The Book of Nonsense

by David Michael Slater

  For the next hour or so, Dexter lay like a corpse, watching the scene he’d just endured play repeatedly in his mind. Why couldn’t he have said something? How many times in his life had he prayed for a clever comeback, a razor-sharp word or witty one-liner to demolish a tormenter? He saw other kids do it all the time, but not once had he ever managed it.

  Instead, he’d been forced to meet teasing with stone silence, which in its own way was effective. By the end of elementary school, kids stopped asking him to spell words like ‘cat’ because he simply wouldn’t respond. But Dex had always known in his heart-of-hearts that silence was the refuge of the weak.

  And now he realized this refuge had been nothing but an illusion, a matter of luck. In avoiding trouble these last few years, he’d also been avoiding the truth. Eventually, Dex now understood, your number comes up. That’s when truth grabs you by the throat and makes you piss your pants. It had always been just a matter of time.

  Dex tried to fall sleep, but every time he got close, some noise around, some animal rustling or people walking nearby, kept him awake. If someone discovered the Clearing it was going to be the last straw. Mercifully, no one did.

  At some point, Dexter thought he heard himself whimpering, but he was sure the wetness sliding down his cheeks was only the rain.

  first red, then dead

  “I’ll be right out,” Milton said.

  Before Daphna could protest, he disappeared into the cubby, leaving her alone and offended. She’d never been allowed to watch her father actually negotiate the sale of his books because he thought she shouldn’t be exposed to the dirty business of haggling. Daphna hadn’t minded so much in the past, but recently she’d been reading about the art of negotiation. It was fascinating how many subtle ways there were to get people to agree to your terms. If you were really good, you could even make them feel like they got the better deal.

  Instead of heading off to browse, as her indignation urged her to do, Daphna considered something that filled her with guilt. But she had a right, didn’t she? Hadn’t Milton said a thousand times she’d make a fantastic book scout one day? Well, how was that going to happen if she never learned how to bargain?! She was going to be a teenager in a matter of hours, for crying out loud. Besides, he owed it to her for being gone so long.

  It was decided.

  After glancing over her shoulder, Daphna approached the shelves that composed the cubby’s six walls and slowly walked around them. Maybe a little spy hole was already there, so she wouldn’t have to make one—not that it would be spying, not really. Technically, maybe, but spying on your father in a used bookstore could hardly be called real spying. Daphna felt terrible, there was no denying it, but she was determined.

  Unfortunately, there were no spaces visible between the books, and they were all the exact size of the shelves. Daphna ran her finger along the spine of a thick volume, and with the utmost care, pulled at it. She pulled harder. It was stuck. They were all stuck jammed together like bricks in a wall.

  Frustrated, Daphna knelt to tie her shoe. Tugging angrily on the laces, she figured the issue was settled, but from her new position she spotted a book wedged diagonally between two others. After only a moment’s hesitation, she leaned forward and peered through the triangular space above it.

  By the weak, flickering light of two dripping, misshapen candles, Daphna saw a man who looked like the oldest person in the world. She visited elderly people all the time at Multnomah Village Rest and Rehabilitation Home, the R & R she called it, where she read to a group of senior citizens, but this man looked twice as ancient as most everyone there. Bowed and withered, he had a pasty, pinched face and arms as skinny as twigs.

  He wore a brown, featureless robe, in front of which lay a long, snow white beard that shook as his body trembled. Milton Wax, who was quite a bit older than the parents of Daphna’s peers, looked like a tower of strength next to him.

  “Give it to me!” the old man suddenly demanded. Milton seemed too stunned to react, as was Daphna. “Give it to me!” he repeated, holding out a skeletal hand. Daphna noticed he had his eyes closed.

  “Pardon me?” Milton managed.

  Then something even odder happened. For a second Daphna thought she’d gone deaf, because the grizzled buyer mouthed something at her father. However, an instant later she heard him say in a calmer voice, “Give me that book now.”

