Chapter 14
They were back, three stolid expressions I hadn’t expected, watching Grandpa’s pale one as he struggled from his car on the street.
You need to go. I saw it in Grandpa’s eyes the moment his head appeared above his car, an invisible shake as he singled me out from the faceoff between his granddaughter and the three military men in his drive.
“My car…” I said it in a gesture, pointing to mine pinned in the drive by the heavy gray vehicle the men drove. Make them go. You’ve burned everything pertaining to them.
“Go on,” Grandpa said to me, their three backs saying the same. I ran then, their faces photographs in my mind—photos I didn’t want. I ran harder and faster than I’d ever run, their three faces chasing me the two blocks from the crippled man with his military intruders to Non Bookends. From a place with carved flowers, where I wasn’t wanted, to one I didn’t want to be, with divorce.
I flew through Non Bookends’ door, the bells shrieking their violation.
“Grandma?” My voice further violated her atmosphere, too loud for her crusade. “Grandma?” I slowed, spotted her dusting Ibsen in the center of her store. “They’re back, Grandma,” I whispered, stopping at her side. “The army, and I don’t think Grandpa was expecting them this time.”
Her duster fluffed across Nora and Ibsen’s other volumes until I snatched it from her hand.
“I said they’re back, Grandma, and I want to know why. Why you can’t be there, why you didn’t expect them, and why you’d want to leave him at a time like this.”
“I told you before, Cate, he was the one expecting them, not me. He never said a thing about it until now, and all he told me was maybe I shouldn’t be around. So I’m not. I’m giving him the added space I should have years ago.”
“You know that’s not what he meant. And they shouldn’t have come back.”
“Was one a woman?”
“A woman? No. And what does that matter?” I grabbed her elbow and steered her away from the center of the store, to the front and off to one side, where there were no sofas or chairs filled with listening ears, only shelves and another of her hand-printed signs—“Medicine is my lawful wife and literature my mistress. When I am bored with one I spend the night with the other. Chekhov.”
“They were all men, Grandma.” I dropped her elbow. “Three army men, and what they said the first time wasn’t even about Grandpa but about some other officer.”
She ran a hand over her mouth as she stared at the feather duster I held onto. “I have no idea, Cate, but things could be worse.”
I leaned close but spoke louder. “This is the man who stuck up for you when they asked to see his military memorabilia. No matter what you say, Grandpa did something for you.”
“He got rid of it because of me. Not for me.”
I straightened. I stared at her as I took a step back. “I can’t do this anymore, Grandma. I’m tired. Do whatever you want. But the good things about Grandpa will still stand, things Emerson will honor when he’s a senator. Grandpa’s a hero for efforts you should never forget—he suffered, he was wounded, and he got rid of everything pertaining to his military past—for you, because they bothered you. He did it for his wife.”
“He didn’t want to get rid of those things, Cate, but he did. Because of me. Let him explain that to the army.”
“He will, then, and I’ll be there with him, if you won’t. And so will Emerson.” My voice cut through the silence that had settled over Non Bookends…a heavy hush except for the jingle of the front bells as the door opened and then closed.
“ ‘You shall judge a man by his foes as well as by his friends.’ ” Grandma’s voice rose over her newest customer’s steps. “Joseph Conrad.”
“I don’t care who said it, Grandma, or what they said. It doesn’t matter. I wish you would be a part of what’s ahead for Grandpa and for Emerson and me. But since you won’t, I’m done.”
“Pardon me.”
The accented voice interrupted the “It’s about time” I expected Grandma to store-shout at me. I watched her face, waiting for a blaze of triumph over my surrender. She could carry on without Grandpa and without my interference from now on. The intruder towered nearby as I waited, a man foolishly expecting one of us to pardon him when we could barely pardon each other.
