I Am the Messenger (21 page)

Now it’s true that I’ve read a lot of books, but I bought them all, mainly from secondhand bookshops. The last time I actually used a library, they still had big long catalog drawers. Even at school, when the computers came in as stock standard, I still used the drawers. I liked pulling out the card of an author and seeing the books listed.

When I walk into the library, I’m expecting an old lady behind the counter, but it’s a young guy, about my age, with long, curly hair. He’s a bit of a smart mouth, but I like him.

“You got any of those cards?” I ask him.

“What kind of cards? Playing cards? Library cards? Credit cards?” He’s enjoying himself. “What exactly do you mean?”

I can tell he’s trying to make me look uneducated and useless, though I don’t really need his help. “You know,” I explain to him, “the cards with all the writers and authors and that.”

“Ohh,” and he laughs fully now. “You haven’t been in a library for a long time, have you?”

“No,” I say. Now I
really
feel uneducated and useless. I might as well wear a sign that says Total Dropkick on it. I act on it. “But I’ve read Joyce and Dickens and Conrad.”

“Who are they?”

Now I have the upper hand. “What? You haven’t read those guys? You call yourself a librarian?”

He acknowledges me now with a devious smile. “Touché.”

Touché.

I can’t stand that expression.

Nonetheless, the guy becomes a lot more helpful now. He says, “We don’t use those cards anymore—it’s all on the computer. Come on.”

We go over to the computers and he says, “Right, give me an author.”

I stutter because I don’t want to tell him one of the people on the Ace of Spades. They’re mine. I give him Shakespeare.

He types it in and all the titles come up on the screen. Then he types in the number next to
Macbeth
and says, “There it is. You got it?”

I read the screen and understand. “Thanks.”

“Just yell out if you need me.”

“No worries.”

He goes off, and I’m alone with the keys, the writers, and the screen.

First up, I go for Graham Greene. I’ll go in the same order as they’re listed on the card. I search my pocket for some paper but all I’ve got is a decrepit napkin. There’s a pen tied to the table, and when I punch the name in and hit return, all the titles of Graham Greene come up on-screen.

Some of the titles are brilliant.

The Human Factor.

Brighton Rock.

The Heart of the Matter.

The Power and the Glory.

Our Man in Havana.

I write them all on the napkin, as well as the call number for the first one.

Next, I type
West, Morris.
Some of his titles are just as good, if not better.

Gallows on the Sand.

The Shoes of the Fisherman.

Children of the Sun.

The Ringmaster.

The Clowns of God.

Now, Sylvia.

I must admit, I have a soft spot for her because I’ve read her once and it was her writing that came to me in the dream. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be sitting here, closer to knowing where I have to go. I want her titles to be the best, and whether it’s biased or not, to me, they are.

The Winter Ship.

The Colossus.

Ariel.

Crossing the Water.

The Bell Jar.

I take the napkin to the shelves and look them all up again, in order. They’re all beautiful. All old and hard-covered in plain red or blue or black. I take all of them. Every one, and I go and sit down with them. What now?

How the hell am I going to read all of these in a week or two? The poems of Sylvia, maybe, but the other two have written some pretty long books, to say the least. I hope they’re good.

“Listen,” says the library man. I’m at the counter with all the books. “You can’t borrow this many. There’s a limit, you know. Do you even have a card?”

“What kind of card?” I can’t help it. “A playing card? A credit card? What kind of card do you mean?”

“Okay, smart arse.”

We both enjoy the moment, and he reaches under his counter and gives me a sheet of paper.

“Fill this out, please.”

Once I receive the card, I try buttering him up a little to get my hands on all the books.

“Thanks, mate. You’re doing a hell of a job.”

He looks up. “You still want all those books, don’t you?”

“That’s right.” I pile them up onto the counter from the floor. “Basically, I really need them, and one way or the other, I’m going to get them. Only in today’s sick society can a man be persecuted for reading too many books.” I look back into the emptiness of the library. “They’re hardly jumping off the shelves, now, are they? I don’t think anyone else wants them just now.”

He allows me to talk, going through the motions. “Look, to be honest,” he says, “I personally couldn’t give a pinch of shit how many you borrow. It’s regulations. If my boss catches me, I’m in it.”

“In what?”

“I don’t bloody
know,
but I’ll be in it deep.”

Still, I look at him, not giving an inch.

He caves in.

