Michelle Hartman

I died for beauty - but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for truth, was lain
In an adjoining room
- Emily Dickenson

Chapter One - Charlotte Waits

Recently, I had the pleasure of meeting several people who were dead. They were the
ghosts of prostitutes and salesmen, spirits of schoolteachers and madams who inhabit
the upper floors of an old bookstore in Texas. The oldest bookstore in Texas, it was
once a bawdy house and cheap hotel. A few people failed to check out. Luckily for us,
they are still around to share their tales.

The bookstore moved to the corner of Throckmorton and Eighth in the ‘40s, from its
original location on Lamar. I went there first as a child. In the ‘60s, bookstores were
not on every corner and malls were still a thing of science fiction. Barber’s was where
one went in Fort Worth for a book.

As a little girl, trips to downtown Fort Worth were pure magic. Daddy was known by
many and it was with swelled chest that I walked beside him as men tipped their hats
and ladies smiled in our direction. If I was good there would be a stop at the Russell
Stover store. Spring will never be the same in this town without those pastels mint
frappes decorating the windows of that stark white shop. I don’t care what anyone
says, candy tastes better when it’s dispensed by a elderly lady wearing a white uniform
with sleeves that come to a brisk outward bound point just below her shoulders. With a
bag of candy and a cold bottle of Dr Pepper, we’d walk up to Barber’s Book store.

That store was part and parcel of my love for Fort Worth and Texas. I was grown
before I seriously began to study their histories. It’s been a love affair ever since. I
never thought to research the bookstore until the Wednesday before Thanksgiving,
1993. I decided to introduce my husband, Steve, to Barber’s. The day was cold and
rainy. A perfect atmosphere for books or ghosts.

Barber’s is the typical old bookstore. With books stacked and packed haphazardly and
shelves that don’t match, sitting catawampus on the floor, the smell is heavenly. The
first floor ceilings are high enough to accommodate a balcony across the back of the
store where Civil War and military books are kept.

Up two staircases and through a door on the balcony is hidden a narrow stairway to
the second floor. Wooden, with a pull knob near the top, the door fades into a wall,
especially with books stacked in front of it. Falling here is a likelihood. At the top of the
stairs, looking back, one can see the entire stairway. The narrowness is due to a full set
of stairs being cut in half, one side leading back into the bookstore, the other half
leading down to the street.

Only the front half of the second floor was accessible to the public. Small rooms
averaging eight by ten feet, most containing one window, line an L-shaped hallway. Six
rooms in all, with signs above the door listing the types of books in each room. On the
door jambs are numbers of the type used in house addresses. Covered over by paint
but still visible, they reduce the memories held by each room to nothing more than a
number.

Room number nine was my favorite. You could sit by the window alternating between
travels in a literary world and gazing down at busy downtown traffic. Eager to find a
treasure, I headed upstairs while hubby pored over the Civil War books.
Disappointment stopped me at the door into number nine. A woman was sitting on a
cot pulled up to the window. She gazed in a trance-like manner towards the west. I
frankly have never found the Federal Building parking garage that interesting. Mumbling
a hasty apology, I backed out of the room. The books in the next room didn’t hold my
attention however. The woman hadn’t looked right. Her clothes were odd and she
never moved. She should have jumped or acknowledged me somehow. Feeling stupid,
I slid back down the hall and peeked into the room. She continued staring out the
window, oblivious to my presence. I cleared my throat. Nothing. For a moment I toyed
with going closer and touching her shoulder. Something deep within me wouldn’t let
me. With the little dignity I had left I walked in a rapid manner back down the stairs.
Me, scared? Of course not. I’m just very polite. She either wanted to be alone or
needed to be left alone, and that’s exactly what I was going to do.

When Steve finally pulled himself away from the Civil War, I gave him the nickel tour.
Entering the room, I inquired if he saw the woman. “What woman?” he asked. He also
hadn’t noticed my reaction. After collecting the books we wanted and admiring the old
pictures on the walls, we left for lunch.
Somehow, I felt that not all of me had exited the building. The thought of the woman
stayed with me. During lunch, I explored the thought of doing a story about her. But
what would I say? I didn’t know her, and making one up seemed strangely insulting.
So, as with most writers, the thought lay fallow in my idea file.

In January 1995, while helping my daughter with a Texas history report, I came across
a book by Richard Selcer. Titled “Hell’s Half Acre”, it was a definitive work regarding
my favorite area of town. The early cattle towns all sported red light districts, some a
little worst than others. Bars, gaming tables and loose women mingled with the smell
of cattle and honest sweat. Ah! Those were the days! Many are the times I’ve wished
I’d been born then.

