The Bookshop of Yesterdays

by Amy Meyerson

  * * *

  In the morning, the store smelled of burned toast from a bagel Lucia had forgotten in the toaster. She stomped around the tables, slamming plates of food before customers. Dr. Howard clapped to the beat of her stampede until she scowled at him.

  When I asked her what was wrong, she said, “You’re joking, right?” I followed her into the kitchen, watching as she smashed a slab of cream cheese between halves of a bagel. “Where the hell have you been?” Lucia glared impatiently at me, ready to attack.

  “I can’t deal with this right now.” I started to walk out of the kitchen. Lucia blocked me, the plate with the bagel poking me in my rib cage. “Aren’t you supposed to toast that?”

  “You’re suddenly the expert?” Lucia dropped the plate on the counter and started pacing. “You waltz in here and ask us to turn everything upside down, then you can’t even bother to show up.” She was like a peacock, sticking out her head, releasing exotic colors of emotion all around her. “Malcolm had to deal with the pipe by himself. Do you know what a pain in the ass that was? Then you miss my crochet circle not once but twice. You completely bailed on your turn to run the classics book club. Now, Alec’s canceled and, like, half the people who bought tickets for the gala want their money back.” When I gave her a look—Who’s Alec?—she widened her eyes disdainfully. “The DJ?”

  “So we’ll get someone else to DJ.” I really didn’t care about DJs or books clubs or pipes.

  “You know another world-class DJ who’s going to do our gala for free?”

  “What does that even mean, a world-class DJ?”

  She grabbed the plate with the untoasted bagel, the slab of cream cheese like a block of ice in the middle. “I know you’re only here temporarily, but we were counting on you.” She stormed out of the kitchen. Only temporary. That was me. Here and everywhere.

  Malcolm was reviewing the literature section, clipboard in hand, jotting notes as he surveyed a shelf. It was nearing mid-August, and the store was empty. Other than Dr. Howard, Ray the screenwriter and some guy I didn’t recognize, unfortunate enough to have ordered a bagel, none of the regulars were camped out in the café, not even Sheila. Two girls with backpacks and long brown hair browsed the literary section, competing to see who had read more. I recognized in the way they pointed to books without pulling them from the shelves that they weren’t going to buy anything.

  “Someone had sticky fingers with the Didion,” Malcolm said. He flipped the page and scanned the next list of books, scribbling checkmarks beside the titles. Lucia threw a chair into the table. Mugs clanked as she grabbed the bus tub. “Don’t pay attention to her,” Malcolm said. “It was, like, twenty tickets. She’s in the midst of her monthly fight with her boyfriend. She wants to feel like everyone’s let her down because he’s acting like an asshole. If she doesn’t cool down in a few minutes, I’ll tell her to take the day off.” Malcolm continued checking the books. “I’ve put in a few calls to musicians I know. I’ll find someone to play. Besides, we don’t really want to be saved by a bunch of EDM-loving millennials, anyway.” He flipped the page on his clipboard and began examining the next shelf.

  “I’m sorry.” All the emotion I should have felt since Big Bear poured into me at once. My legs buckled and I leaned against the shelves so I wouldn’t fall. My headed pounded. I couldn’t see straight. My ears rang painfully. Malcolm peered over at me, the two of him that I saw, suddenly worried. He put the clipboard on the shelf and stepped closer to me, resting his hand on my shoulder.

  “You okay?” he asked. I gasped for air but my lungs blocked it. “Hey now, you’re okay. Come on, let’s sit down.” He threw my arm across his shoulders and walked me to the desk.

