by Jeff Zentner
They stepped around to the side of the Column.
Dill shined the flashlight on his writing. “I said I’d write some of my song lyrics, but I changed my mind and wrote some of my favorite stuff.”
Moonlight. Calm after thunderstorm. Scarecrows. Dusty bibles. Abandoned houses. Fireflies. Sunlight through dust. Fallen leaves. Churchyard cemetery. Gray autumn sky. River levee. Gravel road. Wind chimes. Wood smoke. Train whistle on winter night. Kudzu on telephone pole. Hymnal falling apart. White crosses by highway. Cicada hum. Shadows. Sparrows. Rust. Railroad crossing lights through fog. Crickets. Dance of leaves in wind. Decaying barn. Field after harvest. Clouds covering moon. Quiet dusk. Lightning. Heartbeats.
Lydia took a picture. “I love these things too, and I had no idea until I saw this.”
“I don’t think these’ll last thirty-two thousand years,” Travis said, “but maybe they’ll outlive us, right?”
Lydia showed them the Dolly Parton quotes she’d written on the Column.
Find out who you are and do it on purpose.
We cannot direct the wind, but we can adjust the sails.
If you don’t like the road you’re walking, start paving another one.
“Future generations need the counsel of this prophetess,” she explained.
Then they lay for a while on their backs, gazing into the starry expanse through the railroad tracks, listening to the dark river below. This might be it, Dill thought. This might be the best your life ever is. This moment. Right now.
“I read somewhere that a lot of the stars we see don’t exist anymore. They’ve already died and it’s taken millions of years for their light to reach Earth,” Dill said.
“That wouldn’t be a bad way to die,” Lydia said. “Giving off light for millions of years after you’re gone.”
Her mom had gone to bed when she got home. Her dad was wearing his bathrobe, sitting on the couch, eating a big bowl of popcorn and watching TV.
“Hello, princess,” he said, as she entered the living room after washing her hands in the hall bathroom. “Have fun tonight?”
“Friday-night Forrestville fun. It’s an alliterative party.” She pulled off her hiking boots, sat on the couch, and snuggled up to her dad, putting her head on his shoulder.
He rested his head on top of hers. “You smell like summer night.”
She pulled a piece of her hair to her nose. “The scented candles that are supposed to smell like summer night never smell this way. They always smell like scary-guy cologne.” She reached into his popcorn bowl and grabbed a handful.
“I like your friends. They’re good guys. You’ve made smart choices.”
“They are. And don’t sound so surprised about me making smart choices.”
“You’re lucky to have them. Good friends in high school aren’t a given.”
“Yeah, especially around here.”
“Around anywhere. This hasn’t been such a bad place to grow up, has it?”
Lydia raised her head off her dad’s shoulder and gave him a solemn stare. “You did not just seriously ask me that in good faith.”
“What? Sure I did. This is a nice place. It’s quiet, safe. The area is beautiful. I grew up here and your mother grew up a couple of counties from here. Taking over Grandpa’s practice reduced the stress our family would’ve experienced if I’d had to start my own from scratch.”
“It sucks here. People are dumb and racist and homophobic. I don’t have a single female friend at school since Heidi left.”
Her dad picked up the remote control and muted the TV. “Hang on. You’d never have made friends with Dill and Travis if we didn’t live here. Let me ask you this: do you like who you are?”
“Yes.”
“Do you really think living here hasn’t had a big hand in who you’ve turned out to be? Do you think you’d have had the same drive to create Dollywould if we’d laid the world out for you at your doorstep?”
“Are you seriously saying that living in this shitty town was part of some grand strategy to make me a go-getter?”
“That was part of it. Yes.”
Lydia reached out and smacked her dad on the forehead, as if swatting a mosquito.
He winced and pulled away. “Look, do you think there’s anywhere—any city, any high school—where someone as smart and talented as you can waltz in and do your thing and nobody will try to tear you down because they feel inferior to you?”
“I don’t know.” She rested her head back on her dad’s shoulder.
“I went through what you did in high school.”