Reading the book, however, gave me an uneasy feeling. These feelings were left to
ripen or disappear on their own. It was only a few weeks until they grew stronger and
centered around the bookstore. I realized the building anchored the northwest corner of
The Acre. This area was predominantly for the “working girls.” I couldn’t help but
wonder if that had been my mystery woman’s occupation.
I began to have dreams about the store. Alone, I wandered the halls trying to speak to
people but they couldn’t see or hear me. The dreams were very disturbing. I was two
thirds of the way through another book, and had two stories in progress. In the middle
of writing, I would find different words on my computer. Tales of a time gone by,
mentions of people who I didn’t know, paragraphs about a woman named Charlotte
who sat waiting in a room over-looking the river. Was that woman’s name Charlotte,
and if so how in blue blazes did I know it? This was not the time to stop and go off
researching a different project. But I couldn’t rest. This story wanted to be born and
was not taking no for an answer. Seeing the evolved hieroglyphics on the vertical
structure, I returned to the bookstore. After all, if I saw nothing this time then all of
this was only a figment of my imagination. Or “a bit of undigested potato,” as Dickens’
Scrooge would say.

In an animated conversation I told my husband what I thought I’d seen in the
bookstore. Steve urged me to take a friend with me, not understanding that I felt no
fear or threat from the store.

On a beautiful April Tuesday, I found myself back on the balcony of Barber’s. Brian
Perkins, the manager and owner of Barber’s, had been talking with a well dressed lady
when I arrived, so I proceeded to help myself. I was shocked to find the way to the
second floor barricaded. I’m too late screamed through my mind. I couldn’t have been
more upset if such a barrier had appeared between myself and my child. Fighting the
panic, I overheard the conversation between Mr. Perkins and the woman. He was
selling the bookstore!

I couldn’t believe my ears. Now I knew why the feelings were so strong and the haste
so great. I was meant to do something. From the sound of things, it needed to be soon!
After waiting my turn, I spoke with Mr. Perkins. During the winter the roof had caved
in and repairs had just been finished. The books and shelves were still in great disarray,
not that it had ever been extremely neat. Mr. Perkins was not letting the public up there
until it was straightened. However, he was willing to accommodate a writer such as
myself.

In a move rather gutsy for me, I inquired about ghosts. Without blinking an eye he
said, “Oh yes, especially there on the stairs.” Ah, it’s so refreshing to not be treated like
the head nut in the loon ward. This man was a genuine “keeper.”

He showed me how to get upstairs and left me to my machinations. The lights were
out but more than enough sunlight came through the big windows. Most of them were
open, probably to continue drying and airing out books still damp from winter. Traffic
sounds were strong, ruining the almost perfect ambience. As I reached the top of the
stairs, I called out, “Charlotte”.

OK, I’m a grown woman, in a public establishment talking to ghosts. Was I afraid to
startle her? No, just showing a little of the respect I doubt she ever got in life.

There she sat as before, the small cot pulled to the window, her knees held to her
chest, a tan skirt covering her legs. A faded flowered blouse showed only her hands,
and a bit of throat. Her brown hair in a tight bun allowed a profile of grim determination
to be seen. No makeup, no jewelry gave relief to the austere sight. When she turned her
head, my knees nearly buckled.

I was in for a penny, I might as well be in for a pound. I recalled a bench from my
earlier visit, but it was gone, a possible victim of the flood. With nowhere to sit but the
less than inviting dusty floor, I chose to stand. So we faced each other, a queen of the
prairie and a writer paying homage to something she wasn’t really ready to admit was
there.

My mind raced, wanting to ask the right question. Lucky for me she went first.

“We’ll have to leave.”

“No kidding!” I could understand her not wanting to be stuck in a new office building
with some Type A, over-stressed yuppie. After watching the march of humanity that
she must have seen from her window, she deserved better.

“What exactly do you want from me, a ride?”

She didn’t appear to hear me. This was a blessing. My conversational skills had
dropped to the moron level.

“We need to tell our stories. Will you write ‘em down?”

She wasn’t a great conversationalist either, but I’ve always admired a person or a
ghost who gets right to the point. And I’m hearing this! I’m hearing a ghost. This in
itself was apparently enough to activate my stupid circuits.

“I’m currently working on a book. I’ve got a kid in band and I’m very active in the
band booster club. Just something everyday. You know how it is. Busy, busy, busy.”

She stared at me. It hit me like a box of rocks. She not only didn’t know “how it is”,
but she would have killed to know. She probably didn’t have a child or husband. A
woman who hadn’t known a busy schedule, much less luxury. Cold, hunger, heat and
want had been her social life.

Other entities appeared in the room. Not as solid visually as Charlotte, yet I sensed and
felt them as strongly as I’d ever felt a living person. They were not going to hurt me. I
could have walked away at that point. But the rest of my life would have been lived in
active regret. I cratered.

Sitting my rear on the less than desirable floor, I retrieved my ever-present supplies
from my purse. Pen to pad, I turned to Charlotte, ready to catch the pearls of historical
wisdom.

Charlotte had returned to her watching. However, a pretty young girl of about
seventeen stepped out of the crowd. She introduced herself as Betty. The others
dissipated as she talked. Their turns would come later. Lily, Gert, and Charlotte’s, too.
These are their stories. I’m only the writer, so please forgive any liberties taken with
your sensibilities. The faint of heart need turn back now!
For Charlotte waits.

Read Chapter 2

Michelle Hartman - Fiction