THE BOOKSTORE
It was on the top of a box left outside the door of the Attic. The old bookshop was not Rachel’s favorite place, but now and then people would leave a box of old books and today there was a treasure on the top of it all. She picked it up, sparing it from the cat reek and cigar smoke of the shop it was being deported to.
It was an old book with a cover of dark red with gold paisley pressed into it. The corners were worn a bit, showing the threading of the old cover. Inside the front, just under the title page, was handwriting in old pen that was clearly not English. She had no idea what language the book was written in – may as well have been Greek, but it was old. She took it, saving it from a sad and lonely end.
With the book in hand she went to her destination, McKay’s. It was later than she usually went, but even with the threat of rain and the rumble of thunder she had decided to go for a walk anyway. Standing at the top of the stairs, she could see that the door to the bar below was open with the bolt at the bottom driven down into the hole in the floor. Fresh air was always welcome down below, and Chad, behind the bar, loved the smell of rain as much as she did.
The crowd below was far more than normal for her hours. The talk and chatter greeted her in a mix of so many voices it might have been any language spoken. Her usual seat at the end of the bar was open and she claimed it at once. She set the book on the bar and slung her satchel off her shoulder and over the back of the chair. She had her pencils, art pad, and various other oddments in it. Settling on the stool, she ran her hands over the book wondering how many hands had touched it, how it must have looked new and what information might be inside.
Books were like lovers in her mind. Some of them you knew the whole thing before you even picked it up, but others… others held secrets even after every word was read. Some could whisk you away to other worlds, but most left you bored, unimpressed, or totally disappointed.
In the margins of this book was tiny scrawling writing that must have been notes on whatever was written on those pages. She did not bother to read the words, but it wasn’t really about the words so much as the book as a whole. This one was old and worthy of respect.
She would put it up on the bookshelf with its like fellows where they could rub covers and share in the hidden glory of their existence, like old men on a park bench watching the passage of time with grins on their wrinkled old faces. Few books were female in nature to her. She loved her image of old men happy to be alive and pleased with the lives they had lived. Maybe if more old men were given respect and a park bench to sit on together, everyone would be happier for it.
Chad didn’t have time to talk to her, just cast her a tall glass of something yellow with a lot of ice in it.
“Mixed it wrong…” he explained as he met her eyes a moment, then was gone again to serve up drinks to the happy crowd.
In the corner an electronic Irish band kicked in with a jig that featured an electric guitar and a key board. There was a lot of clapping and cheering. Rachel smiled. It was good to see the bar full and in a good mood. The weather, like the economy, had been terrible and people needed a reason to cheer and clap.
McKay’s was not about making money as much as it was about providing a place to be. Tonight there were two cocktail waitresses ducking about with trays on their hands and short little aprons as they got the drinks for the many tables that lined the walls and the tables that filled the main floor. Chad was careful to never serve too much, to have a taxi ready for the unsafe driver, and to hand out free drinks to those who needed a place to be and not enough cash to pay for a seat at the bar. Rachel didn’t know what line of events had bought and paid for the bar, but she knew very well it was more Chad’s living room than a business.
Rachel sipped the whiskey drink. It was sweet, but whiskey was without a doubt part of the drink – a large part of it. She stirred it with a straw and turned her attention back to her book.
About halfway through there was a stain on the page, a ring from some cup of something that had stained and warped several pages. Coffee maybe, she thought, and wondered how upset the owner had been at such a vulgar and unlikely stain.
She thought about sending it to a long-time friend. He loved old books almost as much as she did. He liked to read, but then again she didn’t think he would be able to read this one. His youth might have made him well-traveled, but she didn’t think he was bi-lingual and even if he was, she doubted this language was one he might know. He would rather have a new book on old things than an old book he couldn’t read. It would be as frustrating to him as it was mysterious and fun for her.
In the back, with just a few spare pages, there was a pressed flower stain. She could tell it had been a pansy, but it was long gone…. the stain remained however. She touched the old petal imprint and wondered if it was a gift to the owner, or from the owner to a lover. Maybe it was a gift from a child, pressed in a book, given with the unconditional love most children offer but forget by the time they hit double digits in their age.
