The Book (23 page)

Wanting to be around in case Jeff and Abby stopped by, Moby had started coming to the house early every day and leaving well into the night. So often, in fact, that Winston suggested he move into one of the many spare bedrooms. Although Moby tried to protest, Winston found a room that was large enough for such a giant and, within days, the former Unfortunate sold his condo, all his belongings and took up permanent residence on the estate. This was also nice for Marion because she was no longer the only one responsible for keeping an eye on Winston. While she cherished spending all her time with the elderly man, a little relief pitching went a long way.

With each passing, cloud-enclosed day, Holden grew more embarrassed that he had been unable to succeed with Shane. He considered who else he trusted and could reach out to, but his ex-wife was the only one to make the list. It didn’t take him long to decide against that option. Eve was more than temperamental and had an ability to lose her hearing whenever she was around her ex-husband. It was a hard pill to swallow, but Holden knew that if their group was to become a success, he’d need to get beyond whatever had been keeping him from reaching out.

On his own, Winston had done a superb job. After a week and a half of meeting as a six-person group, the thin, bearded man with the bright red t-shirt who had launched Holden with ease to the back room of his antique shop, arrived at Winston’s door, serene and eager to pass along his sensible, surprisingly academic expertise to the other six. The home-made necklaces that festooned the man’s wrinkled throat held their attention as they listened to his opinion of how the world of science had been distorted since the origination of the Publishing House. The antique dealer was aware of the general alteration in novels, but was unaware of the connection between Conrad and the Prince and he allowed Winston the opportunity to take him through the entrance ritual.

With earnest, Winston brought him down to the cellar and, after eighteen minutes, they shared a meal in private. The following day, the man returned with five plastic bins filled to the lid with fifty-seven books that he had been hording for most of his life. Special books he vowed never to sell. Stacked precariously on each of these were smaller containers overflowing with half-torn stories he had discovered behind the drawers of antique dressers and single pages that he had found lining the insides of ruined suitcases. Winston and the antique dealer, Ephraim Wheeler, were like two giddy gardeners among a patch of ideas and they spent hours in the cellar getting their hands dirty discussing books and reveling in one another’s collections. Along with his wife Lolita and young son Ronnie, Ephraim moved from their apartment and into one of Winston’s dual-suite bedrooms. It was an adjustment for sure, but to have a rascally eight-year-old scurrying around and creating havoc was an unforeseen breath of fresh air. It had been ages since Winston’s house had been full and he was thrilled to watch life running through the halls. His sanctuary of thoughts and paper was a home again.

Storage was an issue that they could see coming from far off, so Moby took it upon himself to begin rummaging through the contents of Winston’s garage. In the process, he discovered the bin of items Winston’s mother had stored since leaving the Publishing House. Inside were three wide screens carrying the recycling icon of The Book and a framed metal sign with dark green text. The sign read:

Editors found with written material

or records of editing will be recycled.

When Moby brought this to Winston, a laugh escaped his lined lips. The three screens were digital log books that his mother had kept and recorded in while working for the Publishing House. Each day she had come home from work, they spent an hour typing out exactly what she had edited, added or deleted. The sign was something she had stolen as a joke that was both ironic, because the records were in her head, and foreboding, because it reminded her each day what awaited those who were caught keeping track. As a group of eight, they decided that the digital records were just as important as the original texts themselves because they could be used to convince others of the truth if a specific edition was missing from their underground library.

While the group may have been growing, its leader was still having difficulty accepting the dynamic. One un-sunny afternoon, Holden dropped in after work to find Marion waiting to ask him if he would start spending the night. He insisted he couldn’t and blamed it on an early start in the morning, but she wasn’t buying it. Marion channeled her disappointment by pressing him on his necessity to continue working when they needed him at the house. So much was going on while he was straddling joists and crawling through truss work and the group was desperate for his opinion. Holden tried to explain himself, but what Marion didn’t understand was that during such synchronized turmoil, he needed part of his life to keep its rituals. He knew it made sense to move from his minty-fresh (
home again, home again
) house, based on mileage alone, but in the end, Holden felt that he was merely unable to release the part of his day that was most secure.

