The Book of Eleanor

by Nat Burns

  She ignored me, but I think it was more curiosity about the noises coming from a nearby hotel than her being miffed at me.

  “I’ll be back. Stay put and be good.”

  She looked at me finally, her eyes made golden by the harsh sunlight. She blinked slowly.

  Taking this as permission. I slipped my flats from my feet and held them in both hands as I strode onto the hot sand, leaving the towering hotels behind me. I was grateful for the scorch of the sand against my tender feet, which woke senses numbed for the past six months.

  I glanced left and right, surprised to see only a handful of beach-goers. The lakes I had frequented in the Dallas area were usually packed shoulder–to–shoulder, even this early in the spring, so the lack of crowds was a refreshing change.

  Looking back at my car parked close by in the small, beach access lot, I mentally noted the proximity and walked left, my route moving diagonally toward the water. Roiling waves pounded the sand, which had cooled considerably beneath the soles of my feet. Foam peppered my clothing as I pushed toward the waves, and the rampant, unceasing wind snatched wildly at my unbound hair. I walked a long time in wide, elliptical circles, my mind blank, simply reacting to the environment. Gulls begged loudly above me, and some brave fellows even walked haphazardly beside me, as though I were simply hiding food from them as a tease.

  A rebel wave soaked the hem of my jeans, and I paused.

  I closed my eyes, battling vertigo as I experienced fully the magnitude of the new life I was making for myself. I realized that this place of water perfectly reflected my emotional turmoil. Me, who had real problems trusting others, had, after many years, let down my walls of emotional isolation and loved fully.

  Mary had been taken from me brutally, as suddenly as my mother almost two decades earlier. How does one come back from that new betrayal? What kind of cruel universe would allow me to open my wounded self, allow me to lay down my arms, and then attack me anew? My bitterness rankled.

  It had been hard selling our home, but harder still to stay there, expecting to find Mary glancing up at me in every room I entered. I was lucky and sold the house quickly, packing what I felt I had to keep, and selling or donating the rest of my old life.

  Letting go of Mary’s things was not easy. Both her sisters came over while I was closeted in my office working, and thankfully, they handled the bulk. I kept just one of her shirts in the office with me. It still smelled like her, peppery and fierce.

  Mary had worked for a company called Fellingworth Art which created and choreographed beautiful firework displays. Pyrotechnics, she called them. I regret to say I never really learned very many details about her job during our ten years living together. She would leave home in the morning, all dewy from her shower, and come home in the evenings grubby and smelling spicy from something she called black powder.

  Though I loved going to the many fireworks displays we attended, the points of light on Mary are what fascinated me the most. I will always remember that about her.

  The first time I saw this side effect of her job, we’d only been dating about two weeks. We had arranged to meet at a local bar where our mutual friend, Carmen, was performing her stand-up comedy routine. I got there first and cribbed a good table, stage side. I talked with Carmen while I waited, standing between Carmen and the table, and glancing impatiently toward the front door.

  Time passed. Carmen left to go backstage, and then, just as the lights dimmed for the show and the spotlights came up, Miss Mary Leigh Banks entered the club. It was the first time I’d seen her come directly from work and I was awed by her beauty.

  Although I made out her form, clad in her usual T-shirt and jeans, the metals and chemicals she worked with had created a shimmering cloak of iridescence over her body that took my breath away. Each movement as she crossed the room toward me held me entranced. I could not take my gaze away.

  When she approached even closer, I saw that metal powder exquisitely framed her sparkling brown eyes, nestling into and defining each laugh line. Her mouth and cheekbones bore a similar outline. I leaned into her, wishing to take some of that beauty for myself.

  Our lips met in our second real kiss as we fell into our seats. I felt Mary’s dynamic energy fill me. Was that when I fell in love with her? Maybe. The falling into love was such a gradual, natural thing that it would be hard to pinpoint.