Grandma didn’t acknowledge him, so I did, looking up into a face I’d never seen in her store before. He stood above me, a man almost as tall as my grandfather, with hair nearly the same color as what his had been. This man’s was coarser, wiry and wavy instead of straight. He held one of my grandmother’s books, lifted it for me to see—a small book nearly covered by long fingers jutting from the sleeve of a soft corduroy jacket.
“I have a question. Could you tell me who manages this store? Then you can continue with your literary discussion.” He nodded at the feather duster in my hand. “And cleaning.” His accent had a comfortable lilt, a rolling German inflection. One that brought Grandma’s brows to sharp peaks.
I pointed the duster at her. A German convert to her crusade would be the perfect icing on the cake of the war she’d just won. “She owns the store. She can help you.”
Grandma yanked the feather duster from my hand and walked away, her march stilted as she disappeared around the shelves that aired Chekov’s admission. “My grandma is apparently busy.” Busy, rude, and selfish. “But I can help you.”
“Your grandmother.” He rolled it off his tongue, an accented sentiment that was neither a statement nor a question as he stared where Grandma had gone.
“So you needed help with something?”
He waved the book in the air, but it was his eyes I noticed. Irises the color of donuts, deep rings of hazel sectioned by thin rays of gray fanning out around bottomless pupils. “Shakespeare,” he said. I looked from the steel-colored gray toward the book. “Do you only carry fiction in here? I’m interested in nonfiction. Books of local interest, in particular.”
“Yes, only fiction. No nonfiction.” Unless you’re crazy enough to believe fiction is truth, like Grandma does. I shot a glance the direction she’d gone, then looked back at a customer who would go away and a crusade she’d for some reason let slide.
The man’s gaze traveled down my clothes to my shoes, then back up to my sweat-tinged hair. “You were running to the store a moment ago. I saw you. Were you late for cleaning? Or do you think of yourself as a runner, though you are rather wenig? I mean little. German for small.” His accent was melodic, his inflection sincere, his jacket comfortable and loose, but calling me wenig sounded like an insult.
“Running is more than just legs, and like I said, we have no nonfiction.”
He raised the book higher, pinched it between two long fingers, and pointed it toward the front of the store. “I found this near the entrance.” He opened it, then searched through a few pages until he stopped. “ ‘Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.’ ” He closed the book and looked at me. “It’s underlined. It was important to someone. Did you do that?”
“Of course I didn’t mark in a book. Didn’t you say you were looking for nonfiction?”
“Yes, I prefer nonfiction, and for obvious reasons. I would underline facts, but this? No one would consider a line of fiction an adage. Would they? Would you? Is that how New Yorkers think?”
“I can’t speak for all of New York, but I can give you some suggestions of other stores you might try.” I reached for Shakespeare.
“So I would assume this store suits the local neighborhood…maybe mostly romantic sorts of customers and stories?” He held Shakespeare out of my reach.
“I’m not sure who all comes into this store, and since it’s not my store, it’s her decision what’s stocked here.” I jerked my head the direction Grandma had gone. Where I should have gone while she dealt with this man. I was done with her wars and her crusade. I was finished patching up the men she left behind. “But I can tell you she keeps no romance section here.” Not in N
on Bookends, not in my grandparents’ lives. “And no nonfiction. I’m sorry we can’t help you.” I reached for Shakespeare again.
“No romantic section?” The book moved higher.
I listened for Grandma’s voice. I needed to turn this customer over to her before I switched to my non-store voice. “I told you, no romantic section. And no nonfiction. Was there anything else?”
He lowered Shakespeare against the soft beige of his jacket. “This is an unusual store, especially for a woman and her small but fast granddaughter.”
“Grandma has her reasons for what she does in here.”
“Interesting woman. And her name would be?”
“I call her Grandma.” I extended a hand, palm up, for the book. “If there is nothing else…”
“Your patience is appreciated.” He waved Shakespeare. “I can return this to its proper place. But maybe you can help me anyway. I’m here from Deutschland…I mean, Germany…travelling and searching for an old friend that…”
Grandma appeared, drawing the accent and the hazel eyes from me to her. “So you are the owner of this store.”