  To Daphna’s growing surprise and confusion, Milton did exactly that. He set the book on the old man’s hand and said, in a perfectly conversational tone, “I’ve been thoroughly confounded by this book. I’m sure I’ve never come across anything older. It’s filled with nonsense, a hodgepodge of words, most of them not even real as far as I can tell. I wonder if it’s not the journal of a madman or some—”

  Daphna knew her father was liable to go on for ages when he started talking about the books he’d acquired. But on this occasion, he’d barely gotten warmed up when the old man clutched the book against his chest and began inhaling and exhaling in deep, raspy gasps.

  “Are you okay, Mr.—?” Milton asked, clearly alarmed.

  But the old man recovered quickly, though he kept his eyes closed.

  “Pardon me,” he wheezed. “At my age, a man is prone to bouts of these sorts, but I assure you, I am in no danger.” Then he took a deep breath and brought the book back down. “The name’s Rash, Asterius Rash.”

  Daphna knew well that both buyers and sellers cherished unusual volumes, but the way this strange old man cradled Milton’s book, the way he lifted and turned it with his knobby knuckles and brought it so close to his face that it touched his forehead—it was like nothing she’d ever seen.

  Rash flipped the book over and over, tenderly stroking the mutilated covers with his fingertips and palms; he even passed its cracked spine under his nose, sniffing it like she once saw a man sniff a cigar. Then he put it to his cheek like she’d seen her friends Wren and Teal do with their love notes at school.

  Finally, after having done everything but taste it, the old man set the book on the table and rested a hand on it. Was he ever going to open it? He just sat there with his head down and eyes closed, breathing heavily again.

  “Mr. Rash?” Milton inquired.

  After a moment, Rash’s shoulders began to shake. Then his whole frame shuddered as an extended episode of coughing rocked him. The eruptions slowly intensified, coming more and more rapidly in short, throaty bursts. Daphna was sure Rash was having a serious attack, but when the coughing noises transformed into chortles, she realized what was really happening. The old man was laughing. Finally, Rash threw himself back into his chair and roared openly.

  No one laughed like that, Daphna thought, and definitely not for this long. Something was seriously wrong with that man. He was even more terrifying than that disgusting boy. She wished her father would excuse himself so they could leave, but Milton just stood there in a perplexed silence, his hands in the pockets of his old tweed blazer.

  Daphna’s feet were falling asleep. She changed position on her knees, bumping the shelving unit in the process. The noise she made wasn’t loud, but Rash abruptly stopped laughing, snapped his eyes open and turned toward the sound. For only an instant, his eyes seemed trained directly on Daphna’s peephole, but the instant was more than long enough to make her heart quail beneath her ribs.

  It was the eyes again. They weren’t red like Emmet’s. They were much, much worse. Rash’s eyes were blank, colorless—they were dead. Yet they were also impossibly wide and piercing. Fortunately, they quickly rolled away.

  He’s blind! Daphna thought. How can someone appraise books when he can’t see them?

  Rash, his interest in the noise apparently gone, had his head back over the book again. He began to speak, this time in a carefully controlled manner. “Please, excuse my little outburst,” he said. “This—book, this book of—nonsense—may I ask where you found it?”

  Milton didn’t respond at first. Then he said, “Perhaps I should
come back another time.”

  Finally! thought Daphna.

  “No, my good man,” Rash said, smiling. “There is no other time.” Then he mouthed something again. Daphna strained to hear, assuming he was whispering, but no, there was nothing. Then Rash said, “Mr. Wax, tell me where you found the book.”

  Milton responded with no further reluctance. “In a little town in Turkey. Malatya,” he said, “in a little shop I’d never realized—”

  “Of course you did,” Rash sighed, apparently uninterested in the details. He shook his head and smiled as if at an inside joke of some kind. “Of course!” he repeated with a laugh.

  Milton looked puzzled, but said, “Is this something you might be interested in?”

  “Hmm,” Rash considered. “I’m not sure it would be of any use to me, but you’ve aroused my curiosity.”

