One Book in the Grave: A Bibliophile Mystery

too. I’d had a few bad dreams last night featuring Solomon and Angelica. And this morning, the same fearful thoughts had been recycling through my mind.
     
    I could picture them both gloating over their malevolence, rubbing their hands in excitement at the power and control they wielded. I would really hate to run into them on the street in Dharma, knowing they’d be able to read the fear and loathing on my face.
     
    As I waited for Mom to gather her herbs and tools, I recalled that summer I taught the bookbinding class at the Art Institute. I had loved my class, loved bookbinding, and enjoyed teaching in general. But any thoughts of pursuing a career as an art teacher had been effectively squelched, thanks to Solomon and Angie.
     
    I suppose it was unfair to blame my decision not to teach solely on the two of them. Academia was a strange, provincial world and I simply didn’t fit in. The insular attitudes of many of the professors and staff were suffocating at best. And Solomon, while fascinating in the classroom, ruled his department like a despot, handing out praise, assignments, and retribution as though he were Julius Caesar.
     
    Angelica was worse. She was gorgeous, yes, but haughty and domineering. And possessive. Not just with Max, I realized now, but with the school itself and the students. This was Angie’s territory and how dared I think I could ever be a part of it?
     
    I shivered, and all of a sudden it struck me that I was still holding on to so much fear of her. I knew I would have to confront her one of these days.
     
    “Assume the position,” Mom said as she walked back into the room. She chuckled at her own joke while she assembled her ritual herbs and tools on the dining room table.
     
    I gave her a look. “Very funny, Mom.”
     
    “Never gets old.”
     
    When my siblings and I were growing up, Mom and Dad used to regale us with tales from the sixties. One of their favorite stories was of the time they were arrested at China Lake for protesting nuclear weapons. (That’s where my sister China was born, the day after Mom was released from jail. My parents were sentimental that way, naming us all after the places where we were born or conceived or, apparently, where they’d spent a night in jail.)
     
    Mom had advised us that when the cops were arresting you, they would tell you to
assume the position
. That meant you should stand facing a wall with your feet apart and both hands on the wall. The better to be frisked, she explained.
     
    Of course, Dad always maintained that the actual
position
you were meant to
assume
was the one where you bent over and kissed your ass good-bye.
     
    So every once in a while, for no apparent reason, one of my parents would suddenly tell us to
assume the position
. Being obedient children, we would.
     
    Some of us would go with Mom’s position and stand facing the wall. But some—usually my two brothers—would go with Dad’s choice. Mom and Dad would howl with laughter and we would all make faces and roll our eyes at them. My parents were a couple of cards. No wonder we didn’t do drugs; things were zany enough around our house without the added buzz.
     
    Mom placed three small dishes on the table, filled with rosemary, sage, and dried lotus petals to represent memory, concentration, and truth.
     
    “Here, sweetie,” she said, handing me one of the thick sticks of sage she used to cleanse, purify, and eliminate negativity. “You light the sage.”
     
    “Okay.” I took a deep whiff of the sage before I flicked Mom’s lighter on and held it to the top leaves. They began to smoke, then burn. I let the fire spread across the top of the stick before blowing it out. The strong aromatic smoke filled the room.
     
    “I’m lighting the copal, too,” she said, holding another, more bristly looking herbal smudge stick. Copal was a type of tree resin with a mild pine scent that was often used in incense. Mom used it sparingly with other herbs when she needed an extra boost to attract good spirits.
     
    Seeing the copal made me realize she was even more antsy than she was willing to admit. I guess I was, too.
     
    I waved the sage bundle around, making sure the smoke wafted over us both, up and down and around our bodies and over our heads, while she did the same with the copal stick. We probably looked like idiots, and maybe we were, but I usually found Mom’s rituals oddly comforting.
     
    She rested the copal stick in a small pot she’d