The Book (20 page)

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018-47217

The following day, Holden thoroughly reviled his work routine. He could no longer daydream about
The Free Thinkers
and Shane was avoiding him with a fierce dedication. He tried his best to get a grip on his state of mind, but it slipped away from him. During those hours it was trained to chug robotically along. Whether he wanted to be or not, Holden was a small, mechanical ape whose only job was to crash two cymbals together in a continuous rhythm. But at three o’clock, when the sprocket at his back had wound down, he scrubbed his hands to keep up appearances that reading The Book was his only concern and left the warehouse of General Fire in a surprisingly chipper mood. That reason was one hundred and sixty-five pages long.

At every stoplight on the road to Wilmette, Holden glanced secretively down at the open copy of
Fahrenheit 451
that Winston had lent him. He wanted to arrive with a few lines memorized to test the old man’s ability to recall it word for word, which had been the claim. It was thrilling to read in the open, but at each intersection Holden was stirred awake from the earsplitting honk of those aggravated behind him. The light kept changing before he noticed. Each time he would glance up, Holden found an insistent green eye shining down on his van, detecting his every move, and it made him slam on the gas to get away from its curious gaze.

The persistence of the green light, watching him as he passed each set of its ocular traffic managers, brought to mind a memorable passage from a book he had read recently by a man named F. Scott Fitzgerald. The book’s title eluded him, but he knew the character’s name made an appearance and that, when seeing the title on his Book for the first time, Holden had been expecting to read a story about a magician.

Holden knew that his shade of green was quite different from that of Mister Gatsby. Holden’s light was evil. As he eluded his light at each intersection, the green eye was moving faster and stretching out farther for him. Because, for miles and miles and miles, perhaps across the county, he was the only person with a paper bound book concealed under a filthy jacket on his passenger seat. The fear was great, but Holden was greater and he wouldn’t allow his fear to devastate him. So, as he drove on, he simply prayed to catch the next stoplight.

Reading without The Book was an unexplainable joy. He found himself enamored with the simple act of it. How he would delicately run a finger along the trace of a single page, slipping it gently behind its chalky pelt as he waited to finish the words that had been stamped delicately onto the priceless surface. How he would pull a finger down toward the spine, ever so carefully tugging, like a breath of wind, until the single page flipped to the other side, joining the multitude of pages that had been given the same delicate caress. Moving, without choice, from the land of the unread pages to the land of the read. It was an act he had never before experienced and once again, it brought such a romance to reading that he had never thought was possible.

How the color of the pages called to him. From each of the many subtle blemishes on their blonde skin, he seemed to feel every person that had read that story before him. As if some of their soul had been what soiled the page.

The shop owner who ran the used book store that had perused the stories he had recently purchased during the passing of a few dollars.

The roommate that sold it to the bookstore when he had finished reading.

And then, the original owner of whom the book loved most. The person who had seen it on a shelf and had chosen it from a stack of so many other identical copies.

Holden imagined such a thing and the thought itself felt unwelcome in his small mind. A stack of clean books that lined a shelf in a shop that smelled fresh with the freedom that each patron took for granted. That book must have felt so true in the owner’s hands as they brought it excitedly to the check-out counter before taking it for its first walk. Carefully, they drew back the cover, only enough to keep it from closing. Eventually, a thick, canyon of a wrinkle tore at the spine where the cover had been yanked to the back by an irresponsible reader. But that didn’t matter. That was the life of the book. It had been born without a crease; without a stain. And now, in the hands of a man who was bound by law to destroy it, the book was a beautiful canvas of lines, creases, tears and age spots. It was worn, but wonderful. Its unique scent, unlike any other in the world, caught in his nose and resonated there like a winter wind. The story had its own story of the hands who exchanged it and the books it shared shelves with. This was the air that Holden breathed, this euphoric bliss that swam with the stench of oily rags and greasy pipe in the driver’s seat of his work van. These were the delicate thoughts he yearned to protect when he slammed to a stop in front of Winston’s home, debating if he should drive away in fear and never ever come back.

Parked near the front door, where Holden often left his van, was a black sports car. A polished, elegant sedan that shone in the sprinkling of rain that seemed to christen it with beauty. Its twin, silver rims, like sparkling irises, shone back at him through the tousling mists, reminding him that some of the most beautiful creatures were also some of the most deadly. Holden left the idling van in drive, almost certain that he had just ruined Marion's and Winston’s lives by being overeager in handing out their address.

But couldn’t it be Moby?
They could be inside right now, waiting for him to show up. Moby could have already convinced Winston that their future war against The Book would succeed. They could be laughing and smoking and drinking and reveling in plans that Holden dreamt were being written by someone, somewhere.

How cowardly would he be if he allowed his mind to believe the car was not the property of some enormous, tattooed man and he chose to drive off? Would someone see that as selfish if he chose the safer route? If he chose freedom? They could be waiting to take him away. Holden was already on the radar of the Publishing House. He thought it over for second, but it was a waste of a good second. There was no other option. If the owner of the black sedan (that continued to stare and stare and stare) had somehow gotten Winston’s address through other means, then he was already caught and his choice to retreat from the driveway would only buy him enough time for a last meal. Holden did what he thought made the most logical sense. He pulled into Winston’s driveway, parked beside the black car and got out of his van, holding the book Winston had entrusted to him with pride.

