by Kim Fielding
“I know I’m fucking things up,” Elliott said, not meeting Ladd’s gaze. “I know I’m a disaster. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Not a disaster. Exactly. More of a fixer-upper.”
“Great. I’m a mess. Which I’m well aware of, so you don’t need to remind me.”
“I didn’t come over here to rub your face in it.” Scowling, Ladd picked up a nearby book and scanned the cover. “The Handmaid’s Tale. I’ve heard of this one. Didn’t they make a movie of it or something?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
With a pained expression, Ladd set the book aside. “I just don’t think you’re doing yourself any favors with the hermit act. I know you’ve had a rough time of things. It . . . it sucks, okay? But you lock yourself in here with nobody but yourself and you forget about the big picture.”
“What is the big picture?” Elliott failed to keep the derision from his voice.
Ladd waved his arms in a wide arc. “Everything outside this house is the big picture. Life itself is the big picture. Like right now the trees up in the Sierras are starting to turn color. It’d be a great time to hit Calaveras for an easy hike.” That was the good thing about Ladd—well, one of the good things. Sometimes his glass-is-half-fullness made Elliott want to strangle him, but most of the time, Elliott was grateful for his brother’s forgiving and optimistic nature.
Elliott grunted, still unconvinced.
“And there’s love. You’re a great guy, El, and someone out there is going to be really lucky to meet you. Somebody who’s not a manipulative fuck-head. If you don’t want to believe in love, what about sex? Plain and simple sex, no strings attached. When’s the last time you got laid?”
“None of your business. And fucking someone isn’t going to fix everything.”
Ladd hopped up from the couch and began to pace. “No shit. But it doesn’t have to fix everything, does it? It just has to make you feel good. Get some of those good juices flowing in your brain for a while. Endorphins or whatever.”
“And when the juices go away?”
“Then you find something else. You move on. You don’t wall—” Ladd stopped himself and looked slightly abashed.
“Wallow. That’s what you were going to say.”
“It was a shitty word choice. I don’t have a PhD, remember? I’m not the goddamn professor.”
“Neither am I. Not anymore,” Elliott said with a sigh.
“Well, word choice aside, the point stands.” Ladd shook his head. “And self-pity’s not a good look on you, bro.”
Elliott couldn’t argue with that; he knew Ladd was right. He was wallowing. He was moaning around, feeling sorry for himself. But stomping through the woods or swiping on Grindr wasn’t going to help.
“Maybe I’ve seen my big picture and it looks like an Edvard Munch painting,” he said. “Or Edward Hopper.”
Ladd stopped pacing to squint at him. “Wasn’t Hopper the guy who painted that grumpy-looking couple with the rake?”
“American Gothic? No, that was Grant Wood, and it was a pitchfork. I was thinking of Hopper’s Nighthawks. It shows— Oh, what the hell difference does it make what it shows?” The problem with arguing with Ladd was that somehow Elliott always found himself sidetracked. Or going around in useless circles like a dog chasing its tail. “What do you want from me?” he asked after a long pause.
“Give me just a little bit, okay? Don’t change your life. Just try one thing outside your comfort zone, just for a few hours.”
“Like dinner with that Kyle guy?”
That earned him a grin. “If you want.”
“He doesn’t hate me already for canceling the other day?”
“I don’t think so. I told you, that wasn’t a date anyway.”
Elliott closed his eyes briefly. “Fine. I’ll go on a not-date with him; then you leave me alone.”
“I am never going to leave you alone, Elliott. What’s the point of being your brother if I can’t annoy you?”
“But I get to annoy you back.”
“Deal.”
***
Two minutes after Ladd left, Elliott almost texted him to cancel. But that would be chickenshit. And next time Ladd might come with reinforcements—like Anna. So Elliott put the phone away and tried to occupy himself. Sitting down at his laptop, he logged in to the course management software.
He was teaching three online courses this semester, one on California history and two on ancient civilizations. His expertise was actually the twentieth-century Balkans, but such a class would appeal to very few students. Most Americans couldn’t find the Balkans on a map and didn’t care who’d been killing whom over there. California colleges always needed instructors for their large general ed courses. His specialty, an area that wasn’t well studied in the United States, had been John’s idea. He’d lured Elliott away from his initial academic dabblings in the American West. Elliott had been a dewy-eyed grad student, interested in human conflict in general, as if by studying it he might prevent it. And John Davis had been there to take Elliott under his wing. And into his bed.
So. He was left with California and everyone’s old pals: Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece, and Rome. He didn’t have much original to say about them, but then, nobody was asking him for originality anyway. He just needed to make sure his syllabi matched his courses’ learning objectives. Make sure the students could parrot back appropriate dates, rulers, place names. Make sure his retention and pass rates were reasonable and hope none of the students left him crappy evaluations. This was what his life had come down to.
“No self-pity,” he said aloud as he clicked and brought up the latest batch of student assignments. At least he had a nice place to live and a job that helped cover the bills. At least he had family that cared about him. At least, unlike a goodly proportion of the sophomores in his California class, he knew that California did not become a state in 1776 nor was it originally settled by the Pilgrims.
