A Thousand Sleepless Nights

by Teri Harman

  “Don’t talk like that. That’s just people being stupid people.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Henry?”

  “It’s okay to struggle.”

  The sentiment brought tears to his eyes. Get a grip. “Yeah. But what if …”

  “Oh, no! No ‘what ifs.’ ” There was a shuffle on the line as Abby shifted her receiver. “Now, look. Take a few longs breaths. Run out right now and grab something chocolate to give her. Not flowers—flowers die. Chocolate can be savored. And then just go. It will work itself out. Okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Abby.”

  “You bet. Call me later and tell me everything. I’ll be up reading, so it won’t be too late. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  n

  Henry stood at the top of the second-floor stairs, looking down as if it were the precipice of an ugly cliff. In his hands, he gripped a small square turquoise box of truffles from Estelle’s. He was trying not to crush them.

  Walk down the stairs.

  Henry tugged at the collar of his blue pinstripe button-down. He didn’t own a tie. Or slacks. He looked down at his jeans.

  Walk down the stairs. Now.

  Henry shifted the box again. Then, bravely, his face flushed with nervousness, he descended. He listened to the murmur of voices, Matilda and Thea. He pictured Matilda’s small figure, her smile and the curve of her hips under her long skirt. Words in his head. He had finished the repairs on the typewriter last night. Or at least, he thought he had. Everything looked normal, except for a few scratches and dings. The T key was a little crooked. A potent urge to try it out with the words filling his head almost made him flee back up the stairs and run to his apartment.

  “Hi, Henry.”

  Matilda wore a long knit skirt, black and flowing, and a simple red blouse. The red made her hair and eyes appear darker, her skin whiter. She looked up at him from the circulation desk. She was alone. Thea must have slipped out; Henry was grateful for that.

  “Hi.” He managed as he closed the distance between them. “These are for you.” He held out the little blue box.

  Her eyes widened, some emotion flickering there. And then she smiled. “Are these Estelle’s truffles?”

  He nodded. “I ran over. Abby suggested I shouldn’t come empty-handed.”

  Matilda’s smile grew. “Abby is a wise woman. These are my favorite.”

  A flush of heat went through him. He’d stood at the glass counters, debating (and trying to ignore the whispers behind him). When he’d seen the delicate truffles, he knew that’s what he should get. He shifted uncomfortably. I knew. How did I know? He swallowed. “Uh … ready to go?”

  Matilda picked up her purse and rounded the desk. They walked quietly to the door. Henry held it open. As she passed, he got a whiff of her citrus hair.

  “Did Beverly come up again?” she asked.

  “No. I got lucky.”

  Matilda locked the doors. They descended the steps. Turning toward her street, they walked slowly, close but not touching. Henry couldn’t think of a single thing to say to her. The day was warm, almost hot. The air smelled of cooking dinners.

  After a few minutes, Matilda broke the silence. “How’s your hand?”

  Henry looked down at his red, bruised knuckles. “Sore. Stiff. But how’s Parker?” He looked over. “I really am sorry.”

  “I know. Parker is fine.”

  “An old lady hit me with her purse when I went to get your chocolates.”

  Matilda put her hand to her mouth, smiling and suppressing a laugh. Henry couldn’t look away from her face. She said, “No. Really? Who was it? I thought that only happened in movies.”

  “Me too. I have no idea who she is. Really short, hunched over, gray hair, a million wrinkles, and a very heavy purse.”

  Matilda let out a burst of laughter. “Might have been Vera Wagner. She’s a mean old thing.”

  “Yeah, my shoulder and I found that out.”

  Matilda laughed again. “Of all the people to hit, Parker, town golden boy, was the worst choice. You should have hit Carl Bounder, the high school football coach. No one likes him.”

  Henry smiled, feeling the strange sadness that plagued him lighten. “But, uh … Abby told me you were engaged to him once? Parker—not Carl.”

  Matilda nodded slowly. “Yes. It ended six years ago. He’s married to Thea now.”

