“What kind of bookmark were you using?”
“Well, I was in a hurry and couldn’t find any paper, so I used a strip of bacon.”
“You used a strip of bacon as a bookmark?”
“Yes. It actually worked great.”
I sighed. “You know I can’t resell this.”
“Can’t you just return it to the publisher as defective?”
* * *
That afternoon I got another letter from Tabula Rasa. It was postmarked two days earlier.
Dear Noel,
It’s been written that “our greatest fear should not be of failure, but of succeeding at something that doesn’t really matter.” As you pursue your dreams, remember that when you turn the final page of life, what will matter most to you is only what can be held inside. Life’s book is written on the heart.
Tabula Rasa
I thought back to Dylan’s and my last dinner conversation and smiled.
I was happy when Dylan called me that night. There was a party that evening sponsored by one of the tuxedo makers but he had left early and gone back to his room to call me. We talked for nearly an hour.
“You could write a book about this place,” he said. “It’s like people just check out of their senses. They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but I think that just means your money.”
I laughed. “I wish you’d come home.”
“Are you missing me?”
“I am. And I’m lonely. And bored. When do you get back?”
“I’ll be home late Monday night.”
“Can I see you then?”
“It’s pretty late. I’ll have to take care of Alex.”
“Then Tuesday?”
He groaned. “I’m sorry. More fatherhood. After work I’ve got a school meeting with Alex’s teacher. How about Wednesday?”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
“I’m sorry. I miss you too. The life of a single father’s a little hectic.”
“I get it. Then I’ll see you Wednesday.”
“Wednesday it is. Bye.”
I hung up the phone and lay back on the couch. He was just being a good father. Of all people, I should appreciate that. Then why did it upset me?
CHAPTER twenty–one
I went for years not finishing anything. Because, of course, when you finish something you can be judged.
—Erica Jong
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 16
Monday afternoon Grace showed up at the store at her usual time. She grabbed a book and carried it up to the counter. Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee.
“I read that this was one of the most anticipated books in history,” she said.
“It’s Lee’s first book since To Kill a Mockingbird,” I said.
“Fifty-five years of bottled anticipation,” Grace said.
As I scanned the book for payment I said, “It came out last July. I’m surprised you’re just reading it now.”
“I was letting the hype die down a bit so I could judge for myself if it’s any good.” She handed me her credit card. “You know, there was a lot of controversy surrounding Mockingbird.”
“Because it’s about racism?”
“There was that, of course. But many critics didn’t believe Lee wrote it.”
“Who did they think wrote it?”
“Lee’s childhood friend, Truman Capote. You must admit that it’s an unlikely coincidence that two world-famous authors grew up next door to each other. Then, after the book became a huge bestseller, Ms. Lee added to the controversy by avoiding all publicity—for herself and her book. It was as if she were afraid to talk about it.”
“No one would do that today,” I said.
“No, they wouldn’t. These days, people can’t seem to get enough attention.” She looked into my face. “It must be interesting for you to see what’s happening on the other end of the pipe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Back in New York, you cobble together a book in some isolated inner sanctum, drop it into the distribution tube, and this is where it pops out. It’s like a general’s staff waging war miles behind the battlefield. Bookstores are the front line. It’s where books live or die.”
I liked her observation. “You’re right. There was a publisher at one of the houses that made all her senior editors work in a bookstore for at least a month before they were promoted.”
“Smart woman,” Grace said. “Maybe that’s why your father wrote so well.”
“Why is that?”
She gestured to the store around us. “He was on the front lines.”
Her comment sparked a memory. “Can I ask you something? What was the book you put in my father’s casket?”
She looked at me for a moment, then said, “May, dear. May I ask you something.” Without answering me she turned and walked out of the store.
CHAPTER twenty–two
To survive, you must tell stories.
—Umberto Eco
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 17
Tuesday afternoon I received my fourth letter. I checked the envelope’s postmark. It was the same as the others, which perplexed me a little, as Dylan had been in Las Vegas.
Dear Noel,
Two thoughts on living a meaningful life: First, live big. Expect the world and the abundance of it. It is the only way to claim the full measure of your creation. What we expect of life is all it can be.
Second, live small. In the end (and beginning and middle), it’s the little things that add up to create the big. The vast lake of your life experience is fed by a small but constant stream.
If these two counsels seem contradictory, so be it. Life itself is an irony.
On life’s journey, avoid shortcuts to the important destinations. They usually lead to cliffs.
Live big, but do not create expectations of yourself that can’t be reached. Remember, no one’s perfect. Even God made broccoli.
Tabula Rasa
CHAPTER twenty–three
I must say I find television very educational. The minute somebody turns it on, I go into the library and read a good book.