“All right, give ’em here. Let’s see what I can rig up for you.” He starts scanning them. “My boss is a total knob anyway.”

When he’s done, there are exactly eighteen books on the other side of the counter.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “Much appreciated.”

How am I going to get them all home?
I ask myself.

I consider ringing Marv for a lift, but I manage on my own. I drop some along the way, rest a few times, but in the end, each book makes it home.

My arms are killing me.

I didn’t know words could be so heavy.

All afternoon, I read.

I fall asleep once as well, no disrespect to the writers. I’m still worn out from the Rose beating and the Sledge Game.

As I read, I enjoy the work of Graham Greene. I don’t pick up any clues as to where I have to go, but I think it must be simpler than this. I look over at the small book mountains I’ve built. It’s demoralizing, to say the least. How am I ever going to find what I need among those thousands of pages?

When I wake up, a southerly’s blowing outside and it’s actually pretty cool for this time of year. It being early December, I feel a little strange going to put a sweatshirt on. I walk past the front door and see a piece of paper lying there.

No, it’s a napkin.

Anxious, my eyes close for a second, and I bend down to pick it up. It really brings home the fact that I’ve been followed all this time. They watched me go to the library. They watched me
in
the library and on the way home. They knew I wrote the titles on the napkin.

My eyes read it.

Just a few words, in red.

Dear Ed,

Good work—but don’t worry, it’s simpler than you think.

I go back and sit with the books. I read “Barren Woman” until I know it word for word.

The Doorman wants a walk later, so we go. We meander through the streets of town, and I try to guess where the next addresses will be. “Any clues, Doorman?” I ask.

There’s no reply. He’s far too busy carrying out his casual, investigative style of sniffing.

What I haven’t recognized till now is that the answers are signposted. They’re everywhere, at the top of every street and at every intersection.
What if the messages are hidden in the titles?
I wonder.
The book titles
. All I’d have to do is match the street to one of each writer’s books.

Simpler than you think,
I tell myself. The napkin’s still in my pocket, along with the Ace of Spades. I pull both out and look at them. The names watch me, and I swear they see it when I understand. I lean down a moment and speak excitedly to the Doorman.

“Come on,” I say. “We have to get moving.”

We run home, or at least we go as fast as the Doorman will allow. I need the books, the street directory, and, hopefully, a few minutes.

Yes, we run.

Each book waits and I sit there with my old
Gregory’s,
trying to find a match with any of the titles. I go through Graham first again. There’s no Human Street, no Factor Street, no Heart Street.

After a minute or so, I find it.

I hold the book in my hand.

It’s black, and the title’s written in gold on the spine.
The Power and the Glory
. There’s no Power Street, but my eyes grow large with realization when I go back a few pages. The name greets my eyes like a fist. Glory Road.

I grin and ruffle up the Doorman’s fur. Glory Road. That’s bloody brilliant. I’d love to live on Glory Road.

On the map, it’s way up on the edge of town.

Now I go through the Morris West titles. It’s faster this time.

The Clowns of God
.

I find a Clown Street in the upper part of town.

Last of all, Sylvia’s one is Bell Street, from
The Bell Jar
. According to the directory, Bell Street is one of the small side streets off the main street of town.

Now I check that none of the other titles also match, but I’m safe. They’re the ones.

Just one question for each street.

What number?

Now I have to dig.

This is spades, so I have to dig.

The clues must be in the books, so now I shove the other ones to the side and focus on the three finalists. I feel kind of sorry for the ditched ones, to be honest. They look like the losers of a dramatic, tumultuous race, sitting on the floor. If they were people, they’d each have their head in their hands.

First, I reach for
The Power and the Glory
. I read well into the night, and it’s one o’clock before I look up from the pages. I have no clues yet, and I can feel frustration starting to creep in.
What if I’ve missed it?
I wonder, but I’m certain I’ll know it when I see it. For all I know, the numbers on Glory Road might only go up to 20 or 30, but I read on. I feel I must. This is what it’s all about. Quitting now would be a sin.

At 3:46 a.m. (it’s burned into my memory), I find it.

Page 114.

At the bottom of the page, in the left corner, there’s the symbol for spades, drawn in black. Next to it are the words
Nicely done, Ed
.

I collapse back onto the couch in triumph. It doesn’t get much better than this. No stones. No violence. It’s about time this all became civilized.

Now I go straight to
The Clowns of God
and flick through. I can’t believe I didn’t just do this to begin with. It’s definitely much easier than trying to find the clues in every word on every page.
Simpler than you think,
I remind myself.