There were a lot of reasons beyond his need for stability. Although the group considered him to be their leader, part of Holden still wanted to be the minion for someone else’s group, while the other part was unable to fully trust the group he had started himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in the group; it was that he found himself frightened by the stories Winston would tell about Moby’s uncle and their friends and how they had all simply vanished one day. Winston’s group had always met at the same place. They planned the plan and went through the motions without a worry. A week away from delivering a swift kick to the pants of the Publishing House, Winston had chosen to bring food to their meeting and ended up arriving to “base camp” a little late. Luckily late. Whatever had happened, everyone in his group had been taken, including Moby’s uncle. Winston had been spared purely by the fact that his stomach was rumbling. Whoever spilled the beans didn’t wait around for him to show up. It was hard for the man to go on living after that, knowing that his friends had disappeared from the group he started and had led into the ground. But with their progress and passion, he seemed to be healing. Whereas Holden was fast becoming less confident. He couldn’t stop picturing the scene of Winston walking in to find everyone he cared about and trusted gone. It made him realize that he never wanted to be one of the
gone
. He wanted to be the one walking through the door. Visiting. Moving into Winston’s home was choosing a side that he wasn’t ready yet to accept. That would change over time, as his courage grew, he knew that it would, but it was still early and things were moving quickly and Holden didn’t like when things moved quickly.

Another un-sunny afternoon, Holden made it back to Winston’s house to find the seven other members of their group in a heated discussion over an item Moby had been working on secretively in the garage. When they noticed Holden’s arrival, they allowed Moby a chance to showcase his newfangled mechanism. They watched with pride as Holden approached the kitchen table where they had been circled and enjoyed the look on his face as he noticed that his very large and clever friend had created another branding machine.

Its body was small and made of tough, blackened steel. It was attached to a nylon harness system that was teeming with wires and switches. On the rectangular branding surface were a series of sharp metal letters, carved backwards and spelling four words:

Don’t Read The Book.

Moby spoke before Holden could have the chance.

“The branding machine I built for
The Free Thinkers
was difficult to transport and we were constantly forced to strike at night, so no one would see. This machine is light. It has a handheld, portable design and all the mechanics are hidden in the shoulder straps. Obviously, I’ll clean it up. Pretty nice, huh? We don’t have to be as cautious. I can brand a building in the middle of a crowd.”

All Holden could do was smile as he listened to the group chatter on about how smart it was to start branding buildings themselves. It made sense. If the eight of them wouldn’t be able to gather new members they could trust, at least people would start questioning what they read in The Book. Moby explained his plans to add imagery or a specific quote from one of their favorite books, but they thought better of it.
Don’t Read The Book
was more than enough to get people to start talking and Holden could attest to the fact that, at the very least, the workmen having to remove the brand would take notice.

From outward appearances, it seemed that their group was doing well, but Holden knew, as he watched Moby, upon Winston’s suggestion, branding their phrase into the thick stone of the fireplace to tumultuous applause, that they were just a bunch of dreamers. Readers with imaginations so entertained by the idea of revolution that they were dumb enough to think success was possible. Nearly all of their time was spent working toward a future that only their children would see. A dream that even little, rambunctious Ronnie could outlive.

Marion was the only one who could see the skepticism behind Holden’s enthusiasm because as each of them stared at the smoking stone and the angled blackened words, her eyes were on him. She knew the struggle within Holden and could see it on his wrinkled brow, but she kept it to herself and chose instead to offer him a simple smile when their eyes would meet.