—Groucho Marx
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18
It had been nearly a week since I had seen Dylan. I called him from work and suggested that instead of going out we make pizza at my house and watch a movie. He liked the idea.
“If you get the DVD, I’ll pick up the ingredients on the way home,” I said. “What do you like on your pizza?”
“The usual. Pepperoni. Sausage. Ham.”
“That’s all meat,” I said. “What about vegetables?”
“Mushrooms, olives, green peppers.”
“How about broccoli?”
“Broccoli on pizza? I think not.”
“What about broccoli in general?”
“Do you mean do I like it?”
“Yes.”
“If I were sentenced to death, I probably wouldn’t include it in my last meal.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
* * *
Dylan arrived around seven, nearly a half hour late.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “The babysitter was late, and Alex wasn’t happy I was leaving. She gets upset when I’ve been gone.”
“I understand. You’re her only parent.”
We made two small pizzas. Mine was a simple margherita with basil, tomato, and mozzarella. Dylan’s had everything on it that I had bought. We followed dinner with a vanilla-orange gelato that Dylan had picked up with a DVD on the way to my house.
He had chosen the movie Everest, based on the ill-fated 1996 expedition that claimed eight lives. I had read the Jon Krakauer book Into Thin Air, about the same tragic expedition. The book was better than the movie, but the movie was good, and the book gave me deeper context. It was only the second time since I came back that I had watched television, demonstrating how successfully my father had ingrained in me the evils of the medium.
“I don’t think I’ll ever climb Everest,” I said, taking the DVD from the p
layer.
“And I will not climb it with you,” Dylan said.
I grinned. “Thanks for your support.” As I turned back to him I had an idea. “Hey, can you help me with something?”
“Absolutely.”
“My father has a safe in his closet. He left me the combination, but I haven’t been able to open it. Think you can?”
“I can give it a try.”
I led him to the safe, then retrieved the paper with the combination and handed it to him while he got down on his knees in front of it. I sat on the floor behind him.
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know. My father’s lawyer said it contained some of his most valuable possessions.”
“Then let’s open it.” He looked over the combination. “Your father’s writing is kind of hard to read. Especially in the dark.”
“He was famous for his bad handwriting.”
He handed me back the paper. “Here, you read it to me.”
I read the numbers as he dialed them in. After four tries he shook his head. “Are you sure that’s the right combination?”
“It’s the only one I have.”
He turned back toward the safe. “You might have to hire someone to open it.” Dylan got back to his feet, then checked his watch. “I’m sorry. I should probably be getting home.” We walked back out to the living room. As Dylan put on his coat he asked, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“I don’t have any plans.”
“Then you can spend it with us.”
“You and Alex?”
“And my parents. We have dinner at their house every year. They would love to have you over. You know my mom can cook.”
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
“Alex will be especially happy. It was her idea to invite you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, it wasn’t yours?”
“No. I tried to talk her out of it, but she was pretty stubborn.”
“Smart girl. What can I bring?”
“How about a book for my mom?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’d be happy to bring a book, but what food can I bring?”
“I don’t think my mom accepts contributions to her meal. She’s picky that way. I can ask. She might not be too upset.”
“I don’t want to upset her,” I said. “I’ll just bring a book. What time do you eat?”
“Usually around two. Do you have plans before that?”
“Not really. I’ll probably just go for a run.”
“Well, if you’re up to it, it’s Alex’s and my tradition to pick out a Christmas tree. You’re welcome to join us.”
“That sounds fun. What time?”
“A little before noon. That will give us time to put it up and decorate it then get over to my parents.”
“That will be great,” I said.
“Great,” he echoed. “I’ll pick you up around eleven thirty. Dress warm.” We lightly kissed, then I watched him walk to his truck. I waved once more, then shut the door.
* * *
I was looking forward to seeing Dylan’s parents again. I had once spent a fair amount of time at their house. Charlotte was a strong, southern matriarch, a housewife who spent much of her time engaged in charitable causes. You could say that Dylan was one of them. After several other foster homes had given up on him, Charlotte and Dylan’s father, Stratton, stepped in as foster parents, eventually winning him over.
It wasn’t surprising that Charlotte showed such interest in me after my mother’s death. I suppose that I, too, was a cause. Even after I left Utah, she sent me birthday-Christmas cards and occasional letters, which I never reciprocated or thanked her for. I hoped she’d forgotten that I’d been so rude.
CHAPTER twenty–four
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 20
Dear Noel,
Life, to be fully lived, must be lived free. The key to freedom is forgiveness. Forgiveness is a virtue often misunderstood. It is not to close our eyes to wrongs, rather to truly open them and see the wider picture. Forgiveness is release—to unlock the cage of another’s folly to set ourselves free.
