Hound

by Vincent McCaffrey

  She had smiled a little too knowingly when he returned that Monday. He had come in empty-handed, the books boxed and still sitting in his Volkswagen microbus outside.

  She said, “Second thoughts?” without a greeting.

  He had many, in fact, but he lied readily. “Not yet. Where do I put them?"

  When half the books he had brought in and priced had sold within the allotted time, he had admitted his subterfuge rather than accept the credit she heaped on him. He had spent more than one hundred dollars. He had salted the selection with titles not easily found in a typical sale. He could not guarantee his picks would always be so good.... And he heard her laugh—laughing at him for the first time, and not for the last. Not cruelly. Never meanly. Then she had hired him anyway.

  Mixing old and new books on the shelf, often of the same titles, was a new idea in Boston at least. The alternative of choice it offered serious readers created a strong following. The comparative bargain it presented to the budget-conscious persuaded them to more readily part with limited funds.

  At the age of eighteen, only a few months removed from the childhood bedroom in his father's house, he was “assistant manager” of a bookshop with only two employees, in charge of purchasing and pricing used books. Most of his time, however, was spent learning how to construct good shelving.

  The original three aisles had soon been shifted to make four. The height of the shelves increased to the full length of a standard one-by-ten-inch board—eight feet. In those days, the odor of drying polyurethane often overwhelmed the delicate aroma of decaying paper. The smell of Butcher's Wax announced the last moments before a section was ready for waiting books. The cry of the circular saw proclaimed the start of another unit.

  Through that time, she had watched him. She had pestered him with questions that made him find answers. She had questioned his answers enough to help him discover his mistakes before they were too costly. She made him keep a notebook: what he had bought, for how much, and when it sold. Another notebook he used for ideas to investigate, places where he had found books, and even designs for new shelving.

  By the third year, Alcott & Poe had a reputation. It had become the first place to go for students hoping to save on books for assignments. Never the largest shop, it was already known for its depth. Not a carriage-trade antiquarian, hidebound by pricey first editions and leather sets, it became a favorite with readers if not collectors.

  Over time, Barbara had taken a true interest in the used books as well. She began to develop specialties in areas neglected by the new-book shops. Small-press limited editions seldom made a profit by themselves but brought in dedicated readers. Genre specialties in areas like fantasy, science fiction, and horror brought the kind of enthusiastic buyers who filled bags with their discoveries. Westerns brought in older readers abandoned by the chain stores aiming at a younger demographic. English authors, like Henry Green and Angela Thirkell and Nevil Shute, otherwise unavailable except for one or two titles per year as the publishers cycled through their backlists, became mainstays. Regional authors, commonly ignored by the Departments of Literature but loved by readers nonetheless, appealed to the independent-minded portion of the quarter-million students from all over the country and even a few of the professors who had migrated to the Boston-area colleges. These were presented side by side with the usual suspects like Atwood and Tyler, Malamud and Mailer. The shop prospered.

  It was the shop he had come to love first, even before he realized he had succumbed to the rough charms of his boss. It was the shop which kept him there, sanding shelves or pricing books long after closing time, even when Barbara's edges and quirks wore his patience thin and the daylong necessity of dealing politely with random members of the human race made him want to flee for his life. It was the smell of that shop, perhaps more than Barbara's own warm breath, which overwhelmed him and swallowed him and made him happy and miserable.

  They had chosen first to set the shelves in line, only to discover that the old building, once a horse-and-carriage stable for the Back Bay mansions, was itself not plumb or forgiving of straightness. Over time they had shifted and molded the cases to allow for human passage while permitting the greatest number of books in the least amount of space. The small paperbacks were separated from the rest to make the best use of the geometry of inches and to quickly satisfy the needs of those with the least to spend. Folios and elephantine art books were restrained upright to the narrowest units to keep them from warping and splitting. Most books ranged shelf upon shelf, case after case, so that a customer, upon entering and standing at the door, lost perspective in the converging lines—a visual exaggeration of the stock, with the closeness of the aisle only adding to the contradiction of space. And the height of the shelves, now reaching nine and ten feet toward the nineteenth-century ceiling, creating immediate shock, if not awe, and for the bookminded, an inevitable wonder.

  This was the shop, Barbara's “perfect bookshop,” dampened by a deeper patina of dust than he had allowed in his own time there, which Henry sought out on this day. His body was directed by habit as his mind doubled down on thoughts he had trampled before.

  Barbara sat at the front counter, pencil poised over a catalogue of new titles. Her dark hair was tied back with usual carelessness by a rubber band. Her green vest, bristling with pencils from one pocket, hung open to the rounding of her shirt. She looked up without an immediate greeting—waiting for him to give away his purpose—playing dumb as she pulled her own mind from its favorite task, choosing new books to buy.

  He said rhetorically, “Having fun?"

  "No,” she answered, pulling a fist from one cheek and leaning forward as if hoping for a kiss. He obliged, kissing her cheek instead of her pursed lips.

