by Sam Starbuck
"They believe a lot of strange things out in the country. Ever seen a dowser work?"
"No, but I'd like to."
"I can't really approve of that kind of thing."
"Really?" he asked, looking interested. "Why not?"
"Well, it's silly, it seems that way to me. I mean, I'm as ignorant as the next man about the mysterious workings of the universe, but I don't believe in crystals and talking to bees and stuff."
He smiled a little. "It sounds interesting, though."
"I like sources and facts."
"And now you run a bookstore. Kind of fitting."
"I like to think so."
"I actually came in for something yesterday, then forgot about it," Lucas said awkwardly, into the silence that followed.
"Oh? What can I help you with?"
"I need to order a book. It's kind of uncommon, I was hoping you knew where I could find a copy."
"Do you mind getting it used?"
"I don't think you'll find it any other way. It isn't in print anymore." He took a sheet of tightly-folded paper out of an inside pocket of his coat and opened it, smoothing out the creases before passing it across the counter to me. There was a title, an author, a date and a publishing house. Enclosed in the paper was a photograph as well. Dark blue, hard-cover, and rather small.
"It has some interesting illustrations," he said, as if to explain away why he needed it. "I used some of them as models when I was in school."
"Models? Are you an artist?"
"Not really," he replied. I looked down at his hands and saw that there were calluses on the inside edges of his forefingers and thumbs, and that the cuticles of his fingertips were discolored with paint stains. "I'd like to get it before real winter sets in. I didn't think I'd need a copy of my own – that's a copy I took out of the library in the city, that photograph – but now I think I will."
"No problem. I'll put the order in today and we'll see if we can't get it before the roads close again," I answered. "Is that the only one? If you order a few at once, it saves on postage."
"Does it?" He looked down at the photograph thoughtfully. "Yes – whoever you buy it from, ask if she has other volumes she'd recommend as companions."
"Or he," I said with a smile.
"Or he," he agreed. A little too quickly, looking back.
"Any price limit?"
"Well, the book shouldn't cost much, it's not that valuable," he said. "That and one or two recommendations. Before postage and whatever fees you charge."
"That's a decent budget," I said, making a note of it on the paper he'd given me.
"I like books," he answered. I saw a fleeting grin cross his face before he adjusted the strap of the bag he was carrying on his shoulder. "Looks like the rain's letting up, doesn't it?"
I glanced out the window. "Some, yes. Heading home?"
"I should, as long as there's no lightning."
"Dowsing is probably fun, but getting struck by lightning isn't," I agreed. "I'll call around about the book. Want me to call you when I know?"
"No," he said, glancing around the shop. "I'll be in town pretty regularly, I'll check in."
"Your tutoring," I guessed.
"Yeah. He's doing well," he added. "I should go. Thanks, Christopher."
"My pleasure. Safe journey, Lucas."
He smiled a little, thanked me again, and walked out into the street, where the rain was nothing more than a light drizzle and the sun was even threatening to emerge.
***
"Christopher, I've been thinking," Marjorie said, when I called to ask her about ordering the book for Lucas. "I keep planning to lure or berate you back to the city, but so far it hasn't worked and I'm beginning to blame myself for you moving away in the first place."
"Jeez, what brought that on?" I asked. "By the way, thirteen down, yesterday's paper – five letters, pounding tool."
"Anvil. Bad clue."
"Yeah," I said, copying it into the crossword.
"The thing is," she said, as I wrote, "I remember telling you that you should buy a bookstore because you'd only really be happy if you were around books."
"Pretty good advice," I said.
"I think so. But I guess it was some sort of chivalry, you didn't want to compete with me in the city, so you moved to the country."
I must have been busy gaping at the telephone, because she continued before I could reply.
"I know that's not the only reason, but don't you think three years is long enough? Not that I'm in total agreement with your friends, but still. I don't know why you're punishing yourself."
"Punishing myself, Marjorie? Does that sound like me?"
"I don't know, dear. Not normally, but maybe over how things were with your father, those last few years."