To not forgive is to chain oneself to people and circumstances of the past. In doing so, our past becomes our future. This bears repeating. By chaining ourselves to actions of the past, our past becomes our future.
Let the past go, Noel. In the chess game of life, the past makes a good bishop but a poor king. We may take counsel from the past, but we should not be ruled by it. One cannot ride a horse backward and still hold its reins.
Tabula Rasa
CHAPTER twenty–five
Books are the best type of the influence of the past.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 23
For the first time since I’d helped Grace, we didn’t have the book she was looking for: Kissinger’s Shadow, a nonfiction work on the American statesman. We had brought in five copies and they were already sold. It was a good example of just how eclectic Grace’s taste in books was: from French hors d’oeuvres to global politics.
“Don’t worry yourself about it,” she said. “Wendy can order it.”
“I hate for you to leave without a book.”
“Not to worry,” she said. “It won’t be the first time.” She smiled. “I’m sure I can find something to read at home.”
“If you haven’t burned them,” I said.
“If they were burn-worthy, I wouldn’t waste my time reading them again,” she said. “Oh, you might want to see what’s going on in the back of the store. Near the crime novels.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s better if you just go on back.”
As she left the store I walked to the back corner, where I found a woman slightly stooped with her back to me. She was holding what looked like a jar, tipped on its side.
“May I help you?” I asked.
The woman spun around. Her face was beet red. It wasn’t a jar in her hands but an urn.
“Oh, you caught me,” she said.
I was still perplexed by what I was looking at. “What did I catch?”
“My father used to love crime novels, so I was just spreading his ashes where he was most happy.”
I looked at the pile of ashes that was already on the floor. “No.”
“Just a—”
“No. Take your… father… and leave.”
She scooped what ashes she could back in the urn. “It’s my father,” she said.
“Exactly.”
Near the front door she said, “I’m not ever coming back.”
“I hope that’s a promise,” I replied.
After she was gone I went and told Wendy. She just shook her head. “Really? People are always trying to dump ashes in Disneyland, but in a bookstore?”
“They dump ashes in Disneyland?”
“Pirates of the Caribbean,” Wendy said. “They have cameras everywhere. Did she get him all up?”
“No. The ashes stained the carpet.”
Wendy sighed. “Someone’s going to have to vacuum up her father.”
CHAPTER twenty–six
I write to discover what I know.
—Flannery O’Connor
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 24
The next day was busy; people were buying gifts as they prepared for Thanksgiving. I didn’t know how much money the bookstore was making, but I figured it was probably a lot.
Also, Tabula Rasa delivered as expected.
Dear Noel,
As you are confronted each day by new ideas and propositions, do not forget to think. View each matter of importance from as many angles as is practical. Do not be swift to throw in with the current of mainstream thought or waves of indoctrination. Avoid anyone who offers to do your thinking for you. The masses follow a media shepherd.
Many mistake knowledge for wisdom. They are not the same thing. A cupboard full of ingredients is not a meal. It’s how knowledge is applied to real life that counts as wisdom. The worl
d is overflowing with educated idiots, people who spout what they do not understand, profess what they cannot defend, advocate what they do not live, and claim what they do not own. Do not be over-arrogant in your knowledge. No one is always right, and everyone is sometimes wrong.
Tabula Rasa
CHAPTER twenty–seven
A good writer possesses not only his own spirit but also the spirit of his friends.
—Friedrich Nietzche
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 26
Thanksgiving morning, Dylan rang the doorbell a few minutes before eleven thirty. I grabbed my purse and opened the door. Dylan was standing there with his daughter, Alexis, holding her hand. It was the first time I’d seen her.
Alexis looked small for a seven-year-old. She was bundled up in a pink parka with a pink scarf and baby-blue knit mittens with a matching stocking cap, her blond hair peeking out like weeds growing from beneath a porch deck. She was a pretty little girl, which wasn’t surprising, considering her parents’ genes.
“I’m Alexis,” she said to me. “But my dad calls me Alex. Unless he’s mad at me.”
“May I call you Alex too?”
She nodded. “We’re going to get a Christmas tree.”
“That sounds fun. Is it okay if I come with you?”
“My dad says it’s okay.”
“Then it must be okay.” I looked up at Dylan.
“You heard it,” he said.
We walked out to Dylan’s truck. He opened the passenger side door, lifted Alexis into the back, then helped me in. He then went around to the driver’s side and climbed in. “Who’s ready to buy a Christmas tree?” he asked.
Alexis screamed, “Me!”
“Me too,” I said.
“All right, let the Christmas tree expedition begin.”
We drove to a tree lot situated in the parking lot of a nearby Walmart. The lot wasn’t busy, and we walked up and down the rows of trees alone.
The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4) Page 10