This time it’s on page 23. Just the symbol. And in
The Bell Jar,
it’s page 39. I have the addresses, and I have exhaustion.

The digging’s over.

I sleep.

It’s Tuesday evening and we’re playing cards at my place. Ritchie’s complaining of a sore collarbone from the Sledge Game, Audrey’s enjoying herself, and Marv’s winning. He’s unbearable, as usual.

I’ve been to Glory Road, and I’ve seen number 114. It’s a Polynesian family with a husband bigger than the guy from Edgar Street. He works in construction and treats his wife like a queen and his kids like gods. When he gets home from work he picks them up and throws them in the air. They laugh and carry on and look forward to him arriving.

Glory Road is long and isolated. The houses are all pretty old. All fibro.

I don’t know what to do there yet, but I’m pretty confident by now. It’ll come to me.

“Looks like I win again,” gloats Marv. He’s in good form, with a cigar jammed into the side of his mouth.

“I hate you, Marv,” says Ritchie. He’s only summing up what we’re all thinking at times like this.

Marv’s quick to organize a Christmas game.

“Who’s turn is it this year?” he asks, though we all know it’s his and he’ll try to get out of it. Marv could never cook a Christmas dinner. Not because he’s hopeless. He’s just too tight. He wouldn’t pay for a turkey to save his life. Breakfast on the day of the Sledge Game was a oncer.

“You.” Ritchie points straight at Marv. “It’s
your
turn, Marv.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.” Ritchie’s emphatic. “I am.”

“But you know, my folks’ll be there, and my sister, and—”

“Stiff shit, Marv, we love your parents.” Ritchie’s in fine touch. We all know he couldn’t care less where the party’s on. He’s just loving getting stuck into Marv. “And we love your sister, too. She’s hot as summer sand, boy. She’s raging.”

“Summer sand?” Audrey asks. “Raging?”

Ritchie slams his fist on the table. “Damn right, girl.”

The three of us laugh as Marv fidgets.

“It isn’t like you don’t have the money,” I say. “Thirty grand, isn’t it?”

“Just hit forty,” he replies. This triggers a discussion of what Marv intends to do with that kind of money. He tells us it’s his business alone and we don’t give it a lot more thought. I guess we don’t give many things a lot of thought.

After a few more minutes, I relent.

“We’ll just have it here,” I say. I look over at Marv. “But you’ll have to put up with the Doorman, mate.”

Marv isn’t happy, but he agrees.

I go for more.

“All right, Marv,” I say. “I tell you what—I’ll have the Christmas game right here under one condition.”

“What?”

“You have to bring the Doorman a present.” I can’t help rubbing it in a little. With Marv, you have to get mileage, and I must say, this is turning out better than I’d hoped. I’m delighted with myself. “You can bring him a nice juicy steak, and”—this is where it gets even better—“you have to give him a big Christmas kiss.”

Ritchie clicks his fingers. “Brilliant idea, Ed. Perfect.”

Marv’s stunned.

Outraged.

“That’s disgraceful,” he tells me, but still it’s better than paying for a turkey and going to the effort of cooking. He finally makes up his mind. “All right, I’ll do it.” He points a finger at me now. “But you’re one twisted bastard, Ed.”

“Thanks, Marv, I appreciate it,” and for the first time in many years, I find myself looking forward to Christmas.

Depending on my cab shifts, I continue going back to Glory Road, and though it’s obvious this family is working hard to make ends meet, I still don’t know what I have to do. One evening, when I’m standing behind the bushes, the father comes over to me. He’s a very big boy and could strangle me with one hand behind his back. He doesn’t look happy.

“Hey,” he calls out. “You there. I seen you before.” He moves fast toward me. “Get out of those bushes quick smart.” His voice isn’t loud. It sounds like it would be gentle and quiet in most situations. It’s the size of him that concerns me.

Don’t worry,
I calm myself.
You need to be here. It’ll take what it takes
.

I step out and face the man as the sun sets behind the house. He has smooth dark skin and black curly hair and eyes that threaten me.

“You been spying on my kids, boy?”

“No, sir.” I lift my head. I need to look proud and honest.

Hang on,
I remind myself.
I
am
honest
.
Well, pretty much
.

“Well, why are you here?”

I lie and hope.