I braced for her usual proud expository, followed by an excuse for my behavior instead of hers. The stony profile I’d been watching for years softened as I stood there, her face like a child’s, staring with thrill and terror at her first carnival ride. “Grandma?”
“We’re getting ready to close.”
I glanced at my watch. Grandma never closed early. “Grandma, you have customers still.”
“It’s time to close. Please lock up the back.” Grandma turned away from me and the German again. She made her way toward other customers. “We’re closing,” she explained as she went, her march broken like Grandpa’s limp. Grandpa. That had to be what was bothering her. Winning their war wasn’t as gratifying as she’d thought.
“Excuse me,” I said to the German. “Good luck finding a book somewhere. And your friend. Or whoever.”
He nodded as I left him behind.
“Grandma.” I caught up with her near Ibsen.
“Have you locked the back yet?”
“No, not yet, but I will. I want to talk to you first.”
She glanced over my shoulder where we’d been. “Lock up the back, and go on out that door when you do. I’ll get the front.”
Customers padded past, saying goodbye as they did. No one questioned Grandma. Non Bookends was always open, but Grandma was also always unique, distinctive enough no one wondered at anything she said or did, never thinking it odd. At least for her. But this was. The end of a battle had finally fractured the stone in her face.
The bells over the front door jangled a nearly continuous peal as people left. I stared toward the door, listened to it open and close, the glass of Grandma’s front window like a mirror of her emptying store.
“You never close early.” I looked back. “What we talked about back there…it must be hard for you… I mean, it’s the end of a very long…” I shrugged toward the books around us. “War.”
She looked at the books. “It’s surprising how many battles make up a war. It’s even more surprising when those battles are about to run out. The way you expected…yet didn’t.”
“Maybe what you expected isn’t what you really want. Maybe there’s a better way to end this war.”
Grandma turned at a noise behind me.
The corduroy jacket was there, working his way around fiction he wasn’t interested in, tilting his head as he studied the spines of Grandma’s books instead of leaving like he knew he should. He sidled to the end of a shelf and looked up to the border of framed somethings reflecting all around the tops of the walls. He was tall enough maybe he could see what was behind each one’s glass as he rotated a tight circle, studying each one, stopping at the ones above Grandma’s main table.
“I thought he understood we were closing.” I looked toward Grandma, but her gaze joined his to the frames above him. “Do you want me to tell him to go? It won’t be in German, but I can make it clear.”
He stood with his neck craned, one hand slipping into his trousers pocket, fidgeting as he stared above him.
“Can I, Grandma?” I waited for Grandma to tell me to go ahead. Books were closing, I could hear them being slid back into their spaces, as the last few people were leaving. The bells on the front door tingled for everyone except him. “Grandma?” I watched her. She and the German stared toward the ceiling, both looking at the darkest of the frames, the darkest and the ugliest.
The German man glanced over his shoulder at the two of us, drew his hand out of his pocket, and rolled something black in his fingers.
“Sometimes we get dragged into a war we wanted no part of,” Grandma whispered.
The German couldn’t have heard, but a war was there. And the dislike of it, too, just like she had whispered. It was time for him and his battles to go elsewhere. We had enough of our own.
“You’d best be going,” I called to the German. “We’re closing. There are larger bookstores closer to downtown. You’ll find what you’re looking for there.”
With a last glance upward, he returned the black lump to his pocket and walked to the front of the store.
“He’s already found what he’s looking for,” Grandma whispered.
“He was looking for nonfiction.”
Grandma shook her head. “That only means he was looking for truth.”
I gazed toward the front, where the man in the corduroy jacket had disappeared. I listened for the bells. “And you’re thinking he could find it here in your fiction.”
“I hope not,” she continued in a whisper. “Or maybe I hope so.”