“You touch that thing like it’s a lover’s hand,” an old man said, leaning over from his drink toward Rachel. The old man hadn’t shaved in months at least and had a patchy white beard, few teeth but sparking blue eyes that made him seem like a battered old book full of humorous poems – the sort that looks horrid on a shelf but makes you laugh every time you read it.
“Just the hands of everyone who ever held the book,” she said.
He chuckled and nodded. “I recall the days when a person borrowed a book, you’d write your name on the card. I used to love to look at the cards and see who all had held that book, who had wanted it enough to sign their name to it. It’s sort of like music: you never know who is going to hear it or what they will think of it.”
“Like old men,” Rachel laughed. “You never know what they might say or what they have seen.”
The old man laughed and nodded. “Indeed.”
He took a hold of his rocks glass with whatever amber drink had been poured over the ice that was half melted in his cup. “I recall my grandfather. He was the meanest old s.o.b. you ever met, but when I was a young man and about to leave home for college, he took a hold of me by the arm, rough as nails, and drug me behind the house. There his face softened and he dug a book out of vest. He held it to me with a trembling hand. Gave it to me, he did.”
The old man paused, lost in his memory, then continued, “He told me that day that he had wanted nothing more in life than to be able to read that book, but wars, work, and babies had denied him the chance. He told me that by my being able to read it, all the work, pain, and effort was worth it. To allow one of his children to be able to open the world through the pages of a book was like magic and he was proud to be part of my adventure.”
The old man chuckled a little. “Dumbest book I ever read, but I kept it.” He looked back to Rachel and winked. “Books are like magic and when we read them, we become wizards, limited only by the way our minds translate the words before us. Now those who write, they… ahh, they become gods.” He smiled and took a sip of his drink. “Those of us who love books for the endless possibilities hidden inside such a simple looking thing as a book cover, we… we become the consorts of gods.” He chuckled and drained his drink.
Rachel liked the idea and took a sip of her own drink.
“Well, my dear, it was nice talking to you, but now it is late and I am going home to find an old book and make love to it until I pass out.”
“Enjoy,” Rachel said with a smile as he eased himself up from the stool to walk out with the aid of his cane and patience. She looked back to the old book and sighed contently, folding her hands over it.
Maybe she would send it to her old friend. Like all things she sent, she would never hear about it, never know what his reaction was, but she would know why she had sent it and be amused at the fact he couldn’t read it.
Outside the sky opened up and began to rain in earnest. Sweet air blew down the steps, making the crowd breathe in as one, even if only Rachel noticed. Maybe she would keep the book and imagine it always as the little old blue-eyed man scared of his grumpy grandfather. It didn’t matter what language it was written in, it was a manifestation of the thoughts and efforts of the soul who wrote it and the wizard’s soul who added notes to it. It was precious energy worth giving a place to be.
—–*—–*—–
WINTER
There is something sacred about winter. The world falls asleep and lies still. The snow muffles all sound and tries to wash away all blemishes so the world seems clean and pure… like a lover lying still, deeply asleep. No matter what sins they have committed or hurts they have caused, when they lie there, you just want to touch their skin softly and recall how they look with the lines relaxed from their face and hands unconsciously still.
So often in a city the people never see past the smear of stained snow, the ice on the streets, and the blur of windshield wipers. They dash from one place to another, snarling at the inconvenience of the weather and how they have cold feet. Well, put on boots! The weather was here before you, will remain after you, and will tie all things together into a single lifespan of the earth, not the concerns of a vain little human.
Rachel loved winter. It made her bones ache, made sleep hard, made her long for company and a fireplace, but winter was a gift from the earth. The quiet of the park was wonderful. It was a special time when she could walk down the sidewalk and for a moment seem to be a million miles away from the buildings, the crowds, the cars, and the abuse of mankind.
One had to slow down, to walk slowly, to not seek to overcome winter, but embrace it with suitable clothes. One had to allow the slow easy walk and the chance to breathe in the beauty of the sleeping world. God knows the earth needed to rest! How could anyone begrudge the healing slumber of winter.
When the twilight of an early winter night turns the world soft blue, to Rachel it was like a sleeping lover reaching over, wrapping a tight arm around her and whispering for her to stay. She had to stop in her walk and just stand under the naked limbs of the tree and let the arm of winter hold her.
