Cora Reads The Book

Eva Marie Everson

On her twelfth birthday, Cora’s mother took her into her library, beautifully decorated with French provincial furniture and gold-embossed wallpaper, both which reflected in the polished flooring. She showed her oldest daughter the shelves of books kept dust-free by the beveled glass doors that, with the turn of a single brass key, were locked away from prying hands and eyes.

“This is mine,” her mother had told her. “My special place. A place I can walk into, shut the door and sit, right here, have my tea and read my books.” Her long fingers graced the satiny fabric of the nearby chair, their tips tracing along the pattern. “Undisturbed.”

“May I also sit here and read a book?” Cora asked.

“Heavens, no, child,” her mother answered, then smiled to soften the blow. “When you are older, perhaps, not today.” She pinched Cora’s soft cheek, but not hard enough to leave a mark. “Still, it will be soon. Sooner than your mother would care to admit, I’m afraid.” Then she sighed. “Oh, but my precious girl, don’t try to grow up too soon.”

When Mother turned her to leave the room, Cora noticed a book turned upside down on the table next to the chair, it’s title embossed in gold lettering. “What book are you reading now, Mother?” Cora asked.

Her mother’s own cheeks now turned crimson, and not from the pinching she usually gave them before Father came home or their friends came over for dinner. “Not for young eyes,” she answered. “Now, you’ve seen the room. It’s time to go and close the door behind us.”

But now Cora was sixteen and her mother had gone into town for lunch with her friends and had left the brass key sitting atop her dresser. Cora knew this only because she’d asked her mother if she might borrow a brooch to wear later that night when her beau, Clarence, came to call as he always did on Friday evenings. Mother had said yes, told her which broach to borrow, then swiftly left the home, her skirt trailing behind her, swishing as she stepped into the awaiting carriage.

Cora darted up the stairs and into the room, crossing its airy spaciousness to where Mother’s jewelry box with its cherub figures set in relief mounts, each one smiling at her, sat in the center of a vanity. Cora imagined herself quite grown up as she opened it and peered inside to the tangle of Father’s love. Not too often did Mother allow such things.

It was upon opening the box that Cora noticed the brass key lying next to the lavender-colored perfume atomizer. At first, Cora resisted the temptation to so much as touch it, but then she closed the jewelry box, the cherubs no longer smiling, and walked to a nearby window, one that overlooked the street below. There were no signs of Mother of course. Indeed, she wouldn’t be home for some time yet, her Friday lunches stretching for hours on end. And Father was at work and the other children were outside playing, the baby napping in her nursery. With the exception of the domestics, she had the house all to herself.

And so it was that Cora took the key and stole away to her mother’s library. She quietly closed the door behind her, then scooped up the skirt of her dress and tiptoed across the gleaming floor. She fitted the key into the lock, twisting it until the beveled glass guardians swung open. Her eyes–wide now, she could feel them–scanned the titles until she came upon the one Mother had been reading four years previous. One Cora had wondered about off and on over the years, its title dark and mysterious.

For hours–or so it seemed–she stood there, her eyes darting back and forth across the words on the pages, her breath coming in tiny gasps, fear rising inside her. What if Mother came home before she could finish? What if Father decided to leave the office early? What if the other children looked for her or Ginny decided to dust the library today of all days? But she could not stop reading, no matter her trepidation. That is, until she heard Mother’s laughter from the street below.

Quickly she replaced the book, closed the glass doors, turned the key, and then hurried from the library and back into her mother’s boudoir with its parquet floors, striped wallpaper, and velvet-covered fainting couch. She replaced the key exactly as she’d found it, her hands shaking now, then reopened the jewelry box, the cherubs frowning at her in disapproval. Cora clenched her hands, then released them, clenched them again. Light footsteps ascended the stairs, tap-tapping until they were at the door, which swung open with her mother’s grand entrance. “Oh, there you are,” Mother said, breathless. “I would have thought you’d have already gotten the broach.”

Cora kept her focus on the entanglement of pearls and gemstones at her fingertips. “No,” she said. “I’ve been reading.” Which clearly was an omission of truth, but not a lie.

“Reading,” her mother sighed, now coming up behind her, the scent of perfume and coffee along with her. “What a wonderful way to spend a summer’s day.” She reached around Cora, dug her hand into the clusters, and brought out a broach of bluebirds made from sapphires and crushed pearls. “This will go perfectly,” she said, then pinned it to the bodice of her daughter’s dress. “Won’t Clarence be pleased?” She paused then, studying her daughter. “Why, Cora. You’re blushing. And practically quivering. I hadn’t realized you were so in love with your young man.”

But Cora was not in love, or at least she didn’t believe she was. Instead, her day’s angst had been replaced by confusion by what she’d read, words and phrases and sentences and paragraphs she clearly didn’t understand. Perhaps she wasn’t ready to understand, even at sixteen. Oh, why had she been so impetuous? Why hadn’t she simply gotten the broach and been done with the whole thing? Why had she distrusted Mother’s warnings against growing up so soon?

Cora had read the book, or at least as much as she could in a short afternoon. There was no going back, not now. Cora had, by omission, lied to her mother. Which meant that the next lie would come more easily . . . and the one after that . . . and the one after that. There was no turning back, neither from the content of the book nor the lie. She would have to grow older to understand the words, and as she grew older the lie would become a chasm between her beloved mother and herself.

Unless, she realized, she chose instead to tell the truth.