  I do know that the next ten years with her would define my life in a brand-new way. Oddly enough, even after her passing, my life was still changing.

  Though Mary’s sisters helped me deal with the dispersion of most of her possessions, they had not wanted her books. Younger sister Elizabeth wasn’t interested. Not surprising since she lives in a small studio apartment in downtown Cedar Springs and works as a busy bankruptcy lawyer. Brynna, the eldest, hemmed and hawed a bit, but eventually asked me to do something with them, perhaps sell them if I could. She did pick out two favorite books that she and Mary had read as children. That still left thousands of volumes for me to deal with.

  I paused in my frantic strides on the beach, remembering the first time I’d walked into Mary’s library after her death. The room had felt so strange without her in it. She loved books. No, understand me, she loved books like most people love air.

  I take that back. Air is taken for granted, and Mary would never take a book for granted. Each volume was like a beloved child to her. She knew its name and history without a moment’s hesitation. She had collections by specific authors that she liked or stood in awe of, and the books ranged through every genre and every time period. The author collections not only decorated her shelves with hardback first editions, but also trade paperbacks and even cheaply made imports from other countries. She had them all. One of her favorite pastimes was browsing through used bookstores.

  It used to annoy me, I admit it. No matter where we were or what we were doing, if there was a bookstore nearby, Mary was in it. She even had her entire collection listed in her BlackBerry, with an additional list of the books she needed to buy to round out her various sub-collections. I can’t begin to list the stores I waited outside, reading to pass the time yet growing ever more impatient. I sincerely regret that impatience. Especially now that I am alone and have so many empty hours to fill, knowing she won’t return to me.

  I may have been able to let go of most of Mary’s things but her beloved books...well, I found it impossible to let them go in one fell swoop to some anonymous dealer—a type of guilt, or maybe an apology, I suppose. Thus, I was forced to spend a lot of time pondering what to do with, and how to evaluate, several thousand valuable books.

  I wasn’t as big a reader as Mary, nor loved the books for their very essence as she had. I did want to keep them close, though. I felt I could, over time, use them in some mysterious way as payback for having been allowed to keep her presence in my life for as long as I did.

  After stopping for coffee while running errands one day in Dallas, I’d been surprised to find books scattered around the coffeehouse. I realized it was a reading room as well as a coffee shop. People came in and read while having coffee, but left the books behind where they belonged. I decided such a business would be a perfect venue, providing a way for other book lovers to appreciate and enjoy Mary’s collection. She would have been pleased. So the idea for Mary’s Bookmark, a combined coffeehouse and reading room, was born.

  It was a great way to invest Mary’s money as well. I was suddenly and unexpectedly wealthy because Mary, bless her heart, had—unbeknownst to me—named me as beneficiary on her life insurance and retirement accounts at work. In addition, Fellingworth Art generously included me in the customary accidental death benefit they paid to Mary’s sisters. Mary and I had been together openly almost eleven years, and they knew we were our own small family.

  I think they were actually afraid I would sue them because of the way Mary died. The thought never even crossed my mind until my friend Tara mentioned it. Sure, Fellingworth should have never let a novice empl
oyee set two of the charges, but Mary saved his life and that was why she had died that day. Her heroism killed her, not the company’s negligence. I would never sully that heroism with a lawsuit.

  So I, who had always made a successful living on my own, bolstered by a small nest egg for security, now had the task of managing more than a million dollars. I stared at a trio of shrimpers out on the horizon where crystal blue sky met dusky water. I was a millionaire. A millionaire without my partner.

  I walked on, following the looping path I had worn in the sand.

  My new plan called for a changed life. Wanting heat and light, I had scoured the Florida area for property. I wanted a place that would combine business and living areas, since I had always worked from home, but I found nothing suitable. Property of any kind is hard to find in the massive population of southern Florida. The hurricane issue frightened me as well.