The front door was open.

The thought of turning around was strong and beginning to overtake him, but Holden wouldn’t allow it. His decision had been to go forward. So he opened the door fully and listened. From the foyer he could hear argumentative voices coming from the music room. As Holden approached the wide oak doors, he hoped that the discussion was one of men debating the history of literature and the future freedoms of its writers. Instead, he found Winston gripping his walker in one hand and poking Moby in the chest with one long, shabby finger. The skin upon it shook from the impact and unexpected exertion.

Moby saw Holden enter the room and tossed out a tree trunk of an arm as if to say,
Help me out here, man
.

“Winston. Please…please…” Holden pleaded, jogging over to them.

“I told this young man that there is nothing going on here. You tell him, Holden. You tell him that there is nothing going on here.”

“Winston, I invited him.”

“I know you did. But there is nothing going on here.” he repeated, his voice tired and raspy. When Moby turned to lean his nervous weight against the grand piano, Winston shot a glare of warning at Holden. They were supposed to be in agreement.

The situation could have been worse, but not by much. Moby took this opportunity to step back, actually afraid of the feisty little man, and Holden explained. “Winston, I’ve been trying to find other people that could help and I ended up getting invited to…”

“I know what you did, or at least I have an idea of what you did, and I’m not very pleased. That brute told me he was from
The Free Thinkers
and that’s all a man my age needs to hear. Now get out!”

“This can all be explained if you would just…”

Moby stepped forward to interrupt them with the most peculiar question. “Do you have
Leaves of Grass
by Walt Whitman?”

Winston’s ears piqued with his interest. “No. No, young man. I don’t. What made you think I did?”

“Holden told me that you had a library here and I just…needed to know if you had that collection in your…collection. He’s my favorite poet and I was wondering if there were things…

“Missing?”

“Right. If you had a copy I’d be able to find out.”

“Well,” Winston began, in a much lighter mood, “I do not own a copy, although that would be a treat. However, while I’m not certain what edition they’re from, Marion brought me a few pages from that book.”

“That woman from the news?” Moby asked, having recognized her when he arrived.

Winston nodded and arched an eyebrow. “I suppose we could give those a look…if you’d like. Do you have a copy of The Book with you?”

“I do. Yeah.” From his jacket, Moby pulled the thinnest version of the reading device either of them had ever seen.

Winston grinned at the difference of stature between man and his Book as he said, “Well, I’m not promising anything, but we can have a look in the cellar. In fact, if you’d like, I can take you through the same explanation I gave Holden.”

Moby turned his head to the ceiling and counted the years. “He just left. There one day…gone the next. Gotta be going on twenty years now.”

Winston tipped dizzily to the right and attempted to regain his unbalanced footing before dropping into a thickly cushioned chair. Holden rushed forward but he was pushed away. “Might I ask,” Winston inquired, clearing his throat before finishing. “Is your surname Van Dinh?” Moby nodded slowly. “As in Skip Van Dinh.”

“You were part of my uncle’s group?” he mumbled, aghast. “What happened to him?”

“Young man, I was the leader of your uncle’s group. And, of his whereabouts, I only wish I knew.” Winston’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant and it frightened Holden before he understood that it was a good thing. The elderly man was nodding. Over and over, he continued to nod as the men stared back in patient curiosity. When he chose to reveal what his mind had decided, Winston’s words were crisp and lingered long in their ears. “Kismet. All of us. All of this. Your uncle was a key member of my group. A group that I believe now may have been the only surviving witnesses to the slavery we’re still facing. Then, one average day, they vanished. I’ve been on my own the rest of so many years, with the knowledge that I may be the only holder of this terrible secret.”

He nodded again and rose, without the aid of his walker. “I will take you downstairs. We will look through your Book. When the two of us are finished, the four of us are going to discuss things. Never before have I felt such a pull from fate. From God. Everything that has taken place to get us here, was supposed to happen so we could meet under these circumstances and under the leadership of someone far stronger than I.” Gingerly, the elderly man turned to Holden who listened to these enamored words with disbelief. Moby was nodding in agreement. Before Holden could dispute their opinion of him, Winston was leading Moby toward the cellar.

“Follow me, big fella.” At the stairs, Winston turned back to whisper a final message to Holden. “I was upset with you when he arrived…but then he introduced himself. Anyone who quotes Herman Melville is a friend of mine. I will add though, a heads up would have been nice.” He poked Holden with a long, stingy finger before pointing in the direction from where they had come. “Marion is waiting for you. Go say hello.”

Holden watched the unlikely duo walk away before he returned to the foyer. Marion was in the kitchen unpacking a table lined with canvas grocery bags and when she noticed him, she quickly towed her hair behind her ears and adjusted the dress that looked uncomfortable on someone like her. The dress hung from her shoulders by two delicate straps and draped flawlessly over her downy skin. Although Winston must have bought it for her, the colors were pulled from the floral Japanese tattoos that traced up her left arm and it made Marion look radiant and fresh. Her shoulder-swept hair was light and pulled off her forehead, cropping the bold, attractive features that Holden usually avoided. The reason why, he couldn’t grasp at the moment. He supposed that with nothing else to do all day in such odd confinement, Marion had decided to make herself look beautiful.