The next week passed and the sun was still missing. Sure, it was beginning to get on their nerves, but the group rationalized it as a healthy thing. The lack of sunshine, open flowers and tweeting birdies reminded them that they were living in storm season. Even Mother Nature, that supercilious skirt, wasn’t about to pretend that things were going the way she had planned. And it was on one of the more thunderous of days, when Holden had felt the most uncertain of himself as their leader, that Shane showed up at the door.

In the great room, Holden had been reading a children’s story to Ronnie entitled
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
by a man named Lewis Carroll. He stood atop a wide, leather ottoman to add a sense of magnitude to the task and attempted to capture the essence of the wildly odd, but enjoyable tale. He read the story with silly voices and Ronnie’s attention was latched from the overstuffed couch while Marion looked on from the window seat.

“‘
Oh, you’re sure to do that,’ said the Cat, ‘if you only walk long enough.’ Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. ‘What sort of people live around here?’ ‘In that direction,’ the Cat said, waiving its right paw round, ‘lives a Hatter; and in that direction,’ waving the other paw, ‘lives a March Hare. Visit either you like; they’re both mad.’ ‘But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked. ‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat. ‘We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad,’”
Holden paused as he heard a knock at the door. Winston left the kitchen to answer it and Marion scurried away from the windows. There was no telling who was at the door, why they had come and if they would recognize Marion from the news. This was the first time any of them had had a guest arrive unannounced and they had to be cautious and assess the risk before reacting. Ronnie squirmed in his seat, so Holden finished the paragraph with a watchful eye on the foyer.
“‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice. ‘You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or else you wouldn’t have come here.’”

Holden closed the book and stumbled off the ottoman, blinking his eyes like the rapid wings of a butterfly in unspeakable disbelief. Dragging his feet skittishly across the marble tiles of the foyer was his best friend. Shane didn’t turn or give attention to anyone in the house. He simply followed Winston toward the cellar door.

Marion turned to Holden, her lips pressed together in a smile of unreserved joy. Holden handed the book on to Ronnie with care and soon found himself jogging to the foyer. At the cellar door Shane turned to glance back at him before heading down the stairs.

The flurry of emotion hurricaned Holden as he skipped excitedly to the door where Winston threw out a hand to stop him. He peaked blissfully around the frame, without restraint, to watch as his best friend was introduced to the smells and sights below. Winston tugged intensely on Holden’s shirt and he turned to discover that he was not about to be included.

“Holden, your friend needs to do this alone.”

“But I can…”

“This one is for me.” Winston’s eyes were sharp and prickled and they told Holden to let it go. So he did. Out of respect. Begrudgingly.

Holden walked backward toward the foyer and watched the cellar door close. He stood there for three minutes before joining Marion in the sitting room where they sat beside one another on the piano bench and listened for the door to open again. The whole time, Holden stared at the floorboards as if studying the life lines that were drawn across their polished surface. Marion stared instead at Holden, her eyes warm and affectionate. She wanted to grip his hand and tell him to be patient; to remind him that Shane had taken the difficult first step; to encourage him. Instead, she kept her hands in her lap and they remained as silent as silence would allow.

Fifteen minutes had passed. Then the big eighteen. And then thirty.

Forty-eight minutes after the cellar door closed, it opened again. Holden sat up from the piano bench, but didn’t rise; Marion had stood for him. She took a handful of tentative steps toward the hallway before they heard Shane draw a slight cough and approach the foyer. They held their breath as they saw him walk steadily to the front door. Before he reached for the tarnished handle, he tilted his head toward the sitting room and paused, bringing one hundred unanswered questions to Holden’s lips. But he continued sitting and he continued staring. After Shane was gone, and the rest of the house started asking who the man was, Holden launched himself from the piano bench to watch his friend’s truck as it backed into the street below the constant oppression of clouds. Marion was there to offer him a comforting glance, but Holden ignored her and marched angrily to the cellar, where he found Winston holding a book by Virginia Wolf called
The Waves
. He dismissed its interesting cover art, stopped speculating on how the book could have related to his best friend and started to berate the elderly man who was shelving it prudently away.