  “But you stayed friends?”

  A light shrug. “We were always better friends than anything else. How ’bout you? Any exes back in Michigan?”

  “Nothing worth talking about.”

  “And how’s the paper?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine.”

  Henry found himself walking closer to her, and she didn’t move away. He was glad he hadn’t run off to his typewriter. Too soon they were in front of her house. They stopped, both looking up. “This is a great house,” he said.

  “Thanks. It was my Aunt Jetty’s. She raised me.” Matilda opened the truffle box and pulled one out. “She passed away about six years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. Six years—same time things ended with Parker?”

  “Yeah. Jetty died of liver cancer, and I ran away from him and everything.”

  Henry nodded. She offered him a chocolate, he took it. For a comfortable moment they savored the treats, still looking at the house.

  “I really miss her,” Matilda said quietly, her eyes widening as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

  “What was she like?” Henry turned to her. He saw the sentiments on her face before she spoke.

  “Wild. Simple. Loving. Artistic. She cooked the most delicious food. She fell in love with an Italian man and he taught her. She loved plants and color. She was perfect.”

  Henry stepped closer. “I wish I had known her.”

  Matilda looked up at him. “Yeah, I wish you had too.” Her hand was trembling as she put the lid back on the chocolate box. Then, surprisingly, “I’m not ready to go inside. Can we walk for a bit longer?”

  Matilda

  The knot in her stomach had almost gone away by the time she and Henry had walked a couple blocks past her house. She felt his eyes always pulling back to her, watching her as they moved languidly through town. Those eyes which were sometimes green, sometimes gray, and sometimes turbulent with emotions.

  The conversation had been simple, superficial. They seemed to skirt around the edges of things, not asking too many personal questions. She battled a peculiar feeling of enjoying every moment with him, but also wishing he would leave. Maybe it was the headache, the throbbing in her head she could only attribute to the new medicine.

  “Nice night,” Henry said. The evening sun brightened every color. Sprinklers swished and somewhere barbeque cooked. People waved from porches as they passed and then whispered in their wake. Matilda tried not to worry about what they were saying.

  She and Henry moved from the main cluster of houses into an older part of town. Henry was so close. Matilda wished he would take her hand. Lifting her head, she looked at the sky. “Looks like a storm’s coming.”

  Henry turned his gaze up to the dark slate clouds moving toward them from the east. “Weird weather here, huh? I didn’t know it rained so much in Kansas.”

  “Not usually. Just lately.”

  Henry stopped walking. “What is that?” He stared across the street.

  Sandwiched between Morrell’s Auto Repair—a large garage with three bays—and the back boundary of the elementary school grass field was a tiny red brick house, Victorian in style and lovingly maintained. Matilda had always loved the two blinking-eye gable-roof dormer windows, the spindled porch railing and intricate millwork. BOOKER’S BOOKSHOP was painted in white on the large arched front window. The dust on the window made her heart ache.

  “That’s Booker’s, but I guess it closed. How sad!”

  “The bookshop? Abby told me about that. The owner died of lung cancer, I think.”

  Matilda nodded as
she took a slow breath. “That makes sense. Mr. Booker never could stop smoking. You’d buy a book and it would smell of pages and tobacco.” She smiled, remembering the many trips to the shop with Jetty. She always said, It’s never a waste of money to buy a book. Or five. Or ten.

  “What is it?” Henry asked, watching her.

  She shook her head. “Jetty bought me lots of books in that shop. We came here all the time. We loved this place. I can’t believe it’s gone.”

  “I really wish it wasn’t. I’ve been driving to El Dorado to buy books for weeks.”

  Matilda smiled at him. “Really? That’s a long drive.”

  “I have an addiction.”

  She laughed. “Me too. But I have a library to feed my problem.”

  Henry, smiling, started to cross the street and she followed.