Something about such stillness always made her mind spin up to her youth and the very few she had dared to love. For a moment guilt whispered at her to go back and visit the grave of the man who had once given her a name. They had been so young… it was so long ago. She could recall him and felt sadness for the fact he had missed out on so much, so many years had been robbed from him, but that was how life worked. All men died.
Snow drifted down out of the sky as city lights began to pop on, turning blue light to pink. The sadness passed as her thoughts shifted from one to another and she found herself wondering what the only other man she had loved was doing tonight. Was he out walking in the snow? Was he rushing about in the life of a suburban father or was he sitting in front of a fire with his family?
She drew in a deep breath and pulled up the collar of her long red wool coat. Her breath steamed as she walked and the snow crushed and squeaked under her feet. Her thoughts wandered to her estranged sister and her long-lost brother, wondering where they had gone, what they were doing and if her brother was even still alive. She hoped he was. She hoped he was well and happy and had found the life he could not find in the shadow of their father.
He had been perfect in their father’s eyes until he made it clear he did not like girls and did not want a date for the prom. He had not rebelled as many do with flamboyant clothes or forced lisps. He had just simply packed up and left. Rumor was he had changed his name and gone to college in some art field or other that was a form of contact in itself, but Rachel really had no idea. Wherever he was, she was certain he was true to himself.
The park opened up and she left the quiet for the sidewalk and its muddy snow and slushy edges. Street lamps lined the way instead of trees and buildings formed walls of square lights and straight edges. She might have gone home, but tonight she didn’t feel like being alone. She sent a gift of unconditional love to her son wherever he was tonight. She had left a message on his phone twice this week, but had gotten no answer back. Few who inspired her to reach out answered back… maybe it was a curse… maybe it was a blessing.
She turned away from the route home and went the other way. Nights like this, few went out and she would likely have McKay’s to herself. She knew in her own heart that loneliness was a thing that crept up time to time and even if she was told she was cold and void, she knew better. Surely Chad had days no different.
It was a dozen blocks to the old Irish pub, but even if it was late and no one was there, it would be open. It was always open. She dug in her deep coat pockets for the random bills and change she kept there and had several in hand when she reached the old man sitting near a doorway. She paused to take his hand in hers and put the change in his fist.
“Thank ya,” he said with nod.
She smiled, meeting his eyes. He had dark brown eyes full of memory and pain, but strength in a way most would never know. She wagered he was a veteran and had taken injury to his heart in a way few can even understand.
“You go have yourself a drink on me,” she said honestly. “Get yourself warm a bit and try to have a good night.”
He gave her an oddly startled look and smiled with toothless awe. “I will, Miss. You have a goodun’ yer’ self.”
“I will.” She left him to find himself a place to get a drink and warm up. She hoped he got a good blend and sat and sipped it for hours, enjoying it without guilt or shame. So many stayed home to drink their expensive brews and then turned around and looked down on those in so much pain they could not function. They would sneer at them and call them drunks, refusing to give them change because they might just go buy a tall boy… hypocrites.
She reached McKay’s as the mist of snow turned to a true downfall. Chad stood in the door of the bar smoking a small pipe. He didn’t wear a coat… she wondered if he owned one.
“Today’s my birthday,” he said to her. “When I turned sixteen, my father gave me his grandfather’s pipe.” He showed the pipe to her in a gesture. “We stood outside and he showed me how to load it. We talked of tobaccos and of the things people smoke. He showed me how to smoke it and told me that on that day that I became a man. That he was no longer there to tell me what to do, but to be there to protect me and help me when I made mistakes. That I was old enough to know the sort of man I wanted to be and while the law might not see me as an adult, he did and he asked only that I return the favor and see myself as one and not behave like a rebellious child.” He drew on the pipe and let the smoke curl about his fingers. “I only smoke on my birthday and on the day he died.”
He blew out the smoke from his lungs and offered the pipe to Rachel. She took it, honored that her very private friend shared his story and his pipe with her. She took a small draw on the pipe. She didn’t smoke anymore and her lungs would not be accustomed to it. It was a fine blend of tobacco, smooth and rich-flavored.
She gave it back and attempted to blow smoke rings. They didn’t work real well, but made Chad smile.