  The next step was to explore southern Texas. I was somewhat familiar with the area because Mary and I had once vacationed at South Padre Island and fallen in love with the place. I worried that its rural nature would never support a reading room-café combination, but decided I just didn’t care. I wanted to live near the water surrounded by what was left of Mary.

  Finding the property next to the Port Isabel Lighthouse in Lighthouse Square had been a real stroke of luck. Ruetta Torres, the elderly proprietor of a huge gift shop, had been letting her business go to care for her terminally ill husband. I contacted her realtor, Maddy Henchen, looking for business frontage, just two days after Ruetta finalized her decision to sell.

  That same day, I received an e-mail from Maddy, and we both decided it was simply meant to be. Ruetta sold the gift store stock to another business owner, and I bought the huge, empty store with rudimentary living quarters in the back. I hadn’t seen it yet, only in photographs provided by Maddy, but the space seemed different enough from my previous home to provide the change I sought.

  I looked at my phone to check the time, and then glanced toward the car. I sighed, knowing Oscar Marie would give me grief for leaving her so long in this unfamiliar place. Plus, I had arranged to meet Maddy at the store for a tour of the property and to get the keys, and it was almost time.

  Reluctant to leave the solitude of the beach and my rambling thoughts, I turned and walked back to my car and to my new life at Lighthouse Square.

  Angie

  “So anyway, I turned to go through the dining room and that’s when Hasty dumped me on her.”

  Melvin laughed and took another huge bite of pizza. “I’m just glad to have it at all, late or not,” he said, his voice almost obliterated by the large bolus of food. Obviously, his mama had never taught him it was impolite to talk with his mouth full. “I was starvin’.”

  We sat behind the South Padre Island Conference Centre, perched on a concrete wall. The architect hired by the city of South Padre to design the new center had been a master of his art. The curved design of the building and environs made it feel as though the ocean and building were one. On the back side, where we rested, huge concrete abutments mimicked the arced wings of a gull, and the actual wall on which we sat bowed all the way toward the bay in a graceful slide of smooth, white concrete. On the bay side of the island, where the walls fetched up, the water was quieter and the wildlife active in the shallows.

  I knew that from the front, the extensive footprint of the center was low in profile and appeared much smaller than its actual size. Inside, the large convention center boasted forty-five thousand square feet of meeting space, including smaller rooms and an expansive exhibit hall.

  One front wall, bearing the huge, colorful mural Orcas off the Gulf of Mexico painted in 1994 by artist Robert Wyland, seemed to shout the structure’s importance on a global scale. This whaling wall, number fifty-three of the one hundred whaling walls painted by Wyland, featured sea creatures from killer whales to flying fish. It also featured several tarpon, the signature fish for South Padre Island. One of my favorite downtime activities was to study the wall seeking fish the artist had hidden behind outcroppings of rock and seaweed.

  The entire bright yellow and cobalt center appeared sleek and modern, and was modern with state-of-the-art media equipment in its half dozen conference spaces.

  On one side stretched a huge parking lot that sloped toward the water while the other side offered a birding and nature center with wooden walkways spanning marshland and shoreline rich with island flora and fauna.

  Another of my favorite pastimes was losing myself for hours in the wildlife area. I would go often during the off-season, the high heat of summer, when I would have the preserve to myself. Ally, the resident alligator, and I had become fast friends. I would share all the peccadilloes of my life while she basked on the shoreline or in the marsh grass, listening with endless patience. Mama never missed the chicken cubes I filched from the walk-in either. I believe all therapists should be paid, one way or another.

  It was peaceful here on the back terrace, with gulls circling lazily overhead and the sun brightened blue of the bay soothing my senses. I reclined back against the wall, my legs and arms dangling comically over both sides, and listened as Melvin chewed.

  I thought about my sad woman. I envisioned our romance, our life together as a couple. Was she as fun-loving as me? Would she adore Mama and eagerly become part of our little family? Would I love her family? I wondered if she had a father. I never had and was insatiably curious about all father and daughter relationships.