"We were okay. It's not like he disinherited me. I bought Dusk Books with the money he left me."
"Yes, I seem to recall him warning you not to spend it all in one place. Which, sullen child, you did."
"Not all of it. I still have some savings."
"Don't change the subject. You can't bury yourself in obscurity all your life, Christopher."
I gathered my wits about me and managed a startled laugh. "Marjorie, I'm not punishing myself! I'm happy here. I like the quiet life."
"I don't see how you can be. Don't you starve for stimulation?"
"I have books."
There was a sigh on the other end of the telephone line. "You are stubborn, Christopher. You fight life too much."
"Believe me," I said, setting the crossword aside, "fighting is the last thing on my mind."
"It seems like such a wasteland though."
"You'd be surprised. You should come to see me, Marjorie."
"I'm afraid I'll never leave Chicago," she said.
"Well, I'll have to come visit you then. In the meantime, I need a book."
There was an amused snort. "I don't know if I can help you with that, Christopher."
"Very funny. It's for a friend, so don't tease me about finally discovering the mystical in life."
"I wouldn't dream of it. What friend is this?"
"He just moved here, used to live in the city. I think you'd like him. He's sort of an odd duck."
"Oh?"
"He's good at hiding. Anyway, he asked if I'd dig up an out-of-print title. You ready?"
"Of course," she said, sounding mildly insulted.
"It's called Ancient Games. It's a book about folklore," I added, and gave her the author and publisher. "Plus he'd like recommendations – companion pieces, that kind of thing."
"I think I know who to call. I'll give you a call when everything's assembled. Is there anything else you'd like from the city? I don't think fast food would keep, but then you never know what preservatives they load it up with."
I considered for a moment. The city does have some comforts that one misses, having grown up there. Nightclubs at midnight, food stands at three am, and all my accompanying sins came back to haunt me. Loud music, dim bars, the elevated trains, the bitter cold canyon-effect where the winds cut through the gaps between high downtown buildings, chilling any exposed skin down to the bone. My apartment building, my office building. The hospital.
"No," I said. "There's nothing else I need."
"So long as you're sure. You only need to call, Christopher."
"Thank you, Marj. Save the receipts and send them on."
I could picture her smiling on the other end of the telephone. "You miss the ephemera. I see. Goodbye."
"Thanks again."
Marjorie had never failed to find a book, and I knew to expect the package in pretty short order. I had thought that would probably be the end of it, since the book Lucas had asked for didn't look particularly expensive. I imagined the next communication from her would be in the form of a letter, shoved inside a book so the post-office wouldn't notice it when it shipped media-mail.
Instead, I had a telephone call two days after I placed the order.
<
br /> "Christopher, it's Marjorie," she said, the line crackling and popping behind her voice.
"Are you on a payphone?" I asked.
"Worse – my cellular."
"Oh, Marjorie."
"I know – I'm ashamed of me too, but I had to crack and get one. Anyway, this isn't the kind of thing I could borrow a phone for."
"Why? What's the matter?"
"Well, I've found a source for the book you're after, but she's...eccentric."
"God, no."
"Yep, one of those. The whole place reeks of cigarette smoke."
"I'm so sorry to send you there, Marj."
"Well, we all make sacrifices for literature. That isn't the problem. I assume your client can handle a little smell."
"He doesn't seem picky. What's the problem?"
"She won't sell unless she talks to you. She says she doesn't sell to just anyone and that she wants to see what you're made of first. I didn't tell her it was for a customer of yours."
"Thank you. Should I call her?"
"Well, I'm standing outside the shop now – I can put her on the phone with you."
"I'll owe you my soul."
"I don't want it second-hand from the devil, you'll have to owe me something else."
I laughed. "Go ahead, put her on."
There was a loud staticky sound, the slam of a door, and then a querulous voice on the other end of the line. "Who is this?"
"Ma'am, my name's Christopher Dusk. You've been speaking to my friend Marjorie, I'm the one who asked her for help. You have a copy of a title I'm looking for, I think?"
"I own it."
"So I'm told. I understand you have some reservations about selling?"