“Oh, my gosh, here he comes again.” I watched the German man approach. Legs as long as Grandpa’s, walking our way—smooth, no limp, determined in his stride.
“I’ve decided to buy this after all.” He held Shakespeare up, toward Grandma instead of me. “Someone has underlined a phrase about running.” He watched my grandmother. “I’m not complaining, though. As I told your granddaughter, I’m looking for an old friend. A runner, it happens. Such a coincidence. The underlining will always make me think of your store.” He tipped his head at me. “And you, little runner.”
Chapter 15
Little runner? I heard the wenig in the way he said it. Grandma must have also felt the sting; it was in her hands and how they shook. I waited for a nasty retort as she took the book, pressed it against her stomach, and led the tall German to her table.
I continued to wait as Grandma wrote his ticket and made the wrong change. The man stood over her table saying nothing, his hazel rings watching each coin as she recounted. She handed him the bag with his book, minus the usual bookmark touting Non Bookends inside.
“Danke.” He nodded at her, then swiveled my way. He studied me from head to toe, then left, the front bells at long last tinkling his exit.
“I don’t know how you stood it, Grandma. Thank God he is gone.”
She stared forward as if the man were still in front of her, focused on the empty space across her table.
“He’s gone, Grandma. He was horrible, but he’s gone.” I stepped behind the table and touched her shoulder with my fingertips. My mother would envy this sort of rare contact; probably Grandpa would too.
Grandma didn’t move, didn’t shrug off my hand. “Maybe wars never really end just because there’s a winner and a loser. What about the wounded? Will the pain eventually stop?”
“I have to admit he had some sort of chip on his shoulder, but he’s in no war with us. He’s someone else’s problem. I hope he finds his friend or whoever he’s looking for and goes back to Germany. Soon.” I gave the front of the store one last look and listened to the silence. “Your war is done, Grandma. And it can be in a peaceful way.” I turned to her. “That’s what’s really bothering you. You can lay it aside and start again, with Grandpa or without him, but trust me, you should begin again with him.”
“ ‘Love and war are the sam
e.’ Cervantes was right. He’s brought them both to our door.”
“Cervantes did?”
“No. Your grandfather. Please lock up. I must lie down.”
I watched the back of her, the near stagger that took her to her little home-away-from-home. When the slight click from her door came and went, I locked up, front and back, and then I ran—ran from what she said about my grandfather, about love and war being the same and at our door because of him. Grandma was wrong…still. There was plenty of war, but it had all been hers. It also belonged to the three military men I’d left Grandpa alone with too long. What they brought wasn’t ours.
I ran hard. The military men were in the drive as I neared my grandparents’ house. I slowed to a trot and watched my grandfather hobbling behind them toward their car, his cane like the only leg he trusted.
“We can send someone for you.” One of the men turned my grandfather’s way as I walked into the drive. None of them looked at me as I stopped behind their car.
“That won’t be necessary,” my grandfather answered. He stood still and straightened as he addressed the man speaking to him. “I’ll be there.”
“Very good.” All three climbed into their car. I was invisible to them. Their car started up. I looked through the wide back window, then stepped to the side, moving into the grass opposite my grandfather. Grandpa deflated to his regular posture as the car inched backward between us. His fine white hair, visible over the car’s top, fell over his forehead as the car eased out of his drive. Then it was just the two of us as the car shifted gears and disappeared down the street.
Grandpa stared at the ground, propped up by one hand on the cane, his free hand threading long fingers through the white strands that fell back where they’d been. I watched the streaks of off-colored skin appear then disappear near his cuff. What more could the army want from him? Hadn’t the service cost him enough?
Your grandfather brought both to our door. This was McCoy’s war at our door, not Grandpa’s. And love? It was in the carved flowers he’d surely made, or at least admired enough to keep. In the way he told Emerson to hold on to me. In the scars that hinted of a man with heart enough to suffer. In destroying what mattered to Grandma. Grandpa was wounded love.
Out of Splinters and Ashes Page 8