  They climbed the creaky porch steps, shuffling through a drift of dry leaves. The front door was a fine walnut specimen, deeply grained, with a piece of stained glass set into the top third, an open book immortalized in silky white and brown, surrounded by splendid waves of vibrant blue and green. Matilda ran her fingers along the milky glass, dropping them to the matching rich-blue glass doorknob. “Jetty told me this door was magic. I think I still believe her.”

  Henry smiled. “I think I do too.” He went to the front window, cupped his eyes to look in. Matilda joined him. Peering inside at the naked shelves and lonely tables made her ache inside. The loss seemed a grand injustice. She pictured it as it had been. She imagined she and Henry strolling in to browse books together. They could hand each other books instead of fumble for conversation.

  The space was perfect for a bookshop—quaint little rooms, handsome built-in oak shelves, a narrow creaky staircase in the rear leading to the second floor with its slanted ceilings.

  Thunder rumbled. A cool wind blew down the street. Right behind it came the rain, falling with fevered enthusiasm.

  Reluctantly, Matilda turned away from the melancholy window to face the storm. The rain fell in thick beaded cords off the edge of the porch roof, splashing into the mud around a row of rose bushes. White roses, plump and pretty.

  “Well, here’s the rain,” Henry said, joining her at the railing. “I guess we’re stuck here for a bit. Too bad we can’t go inside. I’d love to see it.”

  Matilda turned back to the door, wishing the same. She took a few steps forward. The doorknob was cool under her palm. She gripped it. Turned it. The door creaked open. Matilda’s jaw dropped. She hadn’t really expected to find it unlocked. She gasped, looked over at Henry. He quickly joined her.

  The years of neglect had not cleared the smell of pages. Matilda closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. The dusty scent, mixed with the rain, took her to a hundred different places at once. Back porch nights with Jetty. Reading in bed, under the covers with a flashlight. The night with Henry in her kitchen.

  She pushed the door open a little more.

  “Is that a small town thing—the door unlocked like that?” Henry asked.

  “No, that’s weird.” Matilda looked up at the underside of his freckled jaw. She had no problem picturing him meandering the aisles of a bookshop. “Let’s go in,” she whispered, her heart immediately kicking into high gear.

  Henry looked down at her, eyes wide. She worried he was going to say no, close the door, and lecture her about trespassing. Instead, wonderfully, he smiled and stepped into the shop. Matilda nearly giggled with nervous glee, but found she could not when he reached back to take her hand, leading her inside. Closing the door behind them.

  For a moment, they only stood, hand in hand, the quiet room taking in their arrival. Matilda felt Henry’s own surprised tension at the joining of their hands. Perhaps it’d been impulse. Should she pull away? Even if she wanted to, she didn’t have the strength. Her hand in his felt like cool sheets on a hot night. The word blissful danced in her head, and as ridiculous and traitorous as it was, she smiled at it.

  Henry took a full breath, loud in the vacant room. “The smell,” was all he said.

  Matilda nodded, hoping he couldn’t hear her heart kicking her ribs. “Is there anything better than a bookstore? Even one dead and abandoned?”

  He shook his head, smiling. Every part of her warmed.

  The main room, a box of a space, with four walls of shelves, hummed with the ghosts of books and book lovers. The register desk was constructed of old books, multicolored spines stacked to height and topped with a handsome slab of dark glossy wood. They walked over to it, reaching out hands at the same moment. They exchanged a smile.

  From the main room they walked into another smaller room, much the same with its ceiling-height shelves. There were two tall windows between the shelves and Matilda remembered that once there had been crystals hanging in them to throw rainbows into the space whenever the sun shone. “This was the children’s room,” she whispered. “It’s also a little magical.” Henry’s grip on her hand tightened. She felt a little like a teenager, sneaking around somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be—with a boy. But she also felt as if she’d stepped into a richly important moment. Something almost sacred, something her problems couldn’t touch. Perhaps it was only the atmosphere of an abandoned bookstore and Henry’s hand wrapped around hers.

  He nodded to the doorway. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  To climb the narrow creaky staircase Henry should have released her hand to make it easier for them to ascend the low-ceiling stairwell, but he didn’t. She happily angled her body to accommodate. At the top of the stairs, one large room opened up, the two dormer windows at the front.