“Oh please. Mom told me you were class president of Forrestville High.”
“That doesn’t mean I had a lot of close friends or that I fit in. It means that I was nice to everyone and they rewarded me for it. I still felt lonely.”
“Then why did you come back here to raise your daughter? Look me in the eye and tell me that it wasn’t because you were afraid of living in a bigger city.”
“I don’t think it was fear so much as the inertia of living in a familiar place that we feel connected to. Nowhere is perfect.”
“And here I’ve been thinking that Forrestville couldn’t be improved.”
Her dad grabbed a handful of the dwindling popcorn. “Hey, I think it’s fine, and when I was in high school I didn’t even have two friends as close and loyal as Dill and Travis. I can see it on those guys’ faces. They’d stand between you and a pack of lions.”
“Pride of lions.” She grabbed a handful of popcorn.
“Whatever. They wouldn’t let lions eat you. Don’t think you won’t miss them when you’ve gone off to bigger and better things. Part of you will miss this life.”
“I’ll be too busy to miss stuff.”
“No you won’t. Listen, sweetie, these are real friends you have. Genuine friends. Two of them. That’s two more than a lot of people who live in bigger cities and do fancier things have.”
Her voice became faint, like it became when she knew she had to concede something but thought she could keep the universe from hearing. “I know.”
“So stop hating your parents for making the choice we made about where to raise you. If we’d raised you in the big city, you might’ve gotten hit by a stray bullet in a drive-by shooting or something.”
She lifted her head from her dad’s shoulder and rolled her eyes after making sure he was watching. “I am so regretting that I made you watch The Wire. I should’ve guessed you’d be a total doofus about it.”
“What are Dill’s and Travis’s plans after they graduate?”
She sighed. “I mean, I guess Dill’s going to go full time at Floyd’s and Travis’ll work full time at the lumberyard. And they’ll live their lives and go to Waffle House or whatever and get old and die.”
“Hey,” her dad said, more sharply than usual. “Don’t.”
Lydia gave him a reproachful, wounded glance, frowning. “Sorry. Jeez, don’t be a creep.”
“No, sweetie. I’m not being a creep. You’re being very haughty and unkind about their lives. People live quiet lives and that’s okay. There’s dignity in that, no matter what you may think.”
“I wish they wanted more out of life because I care about them. I hate thinking about Dill and Travis stuck here, living pathetic lives. It bums me out. I want Dill especially to go to college and do something with his life.”
“I don’t think they’re trying to inconvenience you personally. Their circumstances are really different from yours.”
“Duh, I know.”
“Do you? Can you keep a secret?”
She gave him an of-course-I-can-how-dare-you-question-me look.
“You really can’t tell because I could get in trouble for revealing patient information. But I think you should know. A couple of years ago, I replaced Travis’s two front teeth. They said it was an accident at the lumberyard—that he was stacking some wood and a forklift hit the stack and drove a piece of wood into his face. So here’s the funny
thing about that. They called me the morning after. The lumberyard closes at five, like my office. So why not call me sooner? Did this accident happen at 4:59? I doubt it. Wouldn’t you call the dentist immediately?”
“Oh my God,” Lydia murmured. “It must have happened that night—”
“At home. And of course I have zero proof of anything and Travis insisted that it happened at the lumberyard. But first he said that he was pulling some lumber off a rack and it fell and hit him; then he said a forklift hit it.”
“Trav’s dad totally seems the type.”
“Oh, Clint Bohannon is the type. He was two years ahead of me in high school. Meanest son of a bitch you ever met. Bully. Strutted around high school like nobody could touch him. Star quarterback. Did you really not know what Travis goes through at home?”
Lydia felt wounded and oblivious—neither was a feeling she enjoyed. “No. He—he doesn’t talk about what goes on at home. I knew his dad was an asshole but I didn’t know how big of one. How did Travis come from that? He’s the sweetest.”
“Anne Marie, his mom, was in my grade. Sweet, pretty. Cheerleader. Nice to everyone. We all thought she’d turn Clint a little nicer when they got married. Guess that didn’t happen.”