“I used to live in this house,” I say.
Shit. Good thinking, Ed
. I’ve actually impressed myself. “A lot of years ago—before we moved closer to town. Sometimes I like to come up here and look at the place.”
And please,
I beg,
let these people not have lived here long
. “My dad died not long ago, and when I come here, I think of him. I think of him when I see you with your kids, throwing them in the air and over your shoulder….”

The man softens slightly.

Thank you, God
.

He comes a little closer as the sun falls on its hands and knees behind him.

“Yeah, it’s a pretty shoddy old place”—he motions with his hand—“but it’s the best we can do right now.”

“It looks all right to me,” I say.

We go on awhile longer, and in the end, the man asks me a surprising question. He moves back, thinks, then says, “Hey, would you like to come in to look around? We’re about to have dinner. You’re welcome to stay.”

My gut instinct is to decline, but I don’t. The harder decision is to go in.

I follow the man onto his front porch and into the house. Before we go in he says, “My name’s Lua. Lua Tatupu.”

“Ed Kennedy,” I respond, and we shake hands. Lua crushes nearly every bone in my right hand.

“Marie?” he calls out when we’re inside. “Kids?” He turns to me. “The place just like you remember it?”

“Sorry?” Then I remember. “Oh. Yeah, it is.”

The kids come pouring out of the woodwork and start climbing all over us. Lua introduces me to them and to his wife. Dinner is mashed potatoes and frankfurts.

We eat, and Lua tells jokes and the kids laugh and laugh, even though they’ve heard the same jokes a thousand times, according to Marie. Marie has wrinkles under her eyes and looks worn down from life and kids and putting food on the table each night. She’s got milder skin than Lua and dark brown wavy hair. She was beautiful once—even more beautiful than this. She works in one of the supermarkets.

There are five kids. All have trouble eating with their mouths closed, but when they laugh, you can see the world in their eyes. You can tell exactly why Lua treats them like he does and loves them that much.

“Can I have a piggyback from Ed, Dad?” one of the girls asks.

I nod to him, and Lua says, “Of course, darlin’, but you have to put something else in that sentence.” It reminds me of Father O’Reilly’s brother, Tony.

The girl smacks herself on the forehead, smiling and saying, “Can he
please
give me a piggyback?”

“Sure, baby,” Lua says, and I do.

I’ve given thirteen piggybacks by the time Marie rescues me from the youngest of the boys.

“Jessie, I think Ed’s all tuckered out, okay?”

“O-kaaay.” Jessie gives in, and I fall backward to the couch.

Jessie’s about six, and while I’m sitting there he whispers something in my ear.

It’s the answer.

He says, “My dad’s putting up our Christmas lights soon—you have to come and have a look one day. I love those lights….”

“I promise,” I say. “I’ll come.”

I look around the house one last time, almost convincing
myself
that I used to live here. I even conjure up a whole lot of great memories with my dad inside these walls.

Lua’s asleep when I leave, so it’s Marie who sees me out.

“Thank you,” I say, “for everything.”

She only looks at me with her warm, genuine eyes and says, “No worries, Ed. Come back anytime.”

“I will,” I say. This time I’m not lying.

On the weekend, I go past during the day. The Christmas lights are up and they’re very old and faded. Some of the lights are missing. They’re the old-style lights. They’re not the type to flash. They’re just big bulbs in different colors, strung along the eaves above the front porch.

I’ll come back later,
I think,
to have a look
.

Sure enough, in the evening, when the lights are on, I see that only half the ones that are still there actually work. That translates to four globes in operation. Four globes to brighten up the Tatupu house this year. It’s not a big thing, but I guess it’s true—big things are often just small things that are noticed.

The first chance I get, I’ll be back, during the day, when everyone’s at school and work.

Something has to be done about those lights.

I go to Kmart and buy a brand-new set of lights, exactly the same as the existing ones. Nice big globes of red and blue and yellow and green. It’s a hot Wednesday, and surprisingly there are no questions from the neighbors as I get on the Tatupus’ front porch and stand on a large overturned pot. I dismantle the original lights, bending back the nails that hold the power cord. When the whole thing is down, I notice the plug goes inside (as I should have expected), so I can’t do the job completely. Instead, I put the old lights back up and leave the new ones at the front door.

I don’t leave a note.

There’s nothing else to do.

At first, I’d wanted to write
Merry Christmas
on the box somewhere, but I decide against it.

This isn’t about words.

It’s about glowing lights and small things that are big.