  Daphna nodded. That’s what you’re sup- posed to do, she thought, act like you don’t re- ally want what you’re bargaining for.

  “Let me think a moment,” Rash added.

  “Certainly,” Milton said. While he waited, he twisted his carved silver wedding band around his finger. He always did that with the thumb on the same hand. But he shouldn’t be doing that now because it made him look nervous—a major no-no in negotiations. As far as Daphna knew, he hadn’t taken the ring off even once in the nearly thirteen years since her mother had died.

  Rash seemed deep in thought. He leaned back in his chair and took hold of a long, slender, but cracked, wooden cane resting against the shelf behind him. He laid it on top of his desk, making a slight smack. Daphna realized that must have been the source of the smacking sounds they’d heard in the entry room, but why would he have whacked his desk?

  The old man rolled the cane under his hand for a while, then seemed to reach a decision. He mouthed something silently again, after which he said, “You could pay me to take this book from you, but what I need more is some quality help here for a short time. My eyes are no good, and I’m sorry to say the same is now true for my increasingly worthless assistant. Is there any chance you have a bookish youngster at home?”

  “My daughter would be delighted to help!” Milton proclaimed, causing Daphna’s heart to launch into fearful palpitations. She would be horrified to help! And why was her father letting Rash negotiate to take the book? Nothing made any sense.

  “In fact,” Milton continued, making things even worse, “she’s out browsing your stacks as we speak! She’d be thrilled to help you now, I’m sure. She loves reading to old folks at the local home,” he added, but then he paused and said, “but I do have eight more books to sell at a number of other shops. It’s kind of a tradition that we do it together—I’ve been gone a while, you see—and tomorrow is her thirteenth birthday.”

  Rash flashed a mouthful of rotten yellow teeth and said, “Tomorrow would be perfect. I promise not to keep her long, and perhaps I’ll even find a gift for her here. We open at nine.”

  “She’ll be here,” Milton confirmed. Then he asked, “Do we have a deal?”

  Daphna blinked, totally baffled. The old man, she realized, hadn’t let go of the book for a second. Now he clutched it to his chest again. He mouthed something silently one more time and then said, “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Wax, but we have a deal. And you can forget all the more curious parts of the exchange we’ve had here today.”

  Milton smiled and said, “Outstanding.”

  Daphna couldn’t believe what she was witnessing. Make him pay for it! she nearly screamed, but she was upset now about too many things.

  She got to her feet and stalked back through the corridors of books feeling drained and disgusted. If that was how her father negotiated, she could understand why she’d never been allowed to watch. With surprising ease given her agitated state, Daphna found her way back to the front desk and lurched outside. Fortunately, that revolting Emmet hadn’t returned.

  It took a full twenty minutes for Milton to make it out. The moment he stepped through the door, thunder exploded directly above, and rain came down in wild sheets. Daphna and her father fumbled their way into the car as quickly as they could.

  Milton started the engine and pulled into to traffic without saying a word, which was fine by Daphna. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he drove. His brown, speckled eyes were glassy and seemed hardly to blink. Expressions of satisfaction and dissatisfaction seemed to be fighting for control of his face. It was a depressing sight—he looked like nothing more than a befuddled old man.

  Daphna was profoundly disappointed. This had been by far the worst father-daughter bookselling expedition ever. Something awful made her fear that it had also been the last

  everybody today

  Daphna was dying to ask questions. She wanted to know how her father could possibly have just given his book away and how Rash could mouth nothing at him and then order him around. But how could she ask anything without giving away the fact she’d spied? It was simple, she couldn’t.

  The more pressing concern was Rash’s request for her help. Milton hadn’t said a word about it, and they were nearly home now. Daphna wasn’t going to say or do anything to remind him, that was for sure. As they parked in the driveway behind their house, she prepared to hurry to her room.