  He said, “I'll bet. How goes the battle?"

  Barbara's eyes half closed in resignation. “The Goths are at the gates. Trajan's great work is in danger."

  He could not help but smile at her melodrama. He added “As always” to her complaint.

  She gave a shake to her head. “Worse than usual. You know it's been three years now since the siege began."

  He knew what she meant. He knew it was true and not just a passing comment on the economic weather. He had not actually spoken to her about business for perhaps six months, but all the news had been bad for far too long.

  He said, “Need some books?"

  She shook her head again. “I wish I did. We're still buying more than we're selling. Now I've just gotten in a few hundred goddamned film books I'm going to have to find a place for. Not good economic behavior.... What brings you in?"

  He seldom actually brought her books now. More often, he came just to chat. And now she was, again, the smartest woman he knew.

  He told the obvious lie. “Just passing."

  She answered, “Not likely. You hate Newbury Street."

  He said, “I don't mind the street...."

  She looked past him toward the few browsing customers within earshot, realizing she could not correct herself.

  She asked him, “How's the internet?"

  Small talk about business wasn't really fitting to his mood.

  "Slow. Not like this"—he turned to the few customers visible—"but slower than ever. Everybody is complaining. I haven't been hit yet as badly as some."

  This kind of talk was old hat. Rote.

  She said, “Too many sellers, chasing too few customers."

  "I'd say so. It'll shake out. Give it time."

  She said, “Trying to. But Sharon's more impatient than I am."

  She looked up to the ceiling, toward the second-floor office, where her assistant, Sharon, spent at least half of her time in front of a computer. This was where the rare and unusual books had been moved after Alcott & Poe had taken over the entire building during their steady expansion in Henry's time.

  Months after Henry had left so long ago, Barbara finally gave up her hope that he would change his mind and hired Sharon to take his place. Not to re
place him, because Barbara had assumed the job of buying the used stock herself, but to fill the void in necessary work hours cataloguing the used stock of special value, and the more basic tasks of restocking shelves, helping customers, and running the register. When the internet had burst on the scene in the mid-1990s, Sharon had taken over that specialty as well. Barbara disliked computers and used them as little as possible.

  He lied again. “Business will come back. Just give it time. That's always been my motto. Give it time, and work like hell while you're waiting."

  She looked unconvinced by the words. He smiled as sympathetically as he could.

  He told her, “What I need is to borrow your Elbert Hubbard Roycrofter bibliography. I'm hoping you have the same one we bought way back when."

  She answered, “It's yours. You left it."

  He objected to that. “But I bought it for you."

  "I haven't used it in years,” she said. “Stay here."

  She made him wait at the desk as she ran up the stairs to the office. He could not help but pay attention to that. He wished she did not wear jeans all the time. She looked very good in a dress. He always liked it better when she left her hair down, as much as it annoyed her to have the loose hair in her face when she worked.

  The phone rang. On impulse, he reached across the desk and answered it. A publisher was worried about an open invoice. Henry assured them that it would be taken care of soon. They said that was what they'd been told the last time they called. He told them to be patient, and hung up. Barbara was back with the bibliography as he put the phone back.

  He said, “Just a bill collector."

  She smiled, resignation in the flattening of her lips. “Thanks."

  He tapped the loose sheets on the desk with a finger as she handed him the book he had come for. “Is that your Christmas ordering you were doing when I came in?"

  She sighed. “Yes. Late. Yes. I still have a few open accounts."

  He asked, “How bad is it?"

  She simply said, “Bad,” and turned away.

  He had to ask. “Is your ‘perfect bookshop’ in danger?"

  "Yes. But we still have a few options. There are still things we can do to make it work."

  She would, he thought. She always did,

  "Let me know. Let me know if I can help."

  She said, “I will."

  He kissed her on the forehead, like he used to do. It always infuriated her. She clasped his face with both her hands and kissed him on the lips.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Fifteen

  You may remember me. I'm Arthur Johnson."

  The man did not extend his hand with his words. He stood at the bottom of the steps as if blocking them. Summoned by the ringing of his bell, Henry waited in the doorway. Morgan's son had the stockiness of his father, but his mother's eyes. He was balding, as his father had been, and hiding the problem by cutting his hair short to the scalp. Henry appreciated the advantage of standing at the top of the steps before answering.

  "What can I do for you?"

  Johnson's arms hung at his side as he spoke. “I wanted to discuss a few things—particularly my father's books."

  Henry considered the situation and knew he did not want the man in his apartment.

  "Down the street, on Charles, there's a place called the Paramount. I'll meet you there in ten minutes."

  Johnson moved forward a step. “I wanted to talk privately."

  "Then get a booth."

  Henry closed the door and went back up the stairs to shave. When he came out again, Arthur Johnson was still there, leaning against the lamppost. He stood straight in some effort to increase his height.

  "Can we begin again? I'm Morgan's son, Arthur."

  His hand went out as Henry reached the brick of the sidewalk. Henry took it.

