alice fear that the baby will be neglected. What can a single man know about child rearing? They make it their cause to stop by the store as often as possible to give A.J. advice and sometimes small gifts—old baby furniture, clothes, blankets, toys. The mothers are surprised to find Maya to be a sufficiently clean, happy, and self-possessed little person. Only after they’ve left the store do they cluck about how tragic Maya’s backstory is.
For his part, A.J. does not mind the visits. The advice he mainly ignores. The gifts, he accepts (though he does liberally curate and disinfect them after the women have left). He knows about the postvisit clucking and decides not to let it annoy him. He leaves a jug of Purell on the counter next to a sign that commands please disinfect before handling the infanta. Besides, the women do actually know a few things that he doesn’t know, things about potty training (bribery works) and teething (fancy ice-cube trays) and vaccinations (you can skip the chicken pox one). It turns out that, as a source of child-rearing advice, Google is wide but not, alas, terribly deep.
While visiting the baby, many of the women even buy books and magazines. A.J. begins to stock books because he thinks the women will enjoy discussing them. For a while, the circle responds to contemporary stories about overly capable women trapped in troubled marriages; they like if she has an affair—not that they themselves have (or will admit to having had) affairs. The fun is in judging these women. Women who abandon their children are a bridge too far, although husbands who have terrible accidents are usually received warmly (extra points if he dies, and she finds love again). Maeve Binchy is popular for a while, until Margene, who in another life had been an investment banker, raises the complaint that Binchy’s work is too formulaic. “How many times can I read about a woman married too young to a bad, handsome man in a stifling Irish town?” A.J. is encouraged to expand his curatorial efforts. “If we’re going to have this book group,” Margene says, “we may as well have some variety.”
“Is this a book group?” A.J. says.
“Isn’t it?” Margene says. “You didn’t think all this child-rearing advice came for free, did you?”
In April, The Paris Wife. In June, A Reliable Wife. In August, American Wife. In September, The Time Traveler’s Wife. In December, he runs out of decent books with wife in the title. They read Bel Canto.
“And it wouldn’t hurt you to expand the picture-book section,” Penelope, who always looks exhausted, suggests. “The kids should have something to read when they’re here, too.” The women bring their own little ones for Maya to play with, so it only makes sense. Not to mention, A.J. is tired of reading The Monster at the End of This Book, and though he has never been particularly interested in picture books before, he decides to make himself an expert. He wants Maya to read literary picture books if such a thing exists. And preferably modern ones. And preferably, preferably feminist ones. Nothing with princesses. It turns out that these works most definitely do exist. One night, he finds himself saying, “As a form, the picture book has a similar elegance to the short story. Do you know what I mean, Maya?”
She nods seriously and turns the page.
“The talent of some of these people is astounding,” A.J. says. “I honestly had no idea.”
Maya taps on the book. They are reading Little Pea, the story of a pea who has to eat all his sweets before he can have vegetables for dessert.
“It’s called irony, Maya,” A.J. says.
“Iron,” she says. She makes an ironing gesture.
“Irony,” he repeats.
Maya cocks her head, and A.J. decides that he will teach her about irony some other day.
CHIEF LAMBIASE IS a frequent visitor to the store, and to justify these visits, he buys books. Because Lambiase doesn’t believe in wasting money, he reads the books, too. At first, he had mainly bought mass-market paperbacks—Jeffery Deaver and James Patterson (or whoever writes for James Patterson)—and then A.J. graduates him to trade paperbacks by Jo Nesbø and Elmore Leonard. Both authors are hits with Lambiase, so A.J. promotes him again to Walter Mosley and then Cormac McCarthy. A.J.’s most recent recommendation is Kate Atkinson’s Case Histories.
Lambiase wants to talk about the book as soon as he gets to the store. “So the thing is, at first I kind of hated the book, but then it grew on me, yeah.” He leans on the counter. “Because, you know, it’s about a detective. But it moves kind of slow and most things go unsolved. But then I thought, That’s how life is. That’s how the job really is.”
“There’s a sequel,” A.J. informs him.
Lambiase nods. “Not sure I’m on board for that yet. Sometimes I like everything solved. Villains get punished. Good guys triumph. That sort of thing. Maybe another one of those Elmore Leonards, though. Hey A.J., I’ve been thinking. Maybe you and me could start a book club for law enforcement officers? Like, other cops I know might like reading some of these stories, and I’m the chief, so I’d make them buy books here. It wouldn’t have to only be cops. It could be law enforcement enthusiasts, too.” Lambiase squeezes Purell on his hands and bends down to pick up Maya.
“Hey, pretty girl. How you doing?”
“Adopted,” she says.
“That is a very big word.” Lambiase looks at A.J. “Hey, is this square? Did this really happen?”
The process had taken the average amount of time, concluding the September before Maya’s third birthday. The major strikes against A.J. had included his lack of a driver’s license (he had never gotten one on account of his seizures) and, of course, the fact that he is a single man who had never raised a child or even a dog or a houseplant. Ultimately, A.J.’s education, his strong ties to the community (i.e., the bookstore), and the fact that the mother had wanted Maya to be placed with him had outweighed the strikes.
“Congratulations to my favorite book people!” Lambiase says. He throws Maya in the air, then catches her and sets her on the ground. He leans across the counter to shake A.J.’s hand. “Naw. I gotta hug you, man. This is hug-worthy news,” the cop says. Lambiase moves behind the counter to embrace A.J.
“Let’s have a toast,” A.J. says.
A.J. hoists Maya to his hip, and the two men go upstairs. A.J. puts Maya to bed, which takes forever (the intricate affairs of her toilet and two entire picture books), and Lambiase gets the bottle started.
“You gonna christen her now?” Lambiase asks.
“I’m neither Christian nor particularly religious,” A.J. says. “So no.”
Lambiase considers this, drinks a bit more wine. “You didn’t ask for my two cents, but you ought to at least have a party to introduce her to people. She’s Maya Fikry now, right?”
A.J. nods.
“People should know this. You gotta give her a middle name, too. Plus, I think I ought to be her godfather,” Lambiase says.
“What would that entail exactly?”
“Well, let’s say the kid’s twelve and she gets caught shoplifting at the CVS. I’d probably use my influence to intervene.”
“Maya would never do that.”
“That’s what all parents think,” Lambiase says. “Basically, I’d be your backup, A.J. People should have backups.” Lambiase finishes off his glass. “I’d help you with the party.”
“What would a not-christening party entail?” A.J. asks.
“It’s not a big deal. You have it in the store. You buy Maya a new dress from Filene’s Basement. I bet Ismay can help with that. You get food from Costco. Those big muffins, maybe? My sister says they’ve got a thousand calories a piece. And some frozen stuff. Nice stuff. Coconut shrimp. A big hunk of Stilton. And since it’s not going to be Christian—”
A.J. interrupts. “For the record, it’s not going to be un-Christian either.”
“Right. My point is you can serve booze. And we invite your brother-in-law and sister-in-law and those ladies you hang out with and everyone else who has taken an interest in little Maya, which I’ll tell you, A.J., is just about the whole town. And I’d say some nice words as the godfather, if you decide to go that way. Not a prayer, ’cause I know you’re not into that. But you know I’d wish the little girl well on this journey we call life. And you’d thank everyone for coming. We all raise a glass to Maya. Everyone goes home happy.”