The Pages of Her Life

by James L. Rubart

  twenty-two

  THE DOOR OPENED ON WELL-OILED hinges, and Carl waved Allison inside. He flipped a switch that bathed the shop with a low level of light.

  “Ms. Moore, I deduce.”

  “Yes. Allison. Thanks for seeing me.”

  “Pleasure. My apologies for not having the lights on when you arrived. It couldn’t be helped.”

  “Why couldn’t it—”

  “Now, if you like, let’s scuttle back to my office and have a look at what you’ve brought.”

  Carl spun and snaked back through the tables, starting on the opposite side of the room on the way back. Allison followed him at a slow pace, giving her a chance to glance at the shelves and tables. They were packed and stacked with ancient-looking books as well as newer ones, mostly old maps with worn corners and artwork, and jewelry that looked handmade. Odd was the best way to describe the collection. The name of the store and the description on the wooden sign were apropos.

  When they reached Carl’s office, he offered Allison a chair under a brass diving helmet attached to the wall.

  “You don’t care for tea, do you?”

  “I love tea, but I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Good. I don’t have any.”

  Carl laughed at his own joke with great enthusiasm, and Allison offered a polite smile.

  “Now that hospitality has been attended to, let us take your journal and give it a cursory examination.”

  Allison reached inside her coat and brought out the journal she’d stopped by the house to grab. She hesitated for an instant, then handed it to Carl. He reached out with both hands to take the book and cradled it like a robin’s egg. He brought it up close to his face and smelled the leather.

  “My, my, isn’t this interesting?” Carl said, far more to himself than to Allison.

  Carl set it delicately on his desk and stared at it from all angles, holding each gaze for at least ten seconds. Then he turned it over and studied the back. Finally he unwound the wide leather cord around the journal and pulled back the cover. He ran his fingers on top of the first page as if stroking a rose petal. Then he took the cover and rubbed it between thumb and finger. Bent down and smelled the leather for a second time. A quick search through his right desk drawer produced a large magnifying glass, and he ran it along the top of the inside cover, then did the same along the inside of the back cover.

  “Yes, yes. It’s there.” He stared at the journal with awe in his eyes, then turned and said, “You have no idea what you have here, do you?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  Carl’s only response was to nod and say, “Hmm.”

  After another minute, he glanced up at Allison as he pointed at the journal. “May I? The final test, to be certain.”

  “Certain?”

  “To be certain the journal is what I think it is.”

  Allison assumed he intended to look through the pages of the journal. She nodded. With one quick motion, Carl pulled matches from his desk drawer, lit one, and held it under the leather.

  Allison lurched forward and knocked Carl’s hand away. The match fell to the floor.

  “What are you doing?”

  Carl’s face was puzzled. “I asked. You nodded your acquiescence.”

  “No. No!” She glared at him. “To open the pages, yes. Not to burn it!”

  “I see. My apologies for the misunderstanding.” He lifted the journal and studied the spot where he’d held the flame. “No mark. Not a surprise. There’s no need to place flame against it again.”

  “I’m so comforted.”

  “Good. Good.”

  “Why would you burn it?”

  “Burn it?” He looked at her, sincere confusion on his face. “I would never do that.”

  “You were starting to do exactly that.”

  “No, what I was doing was confirming what I already knew to be true.”

  “Which is?”

  “This leather.” Carl tapped it with his forefingers. “It is not common. It’s been treated with a substance that prevents it from being damaged by fire, by water, by mold.”

  “It’s indestructible?”

  “No. Not completely. The pages can be torn with some effort. And it could be charred with fire, I suppose, if hot enough. It would have to be quite hot. And it certainly could be damaged by water with significant exposure. But it is highly resistant.”

  Carl closed the two overlapping covers, then opened the journal again. He turned to Allison, a question in his eyes.

  “What?” Allison asked.

  “May I look through its pages?”

  Allison hesitated. She didn’t want him reading her entries, but there were only two, and if he lingered she could encourage him to move along. “Sure.”

  Carl opened it, seemed to read the poem, but only glanced at Allison’s entries. Then he riffled the rest of the pages quickly, closed the journal, and handed it back to Allison.

  “This is astonishing. Truly.” Carl leaned back in his chair, hands folded across his gaunt stomach. He seemed to be studying an ancient-looking map on the wall next to the door. “Who else knows about the journal?”

  “No one.”

  “No one?”

  “My mom. My brother. The guy who gave it to me. And the guy I saw talking to him. Richard.”

  “Gave it to you?”

  Allison told the story of how she wound up with the journal. When she finished, Carl nodded and said to himself, “Yes, that’s the way it would be, wouldn’t it?”

  She peered at him, at the funny look on his face. Carl turned to her and rubbed his lower teeth on his upper lip.

  “‘The way it would be’?” Allison asked.

  He picked up the journal and turned it over and over, his expression now that of a boy delighted by what he’d found.

  “I believed they existed, I believed that part, but I don’t think I ever really believed the second part. That adjunct was simply legend. Still might not be factual. We’ll have to find out, won’t we?”