  “So who is she?” Melvin asked, swiping at his mouth with a balled-up napkin.

  “Just my future wife.” I felt his eyes on me. “Oh, give it up, Mel. You know damn good and well how I am. Don’t give me any crap,” I muttered, laying a forearm across my eyes.

  “Yeah, I get all that, but how can you be sure she feels the same way?”

  I envisioned the heavy scowl of confusion that no doubt rested on his dark, mustachioed face. I ignored the question, as usual. There was no explanation. You’d think these people, who had known me the whole of my life, would understand that by now.

  “I wish I knew her name. She’s beautiful. A natural blonde, like me, but way pretty.”

  “If she’s your future wife, where is she?” Melvin asked pointedly. “Is she even here for good or is she just a Winter Texan?”

  I chewed my bottom lip, relishing the late afternoon sun on my face. “Now that’s a good question. Trust you to bring it up.”

  Melvin laughed. We’d been friends since primary school. He was one of the few who didn’t fear me or scorn me. In fact, he was one of only three people who would stand up to me and shove me back on the reality track when I veered south of it.

  “I don’t know. I was washing up, so I watched her from the bathroom window when she got in her car and left. Texas tags. She looked so cute carrying her big to-go bag.” I smiled at the memory.

  Melvin sighed. “Man, you got it bad. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “I’ve never felt like this,” I replied, swinging my legs over and sitting up. “Guess I’m finally in love.”

  I studied my worn athletic shoes, thinking about the impact this would have on my life. Was I up for the emotional involvement, for the extreme caring that being in love required? Could I expose myself to someone new and let them know how truly strange I really am?

  A glob of dried mozzarella clung to one of my shoes. Seeing it reminded me of the day’s fiasco and I cringed. I used the toe of the other sneaker to push the crusty cheese off onto the sidewalk. It rested there, shaped curiously, as if eyeing me with disbelief.

  “What about Cathy?” Melvin asked. He picked green pepper slices off the pie and munched them like candy.

  “We’ve been done for months. Why?”

  “She still has it for you. And you can’t tell me you don’t know that.”

  I nodded slowly. Cathy was certainly wonderful enough, and our years together had been pleasant. I’d woken one morning, however, and felt her next to me. R
eally felt her on that deeper level. I realized I was using her, and she was using me. I had been going for a type of acceptance because being with her pulled me into her small network of island lesbians, a somewhat normal place where I wanted to belong. Cathy’s life with me provided financial help and allowed her to be part of the sick sort of fame I possessed here.

  “You know, we never made love after that first month. I mean hardly ever. It just wasn’t important to her. All the passion went away, I guess. On her part.” I stood and straightened my shorts. They had bunched up while I wriggled on the concrete wall.

  Melvin tossed a half-eaten slice of green pepper into the box with a huge show of disgust. “Way too much info, Ange.”

  I laughed at his expression, determined to give him a hard time. “This one though, I can tell, we’re gonna be so hot together.” I licked my lips and lifted my eyebrows suggestively.

  “Okay, lunch is over,” Melvin said, closing the pizza box and moving with unusual speed. He lifted his bottle of soda and moved toward the back entrance of the convention center.

  I laughed and leapt to grab his arm. “Hey, you gotta pay me for that! Tip me good too, so I can take my new lady love out on the town.”

  Melvin groaned but managed to juggle pizza box and bottle and fish out his money clip at the same time. He made as if he wasn’t going to tip me, just handing over cash for the pie, but ended up laying a ten on me. He winked. I leaned to kiss the end of his nose.

  “Later, dude,” I said as I headed around the building, shoving the cash into the front pocket of my shorts.

  Grey

  Maddy Henchen was much smaller than she sounded on the phone. I towered over her at my five-foot-eight height and probably outweighed her by twenty-five pounds. I had expected her to be in her sixties, but certainly not as energetic and perky as she appeared. It seemed her powder blue track suit and white athletic shoes were not just a fashion statement.