  I sat in the desk chair as Malcolm went to get me a glass of water. I leaned down, placing my head between my knees and breathed. Was I dying? Was this a panic attack? Malcolm returned and handed me the water. He rubbed my back as I took a few small sips. The water seemed to expand my throat; my breath returned. My head still pounded, only I could no longer hear it in my ears, and my vision focused until there was only one Malcolm standing beside me, still concerned. Suddenly, I wanted to say everything to him that I’d hoped to hear from Mom. “I’m so sorry for before. I know Billy was your friend. I haven’t really thought about what this must have been like for you. I’m sorry I haven’t been more understanding. I’m sorry—”

  “Shh,” Malcolm said. His hand was still on my back. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” I continued to breathe as Malcolm studied me. He was so calm I started to feel embarrassed. But he looked at me like he’d seen it all before, like it was no big deal.

  “I really am sorry,” I said.

  Malcolm nodded. “It’s cool. I know it’s been hard for you, too, Billy’s death. I’m sorry, too.” He leaned against the desk, and I could tell he wanted to say something more to me. “Billy and I have season tickets to the Dodgers. There’s a game tomorrow. You’ll come?” His tone was so flat I wasn’t sure if he was asking or telling me to come.

  “I’d like that,” I said, and he nodded like the matter was settled. I watched as he returned to the shelves, found his clipboard and continued to do the inventory check. I felt my heartbeat not quite race but pulse, and it gave me hope that if I could feel excited about something again, I’d be able to feel other normal emotions at some point, too.

  I finished the water and walked to the café to put the glass in the bus tub. Malcolm smiled when I passed him, his gaze soothing, and I doubted I could ever get used to those eyes, that they could ever lose their hold on me.

  The café was so silent I could hear Dr. Howard scribbling on his legal pad. I found my bag, which I’d abandoned at the back table when Lucia had started yelling at me. Bridge to Terabithia rested on top of my wallet. I put it on the table, twisting the bookmark in my hand. I stared at Lee Williams’s name. Lee was always in the store on the afternoons when Billy brought me to Prospero Books. I never remembered a closeness between him and Billy. Still, Lee must have known how I ended up being raised by my aunt and uncle. Billy must have told him something that would help me understand what I was supposed to do now that I had no mother or father, now that Billy had imploded my reality without creating a new one in its wake.

  Lucia left without saying goodbye. She didn’t even say hi to Charlie when he traded places with her, just brushed past him. He rolled his eyes at me as she slammed the door on her way out. Her anger was misplaced. She was really angry at Prospero Books, that everything wasn’t working out so easily. That was a good anger. It was one that would drive our fight to save the store.

  Charlie sat at my table, flipped through Bridge to Terabithia. “Poor Jess Aarons.”

  “Poor Leslie,” I said.

  Charlie carefully put the book on the table as though it were an antique, capable of breaking. “I don’t think we’re supposed to pity Leslie. She died, but it was a brave death. She taught Jess to be brave, too.”

  “So then why do you pity Jess?”

  Charlie considered my question. “Maybe not at the end, but watching him deny her death, the guilt he felt because he abandoned her that day. It’s so real.”

  Charlie pet the book before hopping up to check the coffee thermoses. He ran until he was stumbling but he kept on, afraid to stop. Jess had tried to outrun Leslie’s death. He wasn’t faster than Leslie when they’d raced at school. He wasn’t faster than her death, either. And when he stopped running, he discovered how to memorialize his friend, how to keep the magic of Leslie alive, the magic of Terabithia, too.

  * * *

  Dodger Stadium was two and a half miles from the store, through Elysian Park, mostly uphill. Along the walk, I replayed Malcolm’s words in several tones. There’s a game tomorrow. You’ll come? he said hopefully. You’ll come? he ordered. You’ll come, he begged. You’ll come, he condescended. None of those tones felt right. I kept repeating his sentence with
other inflections, distracting myself from the fact that I hadn’t found Lee Williams, that I hadn’t heard from Mom again, either.

  Despite the brisk weather, I was perspiring by the time I reached the parking lot. My seat was on the reserve level, above home plate. I walked between rows of blue chairs toward a familiar mop of hair. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I exhaled. Even though I saw Malcolm nearly every day, we’d never been together outside the store before.