By the time he’d finished grading the assignments, his shoulders felt stiff and his mood had darkened. He didn’t like teaching online. It took away the joy of seeing that moment when a student finally got it, the fun of discussing issues that arose unexpectedly in the classroom, the pleasure of chatting informally with students after class or during office hours. He used to like getting to know his students as people—this one with the funny laugh and the hair that changed colors weekly, that one with the son who’d recently been diagnosed with autism. Now his students were nothing more than the college’s unimaginative login names. Aperez84. Tsilviera51. And their online communications told him little about them personally, except that they had appalling grammar and punctuation.
“You need to get out of here,” he told himself as he pushed away from the desk. He stood a few moments, considering whether to take his own advice, then headed to his bedroom. There he changed into exercise clothes and slipped on his armband.
He frowned at his front yard as he left the house. Without that silly little sign, the space looked as boring and cheerless as Mike Burgess’s yard. Burgess had landscaped with water-wasting grass, a couple of big rocks, and those nondescript bushes apparently beloved by the subdivision’s developers. A generic yard, a generic house. Just like Elliott’s generic classes with generic students. It was as if the world were being slowly overtaken by robots and nobody cared enough to notice.
The greenbelt was nearly deserted this afternoon, probably due to temperatures that felt more like summer than fall. The fence lizards were happy, basking on the pavement and scurrying away from Elliott as he jogged. A mockingbird sang from atop a power line and, when Elliott passed by some crepe myrtles in bloom, a hummingbird buzzed him indignantly. Although Elliott wasn’t running quickly today, the movement—and probably the change of scenery—helped lighten his mood a bit. It was really hard to stay mad at the world while dodging a pissed-off hummingbird.
He slowed his pace to a stroll, the better to extend his time outdoors. His spirits lif
ted even more when he recognized the man walking slowly in his direction. It was the handsome guy he’d collided with a couple of days before—the one with the cane and the knee brace—and today he wore shorts that showed off his powerful legs and a tank top that displayed the musculature of his shoulders and upper arms. He’d tied his hair into a tiny ponytail, but a few strands had escaped. And although his walking looked painful, his smile widened as he and Elliott neared each other.
“You had a run-in with El Diablo,” said the man as he drew close.
“Who?”
“That bird. I think he’s got a nest in one of those trees.” His voice was deep, but the softness surprised Elliott again.
“Yeah. He’s fierce.”
“He’s not scared of anyone. Last week I saw him chase away a crow, and he dive-bombs me every time I pass.” The man chuckled. “You looked like you were doing some kind of dance.”
“I didn’t want him to . . . Well, I’m not sure what kind of damage he might inflict.”
“Pointy beak. He could skewer your eye. Or worse. One of ’em took out my knee.” He gestured at the bulky brace on his left leg.
“Shit! Seriously?”
The man threw back his head and laughed. “No! But it’s kind of funny to picture, isn’t it?”
Elliott imagined a tiny bird circling this large man like a miniature Sopwith Camel, and he laughed too. God, when had he last done that?
“Maybe next time I should bring something to defend myself with. A shield? Armor?”
“Yeah, sure. You go jogging around this neighborhood in chain mail and see how far you get before someone calls the cops.”
“It’s probably not the best thing to exercise in either,” Elliott added.
The man mopped his forehead with the back of a hand. “Nope. You’ll sweat and rust up, and then you’ll be like the Tin Man, only with no Dorothy in sight.” He shrugged. “Maybe I should carry an oilcan from now on. Just in case.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Banter. That was what this was. He used to banter, now and then, with colleagues in the department copy room or before department meetings. They’d lightly tease one another about their coffee-drinking habits or the condition of their offices, and although he hadn’t socialized with any of them outside of work, he’d considered them casual friends. Until the shit hit the fan, of course, and every one of them had turned away from him.
Elliott must have frowned, because the smile disappeared from the other man’s face. “Well, you probably want to get back to running,” he said.
Elliott didn’t want that, not especially, but he nodded. “Enjoy your walk. Watch out for El Diablo.”
“Will do.”
And they continued on their way, each at his own speed.
Elliott jogged for another half mile before circling back home. By the time he reached his street, he was parched and overheated, daydreaming of a cold drink, a cold shower, and a nap under an air-conditioning vent. But he paused before he reached his porch. His front garden needed something, damn it. He’d planted lavender and geraniums, and they lit up the space in purple, pink, and orange. But they wouldn’t bloom all winter.
An idea hit him and caused a sly grin.
Inside the house, he drank a tall glass of cool water and took a quick shower. But instead of napping, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat in front of his laptop. Like a horse who knew its way home, his browser faithfully took him straight to Amazon.
The words rainbow flag in the search box brought over two thousand results. After some consideration, he decided that two by three feet was bigger than he wanted, and he didn’t want any of the variations, like the one with the California bear or the one with the Coexist symbols. No stars, and no words at all, because verbiage might technically violate the stupid no-sign rule. Just stripes from red to purple.
There. Twelve by eighteen, with an included metal stand. Fifteen bucks and free one-day shipping, because of course Elliott was a Prime member. Smiling, he added it to his shopping cart.