Lydia absorbed it all silently.
Her dad hugged her closer. “And I don’t need to tell you about Dill’s issues. Point is, you’ve had a very different life and it’s important for you to be understanding.”
“Okay,” Lydia said, shaken. How did I not know that about Travis? How was I so blind? I’m a horrible friend. I should have seen. I should have made Travis feel like he could tell me.
“You’re destined for great things, Lydia. That comes at a price. Everybody wants to be close to greatness and get a piece for themselves. The day may come when it takes some discernment to tell when someone loves you for you and when someone wants to stand near your fire. You have two friends right now who may not be glamorous, but they love you for you.”
“You’re right,” she murmured.
Her dad sat up in mock astonishment, fumbling for his phone. “Hold on, hold on! Can you repeat that so I can get it on film?”
“You’re such a dork, I can’t even deal. I have to go work on my blog.” She got up.
“Don’t stay up too late.”
“I love you, Daddy.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“Oh, by the way, a few things came for you today. On the kitchen counter.”
Lydia went into the kitchen. A package from Owl, an up-and-coming online budget fashion retailer. A sundress and some wedges. Not bad. They’d make the blog. A small package from Miu Miu. A back-to-school gift—a necklace. Definitely blog-worthy.
And an envelope. She opened it. A letter, on the most expensive-feeling stationery she’d ever held. It smelled as though scent scientists had engineered it to give off the whiff of walking past a high-end rare book dealer’s shop in Paris or London. Written in powerful, sweeping, feminine handwriting:
Love the blog. Of course I’ll give you a letter of recommendation. Write a letter for my signature and have Dahlia give it to my assistant. See that your grammar and spelling are impeccable. Above all, be generous with yourself; make signing this worth my while.
Cheers,
Vivian Winter
Excitement dissipated some of the melancholy of the conversation about Dill and Travis.
Just got letter from your mom, said she’d write rec letter for me!!! THANK YOU, Lydia texted Dahlia.
Her phone buzzed. I told you she would, Dahlia texted back. Repay me by featuring me on Dollywould.
You got it. We’ll do profile and interview. Seriously thanks.
It’s nothing. Chloe is in, btw. Three fab fashionistas in NYC. We better find a place with loads of closet space.
Now I need to get into NYU, Lydia texted.
You’ll have no trouble thanks to mum and your brilliance.
Lydia began composing her blog post while she looked at the pictures of the things she and her two friends wanted as their messages to the world after they’d been dead for thousands of years and tried to think about what she could say that would do them justice.
Mr. Burson, the owner and proprietor of Riverbank Books, had always reminded Dill of a shambling, humanoid badger. He wore small, wire-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose, and for all but the hottest months of summer, cardigans covered in cat hair, buttoned across his rotund belly, usually over a Merle Haggard or Waylon Jennings concert T-shirt. Dill always liked Mr. Burson. As a lifelong bachelor who loved cats and books, he was the subject of plenty of whispering and judgment himself, so he wasn’t about to visit it on Dill.
Dill, Lydia, and Travis walked in about a half hour before closing time (or the closest approximation thereto—Mr. Burson stayed open as much or as little as he saw fit), scattering three or four of the shop cats before them. Mr. Burson glanced up from his stool behind the counter, where he was reading some pulp sci-fi novel from the 1960s, absentmindedly petting yet another cat. Several guitars hung on the wall behind the counter. A forest composed of stacks of used books loomed around him, the usual spicy-vanilla scent of pipe tobacco and old paperbacks wafting in the air. Mr. Burson’s jowly face lit up when he saw Travis, one of his most loyal customers.
“Young master Bohannon!” he said in his wheezy voice, adjusting his glasses. “To what mysterious and fantastical lands may I offer you passage today?”
Travis leaned on the glass counter that housed Mr. Burson’s tiny museum of early editions of Faulkner, O’Connor, Welty, and McCarthy. “Actually, we’re here to find a present for Dill’s mom for her birthday, but while I’m here, could I place a preorder for Deathstorm?”