  “Carl?”

  “However, even if it is fraudulent, it is still a remarkable moment to hold a hoax of this magnitude. Few people know about them—the narrative, that is. But of course I do, which is why Parker sent his sister to me—”

  “Carl!”

  He shook his head and flashed her an irritated look as if she’d awakened him from a sound sleep.

  “Yes, what is it?” He blinked.

  “The journal. What is it? Please.”

  “Oh. Right. Yes, of course.” He rubbed his hands together and leaned forward. “There is a legend, quite a fascinating legend. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Yes,” Allison said through a forced smile.

  “Well then, let me share it with you.” Carl rubbed his hands together. “The legend says that five hundred years back, an aging monk was led by God into the mountains to pray, to listen, to hear what the last—and greatest—work of his life would be. After three days he heard the voice of God, who told him to create seven journals, each the same and each different. The same because the design, the way the leather was cured and tanned, the paper inside, would be as close to identical as possible. Different because on the cover of each journal a differing image would be carved.”

  He paused and rubbed his finger over the journal. “One of the images was the Tree of Life.”

  “Are you saying—”

  “After the journals were finished, the monk placed them in a thick wooden box and mentioned them to no one, for God had told him to keep their existence a secret. They were discovered upon his death. A note written in the monk’s hand lay atop the journals. The note said, among other things, that the journals were created by him, yes, but also by the hand of God, and that they were to be distributed to seven locations throughout the world. Seven monks from the monastery were to be chosen to deliver those journals to a holy place in each location.”

  Carl paused, as if picturing the monks on their journeys,
and smiled. “But the note did not say where the locations were, nor did it name the holy places. Stories—just rumors really—of the journals showing up here and there cropped up through the centuries. No one could ascertain if they were true until a man named Higgins wrote a detailed account of having seen one of the journals in 1903. He held it himself, only for a few weeks, but long enough to run a number of tests on the journal and declare the legend true. Over the years I’ve heard reports—well, just whisperings actually—of the journals showing up in Ireland, South America, Japan, Albania, the Netherlands . . . and many other countries.”

  For the first time since starting his story, Carl turned to Allison. He smiled and said, “It appears that you have in your possession one of those seven journals.”

  “Even if your story is true, how could the journal be in such good condition? And how does that explain why the writing would appear and disappear? And how my name would show up inside and—”

  “That is the part of the legend that I’m not sure I believe.” Carl adjusted his glasses. “But as you say, seeing this journal in this condition, I can almost believe it’s true.”

  Allison pressed her lips together. Why couldn’t the guy spit it out? Get on with it! But she smiled and blinked and waited for him to continue.

  Carl gestured to the journal as if it were the Mona Lisa and said, “Because the journals were made with the assistance of God, they are highly resistant to damage, as I mentioned a moment ago. The only change to the covers over the years is for them to become more beautiful, bearing the oils of the fingers and hands that have carried them.”

  “That still doesn’t explain—”

  “Seraph Journals, Allison.” Carl winked. “That’s what they are. The Seraph Journals. Each one of these journals is guided by an angel tasked with giving them to the people who need them. And once the journals have done what they are to do with each person, they are passed on to another person.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m only telling you what the legend says. I’m not telling you if I believe it.” Carl cocked his head and peered at her. “However, you told me strange things have happened with your journal already, yes?”

  “Yes. Words have vanished. And appeared. And the meaning of what I’ve written has changed. Changed to the opposite of what I meant.”

  “Ah, interesting.” Carl nodded. “You didn’t tell me that part.”

  “You believe me?”

  “You’re Parker’s sister. You seem quite normal. You seem as surprised as I suspect someone would be if the like happened to them.” He winked again. “If it’s true, I imagine an angel would have little problem adding or subtracting any kind of writing to its pages.”

  “But what’s happening is impossible.”

  “Oh? How do you know that?”

  “I . . .”

  Carl picked up the journal and handed it back to Allison.

  “For the moment it seems it doesn’t matter what you believe. Only what you choose to do with what you have in front of you right now.”

  He rose and she followed him out of his office, through the store, and to the front door.

  “Good night, Allison.”

  “Thank you, Carl.”

  She started to go when his voice called out. “One more thought before you go.”

  “Yes?”

  A brightness like a firefly’s shone in his eyes.

  “The legend says the lives of those who have encountered the journals are never the same.”

  On the walk back to her car, Allison dialed Parker’s number. He didn’t answer. Not a surprise. Probably wouldn’t get the message till he went into town next, whenever that would be. But still, she wanted to thank him. And she needed to talk to someone about it, even if it was a one-sided conversation.

  “Hey, bro, it’s me. I met with your friend Carl. You’re right, he was the guy to talk to. I’m not sure I believe what he’s telling me about the journal, but I’m definitely going to write in it more. Carl says it will change my life. It already has. I feel like I’m on one of your wild rides, Parker. Jumping out of a plane or off a cliff. Just in a different way, you know?