  But just as she put her hand on the door latch, Milton said, “Let’s go sell the other books!” He shook his head as if trying to clear the fogginess in his eyes. “I forgot we put them in the trunk! We’ll come back for lunch, then grab Dex and Latty and go somewhere fun.”

  Daphna took a deep breath, then said the unthinkable. “I think I’ll take a pass on this one, Dad.” She tried her best not to look at her father’s face, but she couldn’t help it. Just as she feared, a look of wounded disbelief was deforming his already disordered features.

  “Ah, you—it—wha—” he stuttered. “But—we—ah—”

  Daphna couldn’t stand watching her father’s face droop like that, so she made up an excuse.

  “I really need to write one last letter to Wren and Teal,” she said. “They’re coming home from camp next week, and the mailman will be here soon.”

  It wasn’t a total lie. She could write a letter. It was just that their note with the camp’s address somehow hadn’t gotten to her yet.

  Eight un-mailed letters sat in her drawer— it might as well be nine. She could give them to the girls when they got home.

  Good enough.

  Daphna scurried into the house, grateful to find nobody home. She listened for Milton to head off, but he didn’t. The car just sat there, idling. Two long minutes crept by before it finally pulled away.

  Daphna skulked to her room. She’d spied on her father, then lied to him. It was like she’d become someone else today. She tried to take a nap, but wound up lying in bed, fretting for hours. To ease her conscience, Daphna did write a letter to Wren and Teal, an extra long one, which helped. After that, she managed to sleep, though fitfully.

  Just past five, Daphna woke feeling groggy and sapped. She sighed, forced herself out of bed and hurried downstairs, fully expecting to find Latty in a dither.

  Latona Pellonia, Latty, was technically Milton’s business manager, but she was much more than just that, of course. She was the Wax’s housekeeper, nanny, cook, laundress and doer of anything and everything else that needed to get done. But this wasn’t always her role. For years, she’d worked for their mother, Shimona, who owned a bookshop in a little town in Israel called Kiryat Shmona. Even though Shimona was Latty’s boss, they were best friends.

  Everything changed, however, shortly after Shimona met and married Milton and had Dex and Daphna. Shimona retired to raise the twins, but only weeks after they were born, Latty received a tip that books were hidden in some caves in Turkey that could turn the rare book world on its head. Unable to resist, Milton, Shimona and Latty all went.

  There was an earthquake.

  Milton was seriously hurt when the caves collapsed. He spent weeks in the hospital recov
ering from multiple bruises and breaks, but that was nothing compared to Shimona. She fell into a chasm and was buried by tons of falling rock. Latty was scarcely hurt at all, at least physically. She stumbled out of the caves under her own power with nothing worse than a host of ugly gashes on her legs, which was lucky because that’s why she’d been able to find help. Daphna had no memory of any of this, of course. Neither she nor Dex even remembered living in Israel because they’d moved to Oregon almost immediately after the accident.

  Latty’s real injuries were emotional. Distraught, she refused to leave the twin’s sides afterward, almost literally. She came to Portland and installed herself in the Wax household, which enabled Milton to take over his wife’s role as international book scout. She then proceeded to watch over Daphna and Dexter as if they permanently lived inside a cave ready to collapse at any moment.

  In the past, Latty’s fussing had been bearable to Daphna. It was actually nice to have someone interested in every detail of her life.

  But this past year, it had been getting harder and harder to endure. Latty had this increasingly annoying thing about needing to know where she and Dex were at all times. And that’s why she was definitely going to be in a dither.

  Daphna wasn’t sure she could handle Latty just now. She tiptoed into the kitchen and took her seat at the table. Fortunately, Latty was absorbed in preparing her specialty, a Chinese soup called Min-hun-t’ang. It was Milton’s favorite meal. She’d been out rustling up the ingredients all morning.

  When Latty finally turned and saw Daphna, her green eyes panicked. “Daph, you’re home!” she cried. “Where’s Milton? I checked the computer when I got home and saw he got in earlier, but I assumed he’d come home and taken you kids out. I was just getting worried about why you were late for dinner!”