  "I'm Henry Sullivan."

  Johnson nodded. “Yes. We met, you might remember, some years ago. I believe you were dropping some books off at the building."

  Henry thought Johnson's smile was unconvincing.

  "Yes."

  "And I saw you at Mother's funeral service. I appreciated your coming. I was happy to see that Mother had so many friends."

  Henry turned to begin the walk down the Hill toward Charles Street. Johnson followed reluctantly, as if he still wanted to be invited up to Henry's apartment.

  Henry said, “She was a good and lovely lady. I'm sure everyone who knew her, loved her."

  Johnson's voice was less certain. “Yes. Perhaps. Funny thing—when Dad died, there weren't half so many. He had a far more difficult personality."

  Henry looked back over his shoulder to gauge the distance between them.

  "I never knew him."

  Arthur Johnson offered an artificial laugh. “Take my word. Everyone was always so surprised that they were married. You could see it in their faces."

  Henry turned again to catch Arthur's eyes. “Your father was respected."

  Johnson's voice lowered. “Yes. He was respected.... And I know she loved him. I have always known that. In any case, I now have to deal with his books. And I wanted to get your advice. I know my mother trusted you. That's good enough for me."

  Henry stopped and turned, with the corner and its added noise and traffic just ahead. “What would you like to know?"

  Johnson knew why he was there. “About the appraisal you sent to Mr. Downes. He's a lawyer, not a book person, and wanted to accept it as stated. I'm—I'm whatever I am. Call me a movie producer if you like. I'm not a book person, in any case. But I have to deal with the tax man. They're going to hit us pretty hard. Between the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and the I.R.S., it's going to be a very costly situation. The appraisal seemed a bit high. I have to make some decisions. I wanted your advice.... You know, I think, what my mother wanted, but it has to be looked at a bit more coldly. The family shouldn't suffer because of wishes which did not take the bigger picture into account."

  The question in Henry's mind came out before he realized it should be asked. “Why not?"

  Arthur Johnson stood in place, again without gesturing with his hands, and seemed to be gathering some thread of thought before speaking.

  "It would break us. It would break me.... I've been broke before. But, truthfully, I've always had Mother and Dad to fall back on. They were always there. Now I have to think about things a little differently. I have a family. If I blow this—if I lose this chance, I'm not going to have another.... The last film I made was a critical success, but it didn't make a dime. The distributor got something, but that's about it. I'm not in debt. Everything is okay really. But I want to make another film, and financing has dried up. There's nothing out there for a guy who hasn't already hit the jackpot at my age. If I was twentysomething it would be different. There's lots of table money for the hot young things. But I'm not hot. I have to put together a deal on my own. I have to have at least a million and a half to get a project going. And I have to do it soon. If I wait, no one will remember the reviews I got last year. I'll be dead in the water."

  The only person Henry could remember who avoided moving their arms when they spoke was a jujitsu instructor who had dropped Henry from his class for daydreaming instead of paying attention. That fellow had said again and again, don't waste energy moving your arms unless you intend to use them. Either way, Henry was unhappy with the observation.

  Henry said, “No. I meant, why aren't you a book person? How could you have two parents as devoted to literature as Morgan and Heber were, and not care about books?"

  Johnson shook his head as if clearing it. Henry walked on to the corner, stopping for the traffic light.

  Johnson said, “Long story. The short of it was basic teenage rebellion.... The shrink says I was jealous of the time they spent with the books instead of with me. I guess that's what happened."

  Henry could not help an obvious skepticism in his voice. “I can't believe Morgan was a neglectful mother."

  Johnson s
poke at Henry's back as they crossed Charles Street. “Neglectful? Hell, no. She gave me everything I wanted. She even let me go—she let me live away at prep school when I wanted to.... It was my father I had problems with. He was such a hard case. Old-school. Like when I got caught with some weed—he went ballistic. You know how kids are. It only made it worse.... In any case. Well. Here we are. Dad left everything to Mother. Mother left everything to me."

  They had stopped just outside the restaurant. Henry did not move to open the door.

  "What about your brother?"

  This brought a collapse of Johnson's facial muscles, and one hand came up stiffly in an unfinished gesture. “You mean Peter? You know about Peter?"

  Henry nodded slightly. He had no intention of telling this man what little he actually knew.

  Johnson's hand dropped again. “Peter had his. He got his share. He used it up."

  Johnson's voice had become louder. Henry still did not reach for the door handle but stood facing the man in the full glare of sun off the window. Two people at a table just inside turned, obviously aware of their voices.

  Henry said, “You mean for the medical expenses."

  Johnson's hand moved up stiffly again, this time ending in a dismissive slice to the side. “Whatever. Long before that. Dad paid for that mistake a hundred times over. I mean, he even married that woman after a one-night stand. Dad supported her till the day she died. Dad supported that bastard of hers right to the end. Then Mother even started supporting him.... Peter's not part of this picture. He gets nothing as far as I'm concerned."