Zibby Mag

By Jennifer Brogdon

I remember when I first learned who she was. It was August in Mississippi. I left my babies at home and I stood outside in a long line that led to Galloway Church. The sun fried my body. Beads of sweat seeped down my chest. I drank a latte both to cool down and to appease my appetite. I fanned myself with what I found in my purse, a piece of paper with last Sunday’s sermon notes scribbled down. Others waved a cardboard logo on popsicle sticks. I coveted them, but I didn’t dare leave the line to fetch one.

Standing in line at this book festival reminded me of standing in line at Six Flags. We moved every eight minutes. A stranger stood before me and behind me. It was hot. The line was long, but there was no turning back. I would go in as long as I didn’t faint.

When we reached the front, men in uniforms checked bags for guns, or so I thought. A finger pointed to my iced latte.

“That,” the guard said, pointing to the garbage bin. “No drinks allowed in the sanctuary.”

I had rationed it while waiting, wanting to savor it like therapy while I sat and listened to the speaker. Now I gulped down an entire ten ounces in front of the pair of black eyes gawking at me.

Inside, I sat alone although I was surrounded by hundreds of people. A woman next to me must have intuited my hunger, for she reached inside her bag like Mary Poppins and pulled out an apple. If a beverage wasn’t allowed in the sanctuary, grub — even the healthy sort — wasn’t either. But since this lady snuck it past those men with success, I knew God must have meant it for me. I accepted the red leathery skin into my hand and sank into the pew.

In a dress the color of asphalt, I watched Ann Patchett walk to a throne-like chair above the altar where a pulpit would normally be. She crossed her ankles like a queen, her skin flawless like porcelain, and she spoke in a warm voice as if I, and the rest of the audience, were her daughters.

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Two months later, I found myself in Nashville, where Patchett lives, writes novels, and owns a bookstore. I drove my Honda down Hillsboro Pike to Parnassus and breathed in the donuts frying next door. I walked in to see stars hanging from the ceiling. As if hypnotized, I dragged my feet to the child-size door that opened into the children’s section.

My eyes met the colors of the rainbow as I touched board books, fuzzy books, and look and find books. I continued down the aisles when a black and white dog limped by. I looked for a book. I looked for her. Then I grabbed Fredrik Backman’s Beartown and went to the register.

“Is Ann here today?” I asked, like a friend of hers would.

“Her dog is but no, she’s not here today,” the middle-aged blonde woman said.

“Does she come in often?” I asked.

“She does. She’s on her book tour now, though. When it’s book tour time, we don’t see her much.” She scanned my book with a red laser. It beeped. Then she told me how much I owed.

So close — I thought — to a real-life author, to my new favorite author. I’m in her bookstore. I’m near her dog.

I paid my fifteen dollars and twenty-four cents and left.

Hearing Ann Patchett speak in Mississippi had fascinated me. I wanted to know more about her — as a reader and fellow writer — which is why I came to Nashville.

Ultimately, I would discover all I needed to know by reading Commonwealth, The Dutch House, and This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage. Then she wrote the essay “These Precious Days” for Harper’s Magazine. In it, she tells how she interviewed Tom Hanks but became intrigued — an intrigue not unlike my own — not by Hanks but by his assistant named Sookie. And in it, I felt like I understood her more than ever.

It was like I knew her — really knew her. Because I had read her words.

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Jennifer Brogdon is a wife and stay-at-home mom who spends most of her time reading and writing. She enjoys books of all genres and also enjoys writing nonfiction as well as fiction. Jennifer is currently working on a novel and lives in the Charlotte, North Carolina, area. If you can’t find her inside with a book or a legal pad, you may find her outside running.