"I do! I do, young man," she said. Her voice rose and feel creakily. "What do you want this book for?"
"Well, ma'am, to be honest, I had it recommended to me."
"By who?"
I drummed my fingers on the counter. "An old friend of mine. If you'd rather not sell, I won't try to make you. It's just that they said it was a great book, and I wanted to read it myself. I'm a voracious reader – always looking for different sorts of things to read," I said, hoping I sounded convincing.
"Are you an artist?"
"A....what? No, ma'am, I'm – " I hesitated for only a split second before plunging ahead, "I'm a roofer, ma'am."
"A what?"
"A roofer – you know. Shingles, tar, that kind of thing."
She hemmed to herself thoughtfully, muh, muh, muh.
I thought of the way Lucas had phrased his request – ask if she has other volumes she'd recommend as companions. As if he knew the trouble I'd run into, and who I'd run into it with.
"If you're worried I can't afford it..." I left the words dangling in the air.
"Money on the spot," the woman said. "Cash."
"Of course – Marjorie will pay for it there and ship it to me. I live outside the city."
"Aha."
"You wouldn't happen to have any other books that you think would go well with it?"
There was another loud noise, and I was abruptly cut off. I stared down at the phone, then hung up and stared at it some more. It rang again five minutes later.
"Marjorie?" I asked, picking up the receiver.
"Well, whatever you said must have been the right thing – I have book in hand, or rather in bag."
"Did she put any other books in with it?"
"Not unless you count an incredibly aged and fragrant bookmark. You must be very fond of this young man."
"He's a customer, that's all."
"Huh. Christopher, this phone is giving me brain cancer as we speak. I'm going to hang up now."
"I'll look forward to that package," I said, and the line went dead for the second time.
Unfortunately for me and for Lucas, the first thunderstorm wasn't an isolated incident. That week there were three more, and I doubted he'd trekked out from The Pines in the rain just to get to my shop. Even if there hadn't been any lightning, the dirt roads outside of town saturated until they couldn't hold any more water. They turned into mud, then into a kind of filthy swamp, and then into quick-flooding murky pools. The field between The Pines and Low Ferry became a water meadow and soon enough the real roads began to wash out too. The mail was held up for a week solid. It was getting colder and it looked as though we would have snow for Halloween, as I'd thought.
When the mail finally did arrive, so did my package, damp on the outside but in relatively good condition. Charles brought it down from the post office, with Carmen on his heels – he'd sweet-talked her into helping him on her day off, while her boyfriend was watching Clara.
"Postmaster said I could play mailman," he said, as he deposited the damp box and sodden letters on my counter. "Thought I'd save him from lugging it around this afternoon."
"He'll have enough trouble when people see things like this," I said, holding up the bundle of wet paper. I carefully cut off the rubber band and peeled it apart page by page – advertisement, bank statement, advertisement, advertisement, credit-card offer, advertisement.
"Vital affairs of state?" he asked, as I picked up a wrinkled free-coupon booklet by one corner.
"I could save twenty cents on three boxes of pasta," I said, tilting my head at it. "If I took the train to Chicago and bought them there, anyway. I think I'll pass. You both look like you've been through the wars," I added, indicating his wet coat and her muddy shoes. "Can I get you something hot to drink?"
"Charles is going to buy me something at the cafe for helping him out," Carmen replied. "But I wanted to see you first. Did you hear about Jacob?"
"No, what about him?" I asked, dropping the worst of the wet mail into the trash.
"Skidded out on the road trying to get into town," Charles said.
"What?" I blinked at them. "Is he okay?"
"He's fine, Kirchner patched him up. Startled more than anything, I think," Charles said. "Nothing broken, but his truck's in the shop. Might be there for a while, cars aren't cheap to fix."
"Passing the plate on Sunday for him?" I asked, opening the cash register. Charles nodded, and I handed him what I could spare.
"He'll be all right," Carmen said. "Moneywise, I mean, in a few months. His oldest is sending some back from the city. But," she added, grinning at me, "he had to borrow Michael's pickup until his is fixed up."