“What brings you out so late?” Chad asked, tapping the last of the tobacco and ash out of his pipe.
“Just one of those nights,” she said. “I figured you’d be open and I was in no mood to sit up at home.”
“You up for rum tonight or just lime water?”
She considered it as she followed him down the stairs and into the warmth of the building. She took her place at the end of the bar and pulled her gloves off.
“Red wine actually,” she said.
Chad lifted an eye brow, but went to get the wine. He poured two and caught a stool on his way, setting them all down so he might join her for once.
“Happy birthday,” she said lifting her glass. He smiled and let the glasses meet to make a soft chiming ring. “I didn’t bring you a gift,” she said.
“Sure you did,” he smiled and laughed a little. “What more could you ask for than the company of someone who does not ask anything of you nor expect you to be one way or another. Do you have any idea how rare it is for someone to just take what you give and allow you to keep what you want?” he chuckled. “Oh, by the way, you know Liz Holland?”
“Hmm, young blonde woman?” Rachel asked, making a face to try and recall. “Comes in now and then about the time I go home.”
“Young?” he chuckled. “She thinks she is young enough, but she is nearly forty… a lot of plastic and paint on that one.”
“Hmm, guess I never looked too close. She the one that giggles a lot.”
“Yah, that’d be her.”
“So what’d she do?” Rachel asked, curious why Chad brought her up.
“She has been trying to convince me to let her stay after hours…” he said with a look of pained distaste. “Gile’s saved me another night of trying to get her to go home and told her that you and I had a thing. I think she might hate you now. So if she seems a bit rude, that’s why.”
“But we do, my dear,” Rachel laughed. “Just what exactly no one needs to know, but you are a good man and take care of me when I need you to. That’s more than I can say of most men I know.”
He chuckled and took a drink to that. “You work tomorrow?”
“No.”
“If you’re up for it, after hours I have something to show you. I’d go get it now, but I don’t like to leave the bar. Last time I did that, it got robbed.”
“Sure,” she said with a shrug. “You expect anyone else tonight?”
“A few. There’s been a small group of late nighters coming in after they go bowling. They come in and bitch about their wives and kids, talk about girls young enough to be their daughters and pretend they are young men still.”
“I don’t get it. Why do people get married and stay that way if they are so unhappy they must bitch about it in public? If you’re not happy, end it. Chances are if you’re not happy, neither is anyone else who has to live with you.”
“Duty, obligations… habit.” Chad took a drink. “Sometimes I think that people complain and make themselves unhappy because they think that’s how it is supposed to be, and to be happy in marriage is almost a sign of weakness. Then there are those who pretend so hard they simply have no chance to live up to the image they create.”
“I’d rather be alone than live a lie,” Rachel said shaking her head.
“Thus, here we are,” Chad laughed as he lifted his glass. “Oh, by the way, you know Dwight?”
“No.”
“He asked about you the other day. Wanted to know if you were married.”
Rachel groaned. “What’d you say?” she asked, hoping Chad had given the man, whoever he was, the run-off.
“The truth,” he chuckled “I said I didn’t know.”
Rachel twisted the wine in her hands and looked at the swirls of sugar on the walls of the glass. “I was once. I have a son, you know.” She looked up at Chad. “His father died a long time ago.”
“Sorry,” he said. “About your husband, not about you being a mother.”
She chuckled. “It was the end anyway. I loved him, wanted him happy, but knew he wasn’t. He drank a bit too much and went too fast. It was ruled an accident, but…” she shrugged. “He was very unhappy.” She left it at that. “It was hard on my son, but we got through. I had enough friends to give him support when he needed it.”
“Where is your son now?”
“Oh, he is a pianist. Travels about doing concerts, dancing with as many young women as he can, breaking hearts, I am sure.”
“It’s a tough time to be an artist.”
She nodded. “He’s doing alright. He’s young and good enough he can pull it off.”
“If he comes to visit, I’d love to meet him.”
She laughed. “Yeah, me too.”
Chad looked up as boots appeared on the top step. He drained his wine and got up.
“Everyone has their own path to take. It’s nice when we get to travel a bit with someone, but sooner or later the path will split off and the sooner we all understand that, the better the world will be for everyone,” he said and went to get drinks for the bowlers.