But before he could check out, he found himself scrolling down to Featured Recommendations. The website was suggesting he might also want an American flag or one with a smiling ghost, which he didn’t. Yet there, next to the flags? Oh. An exploration of the plight of the white working class in the rust belt. A memoir by Oliver Sacks’s partner. A novel about a maimed Civil War veteran.
Almost of its own accord, his finger clicked Add to Cart three more times and then, very quickly, Place Your Order.
That felt good. A release a little like an orgasm. Except when he looked around the living room and saw his overflowing shelves and the stacks on the furniture and even on the floor, shame washed over him in a bitter wave.
Ladd was right—Elliott was well on his way to becoming a Collyer brother. One of these days, he was going to end up buried under hardcovers, and nobody would notice until Mike Burgess went outside to snoop and caught the foul stench of death emanating from Elliott’s sign-free house.
Fine. He’d make a pledge right now. “I, Elliott Samuel Thompson, solemnly swear to a book-buying moratorium, which shall last one year.” There. The books he already owned would last him at least that long.
But then a thought hit him. “Textbooks are excepted from the moratorium. And, um, books I need for research.” Which was a shitty cop-out because he could justify almost anything as research if he tried hard enough. Which he undoubtedly would.
He needed to find a different way to protect himself from a literary avalanche—and from his brother’s badgering. Maybe it would help if he got rid of the books he’d already read. That would free up a lot of space. He could donate them to charity or to the library. He pictured the volumes as if they were puppies going to good homes all over Stanislaus County, their covers petted lovingly by their new owners. But what if nobody wanted his books? What if the volumes languished in the twenty-five-cent bin at a thrift store or, worse yet, got sent to the landfill? Just the idea made him shudder.
If he had been breeding dogs, he could investigate potential adopters, scoping out their home lives and suitability for his breed. He couldn’t do that with books, though; once they left his hands, he had no control over them at all. Too bad he couldn’t run his own library. Then he could lend his books to carefully selected patrons, a cultured few whom he could trust to not spill things on the jackets or dog-ear the pages.
As he sat at his desk, smiling at this ridiculous scenario, he suddenly remembered a trip he’d taken to San Francisco four years earlier. At the time, he’d still had his comfortable tenure-track job in Washington State. He and John had flown to San Francisco, ostensibly to attend a conference—and in fact, they’d each presented a paper. But they’d spent most of their visit far from the conference Marriott, holed up together in a funky little hotel near Lands End. It was the perfect getaway, with nobody at work questioning a thing. Colleagues went to conferences together all the time. But that wasn’t the point right now.
Just down the hill from that hotel lay the ruins of the Sutro Baths, now part of the Golden Gate Recreational Area. Elliott and John had spent several happy hours wandering around the decaying concrete structures, walking through the old pedestrian tunnel, and watching the waves pound beneath Cliff House. As they’d cut back through the parking lot toward their hotel, Elliott had spotted a wooden box perched atop a post. The box was painted green and orange and had a slanted roof, a bit like a birdhouse, and a plexiglass front door. Instructions were in white hand lettering: Free books. Take one now, leave one later.
“What is this?” Elliott had asked, peering in through the plexiglass.
“A miniature neighborhood library.”
“What?”
Eager to return to their room—or, more specifically, to the bed—John tugged at Elliott’s arm. “C’mon, El.”
But Elliott stood his ground and, after pulling his arm free, opened the door. The box contained four books: a thick historical novel set in mediev
al England, a children’s chapter book about dragons, a spy thriller, and, fittingly, a well-worn travel guide to Northern California.
“Do you know anything about this library?” he asked.
John huffed and put his hands on his hips before answering. “It’s a . . . I don’t know. A movement? An organization. People build these things, stick them where they’re accessible, and fill them with books. It works on the honor system.” His sour expression reflected his opinion; John had never been much for trusting others. Maybe because he was such a sneaky shit himself, although Elliott hadn’t yet come to that realization.
“So anyone can just take a book?”
“Yup. In theory, you either return it when you’re done or replace it with one of your own.”
“Huh.” Elliott would have taken one of the books—probably the historical novel—but John grabbed him again and yanked harder, and Elliott had allowed himself to be towed away. He hadn’t really minded. He’d been enjoying the stolen few days with John, one of the few opportunities he had to appear with John in public. Hell, they’d strolled through the city together, and as long as they were well away from the conference, they’d even held hands.
Now John was in prison, and Elliott sat in his living room gazing at the books that surrounded him. A miniature neighborhood library. That was just what he needed.
Chapter Three
“We’re building a what?”
Ladd had that expression again—the one Elliott had seen a lot lately. It meant Ladd was questioning his brother’s sanity.
“A library.”
Ladd bit his lip and rubbed his neck, clearly in search of an inoffensive way to suggest that psychiatric services might be in order.
But Elliott held him off with a raised hand. “A tiny library. Like this.” He walked to the kitchen table and retrieved the photos he’d printed off the internet.
“Oh.” Ladd studied the pictures. “Okay. Some of these are kind of adorable. Look! This one’s a robot.”