Riverbank Books’s stock was largely used. Mr. Burson traveled around in his battered and rusty 1980s Toyota pickup covered with nerd-joke (MY OTHER CAR IS THE MILLENNIUM FALCON), pro-reading (I’D RATHER BE READING), and vaguely political (COEXIST) bumper stickers, snapping up boxes of books at thrift shops and estate and library sales. But he carried a small stock of new books and took special orders for people who didn’t use Amazon and/or preferred to support their local bookstore.
“Ah, yes, Deathstorm. The new opus from Mr. G. M. Pennington. Aren’t you lucky I don’t sell books by weight?” He chuckled, got out a tattered ledger volume, and scribbled a note to himself. “So, Travis, what do we think will become of House Northbrook in the final battle against the dark forces of House Allastair and their Accursed? Will the Queen of the Autumnlands intervene with her Raven Host? Will Rand Allastair’s bastard throw a wrench in the Allastairs’ plans by leading the Horsemen of the East in a gambit to capture the Gold Throne?”
Travis’s eyes glistened. He didn’t often get to talk about Bloodfall with real-life, flesh-and-blood human beings. He opened his mouth to answer.
Lydia interrupted them by making a time-out sign. “Hey-o, whoa, hang on, fair knights of the realm. Before thou dorkest out, we humble serfs beg thy assistance in finding a book for the woman who doesn’t like anything.”
“I mean, it’s not that she doesn’t like anything. It just has to be Christian. Really Christian,” Dill said.
“Like the Bible barely makes the cut because Christ is only in the second half,” Lydia said.
Mr. Burson snapped his fingers and dismounted from his stool with an involuntary grunt, letting his cat leap to the ground. He waddled from behind the counter, waving for them to follow. “This way, young friends.” He led them past floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, haphazardly organized with piles of books on the floor in front of them.
They reached the section labeled CHRISTIAN/INSPIRATIONAL. He got down on one knee with much effort, grunting and puffing, the seams of his pants creaking like ship riggings. He pulled out a book called The Templar Device—a new book he’d shelved with the used books, his customary practice.
He adjusted his glasses and handed it to Dill. “This is a Christian adventure novel that was quite popular a few years ago. It’s abou
t an archeologist who unearths the tomb of one of the Knights Templar, to find part of a prophecy about the Antichrist inscribed on his shield. He’s launched into a world of international intrigue and deceit as he tries to put together the other pieces of the prophecy. But”—he cupped his hand to his mouth and whispered—“spoiler alert: the Antichrist is in all of us if we don’t accept Jesus.”
Lydia made a zipping motion over her mouth, then locked it with a pretend key.
“I’m not sure the idea of adventure is even Christian,” Dill said as he thumbed through the book. “The true believer has faith that everything will be fine and they’ll be saved and go to heaven, which kind of makes adventure less of an adventure. But I’ll risk it.”
They stayed and browsed for a bit. Travis and Mr. Burson swapped theories about Deathstorm. Dill watched Lydia as she moved along the shelves, gently dragging her hand behind her along the books, touching each one, as if she were reading the titles with her fingers.
Lydia found a used copy of Patti Smith’s Just Kids, her favorite book. “I pretend I’m buying it and getting to read it for the first time. Besides, I try to support Riverbank. It’s basically the only semisophis…” She trailed off as Travis and Mr. Burson began acting out a pretend sword fight. She sighed. “Anyway, I try to support Riverbank.”
They bought their books and stepped out into the late-August dusk. September was around the corner, but summer lingered in full force.
“Let’s go watch some trains,” Dill said.
Travis shrugged. “I’m in.”
“Lydia?”
“I need to fill out some scholarship applications and get ready for my interview with Laydee.”
“You’re interviewing Laydee, the singer?” Dill asked.
“Yep.”
“Wow. That’s awesome. She’s pretty much our age and her songs are all over the radio.”
“Yeah. Anyway. Trains.” Lydia checked the time on her phone. “I can go for a little bit. If we don’t see a train soon, I gotta run.”
“High five.”