  “Anyway, hope you’re doing well. It was so good to see you. Call me.”

  By the time she got home, her mom was asleep, which was okay. She needed to put the journal out of her mind and mentally prepare for a meeting in the morning with Derrek. He wanted to talk to her about something. What, he wouldn’t say.

  twenty-three

  LET ME SHOW YOU AGAIN.”

  Derrek held up his right forefinger, then his left as he stood in Allison’s office the next morning.

  “One plus one equals three.”

  “I see only two fingers.” Allison smiled as she spun in her chair across from her drafting board to fully face him. “Am I supposed to see three fingers?”

  “No. But the two still equal three.”

  “Do you care to explain that?”

  “There is this space.” Derrek peered at his right finger, then his left. “There is this space . . . and there is the space in the middle. One. Two. Three.”

  He smiled at Allison as if he’d revealed an important secret. “And the third space, the one in the middle, is quite often the most important. Architecture is too often focused on the spaces we create instead of the spaces we leave out. An inch more width on a window or a wall, or an inch higher on a ceiling, can create ambience that otherwise would not have been possible to achieve.”

  Derrek pointed to the drawing on Allison’s board and tapped his finger on a wall she’d started to sketch in. “This wall, for example, is a fell stroke of wonderful imagination. You’ve created a charming third space by doing what you’ve done. That small nuance will be noticed by many, mostly on a subconscious level, but I do believe it will be noticed and enjoyed to a greater degree because of it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You have a real talent, Allison. In areas where I don’t. You see things I don’t. You apply them in ways I don’t apply them, as I never imagined them in the first place.”

  She stared at him, hoping the surprise she felt hadn’t spilled onto her face. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d given her a compliment as thorough as this one.

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She did appreciate it. Compliments from Derrek were rare. He’d never made any specific positive observations about her drawings. Only suggestions for what she might change. He was never harsh in his assessments, but he rarely took time to point out the strengths of a design.

  Before she could stop it, gratitude welled up in her. This was all she wanted: to be recognized, to be appreciated for what she could bring. She was about to speak, but the emotion was too close to the surface, so she swallowed and simply nodded.

  As if sensing the awkwardness of the moment, Derrek stepped back and said, “‘Good buildings come from good people, and all problems are solved by good design.’ The British architect Stephen Gardiner said that.”

  Allison smiled. “All problems?”

  “Yes. All.”

  Allison hesitated a moment, then said, “That’s what you wanted to meet with me about this morning? To tell me about how one plus one equals three?”

  “Yes.” Derrek smiled like a little boy who had blown a perfect bubble. “And to tell you that I appreciate your gifts. I don’t do that often enough.”

  The warmth of feeling appreciated and deep gratitude toward Derrek both surged. He saw her. Saw who she was.

  No. She couldn’t let herself trust him till they finalized the partnership. But still, the moment was rich with promise.

  Derrek turned to go, but before he could step from her office into the hallway, Linda slid inside and said, “May I speak with you for a moment, Allison?” She didn’t wait for a response. “I noticed that you were over your budget for client lunches last week.”

  “Oh really?”

  �
�Yes. That’s not acceptable.”

  “I think we’re okay.” Allison clasped her hands together. “I didn’t have any client lunches the week before that, and only one the week before that. So I’m way under budget overall.”

  “We don’t average here. Each week stands on its own.”

  “Oh.” Allison glanced at Derrek, who had apparently become fascinated with his wedding ring. “And how much was I over last week?”

  “Three dollars and seventy-four cents.”

  Allison glanced at Derrek again, then back to Linda. Was Linda joking? Doubtful. This was not a woman who joked about anything.

  The fire inside Allison flickered. “You’re worried that I was over budget by three dollars and seventy-four cents?”

  Linda narrowed her eyes. “I’m not worried about it. I am simply telling you to stay within company structure from now on. If you can’t abide by that, we’ll need to have another, more serious conversation.”

  “Please tell me she’s kidding.”

  Derrek shook his head, a tiny smile in the corners of his mouth.

  “Is that what you want, Derrek? For me to make sure I don’t go over budget by three dollars and seventy-four cents for a client lunch? That’s what a partner in this company is required to do? If so, it’s ludicrous. Who actually runs this company?”

  Derrek chuckled his hollow chuckle and held up his hands as if at gunpoint. “I’m not weighing in on this one. Linda is the office manager, so she runs the ins and outs of the weekly budgets. Consequently, I defer to her in this case.”

  Linda pressed her lips together and nodded as if the matter were settled. As she walked out the door, she said, “Thank you for your cooperation, Allison. It’s appreciated.”

  The fire inside her grew, and Allison started to stride out the door after Linda, but she pushed it down and stayed silent. And hated herself for doing it.

  That afternoon Allison left the office at four thirty, steam still building inside her mind. Ridiculous. Four dollars? Linda was hammering her over four bucks? Asinine.

  But a few minutes later a sliver of good news arrived. The bank called. Her home loan had come through. Relief washed over her. It was a reprieve. Not for long, but for the moment they could breathe.