  Matilda sighed. “Wow!” she whispered, finding it hard to speak loudly. She’d always known it to be crammed with shelves and books. The surprise of so much open space and the delightfully slanted roofs made her smile. The only shelves left were those along the walls, and also one lone square table and a slouching couch under the windows.

  They moved toward it. “That’s the ugliest couch I’ve ever seen,” Henry said.

  Matilda laughed loudly, and then brought a hand to her mouth to remind herself of the sneaking. Henry smiled at her. It really was though—an ugly couch. Mustard yellow with an abrasive paisley design, it sat long and low, the cushions sunk in from years of loungers. It had never been in the store when she’d visited. It felt like it had appeared just for them.

  “Well, then, we must sit on it,” Matilda added.

  Henry pulled her around and they sat, close to one another, both stiff from the contact. The couch faced the windows. Beyond the glass the sky was stone gray, the sunlight nearly gone behind the swollen rainclouds. Sitting so low, it was almost like looking up through a skylight. Matilda let her head fall back, her eyes watching the lazy water tumble down from the sky.

  The only sounds were the rain and their breathing. Henry’s breathing. She could feel the rise and fall of his lungs, his shoulder moving against hers. It shocked her to realize that she had never felt this at home. Not in her childhood home with Jetty, not in the library. But in this orphaned bookshop, sitting on a hideous, dust-filled couch, next to a stranger.

  The idea made her want to run. It couldn’t be right.

  How can this be right?

  Am I imagining this too?

  It’s an awful thing not to trust one’s own mind.

  Henry leaned into her a little more, relaxing his body into the cushions.

  “We should probably go,” she mumbled.

  “Probably,” Henry replied, but did not move. His grip on her hand tightened. He had not let her go for even half a second. After a moment of silence, in which Matilda agonized over how she felt and how she should feel, Henry lifted their joined hands. His energy shifted; Matilda held her breath. “Matilda … I am profoundly screwed up.”

  Matilda lifted her head to look at the side of his face. His hair was slightly wet from the rain spray coming off the porch roof; she wanted to touch it. She didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure what he wanted her to say.

/>   “I’ve tried not to want … this,” he looked at their hands, rubbed the back of hers with his thumb. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Matilda swallowed the knot in her throat. Suddenly, the silence was deafening and his simple honesty overwhelming. The inside of her head roared. Should she deny him again, make excuses? What was the right thing to do? The silence ticked on. Matilda knew she had to say something soon. A proper little speech formed in her head, but shattered when he turned to look at her with his lake-water eyes.

  “I am also profoundly screwed up,” she heard herself say.

  Henry smiled, his eyes filling with light. “Well, as long as we start in the same place.”

  Matilda laughed quietly, the action releasing some of the tension in her chest. “It’s a good place to start.” Oh my gosh! So is this the start … of us? Matilda and Henry. Together? She had a random thought: We’ve always been us.

  Henry nodded, his smile growing. His eyes moved off her face, and his expression changed. “Look at that.”

  Matilda turned, half expecting to see some rodent racing along the dusty wooden floor, but instead she spotted a row of books on a lower shelf. “Left behind,” she said. “How sad.”

  Henry finally released her hand, stood. He went to the shelf and brought back an armful. She reached up to take a few. “Poetry. Short stories,” she announced as she read the covers and spines. “Wonder why they are still here.”

  Henry dropped back into his seat, the couch protesting with a wooden groan. “Nobody likes poetry anymore,” he joked. He flipped through a tattered volume. “These books need to be read. Don’t you think?”

  “Of course.”

  “But we can’t do this without some supplies.”

  “Supplies?”

  Henry popped back off the couch. “Stay here.”

  Confused, Matilda turned in the couch. “Wait! Where are you going?”

  “Dinner. Stay.” He motioned with both his hands for her to stay in her seat. “We can’t survive the night on just those chocolates. I’ll go get dinner. Give me ten minutes.”