  Malcolm jumped up when he saw me, spilling half his bag of peanuts. I sidled through the row of people, stopping when I arrived beside him. He hesitated, then hugged me, the embrace over as quickly as it had been initiated.

  “You made it,” he said.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “Never know with you,” he said as if I were an enigma, some inscrutable puzzle he couldn’t solve. I sat in the seat beside him. Our knees touched as we watched the game.

  Malcolm tossed peanuts into his mouth, cracking the shells with his teeth. The Dodgers’ pitcher threw the first strike. Malcolm clapped after the batter struck out. The second batter hit a single to center field. With the bases loaded, the batter hit a fly ball, and the Dodgers filed into the dugout.

  Malcolm stood up. “Do you want a beer? I’ll get you a beer.”

  I sat alone, watching the away team warm up for the second inning. I hadn’t been to a game since middle school, when Dad used to get us tickets to the studio’s box. Throughout the game, I’d sit in the front row, eyes peeled on the field, glove on my left hand, ready for a fly ball even though it would have been near-impossible for a foul ball to have reached the box. Dad would sit on the couches inside, chatting with his colleagues. Often, I was the only kid. Rather than feeling lonely, it made me proud. This was a business event, and still, Dad wanted to bring me. Every inning or so, he would sit beside me for a batter, pointing out the batter’s perfect form, the telltale signs that the pitcher was about to throw a fastball down the middle. When you step up to the plate, he said, make sure to look the pitcher in the eye. You see how the batter just did that? That lets the pitcher know you’re not afraid. Baseball is like the rest of life, he told me. You have to decide how you want to be.

  Malcolm reappeared with two beers. We sipped from our plastic cups as we watched a Dodger stake out his position in the batter’s box. I kept thinking about Dad. Mom must have told him I’d stopped by the house. He hadn’t called me. He hadn’t sent me a commanding text to come home. I snuck furtive glances at Malcolm as he focused on the game. I still wasn’t sure why he’d asked me to come. Perhaps he’d put together an offer to buy me out or wanted to talk about the transition after I left. Malcolm didn’t mention Prospero Books, and the longer we watched the game, the more it felt like an outing between friends.

  “You come to a lot of games?” I asked.

  “Billy and I usually made it to a game a week when the Dodgers were home. Billy hated to go a series without a game. He said it gave him cold sweats.”

  “I didn’t realize he was a sports fan.”

  “Only baseball.” Malcolm stood as a ball soared into the outfield. “Go, go, go.” He twisted his body like a novice bowler hoping to steer the bowling ball from its natural trajectory toward the gutter. The baseball fell foul. “Damn.” Malcolm sat down and popped another peanut into his mouth. “This is the last home game we have tickets for. I don’t know if I can get season tickets next year without him.”

  I began to put my hand on his back, then felt awkward about it. I took one of Malcolm’s peanuts and cracked it open with my fingers, digging the nut from the shell.

  “That’s cheating. You have to crack it with your teeth and spit the shell.” He made a clicking sound as a tiny piece of shell arced out of his mouth.

  The Dodgers were down 3-2. Malcolm chewed his nail. I sensed that this game mattered more to him than to the Dodgers’ record. The batter walked toward home plate like he’d already struck out.

  I stood up and started clapping. “All right, batter, batter, batter.”

  I motioned to Malcolm to join me and we screamed like it was the bottom of the ninth. Our energy was contagious. A man with a mullet stomped his feet. A blonde my mother’s age danced. The batter watched two strikes go by.

  “Swing, dammit!” Malcolm shouted. The bat cracked and the batter hesitated before running to first.

  “Thank you!” Malcolm slapped me a high five.

  Everyone stood for the leadoff hitter. This was the Dodgers’ chance to break ahead. Cheers cocooned us, enclosing Malcolm and me into a small world of our own. He put his arm around me and swayed my body with his as we cheered. I felt the warmth of his chest, certain this was something more than a game with a friend or at least that I wanted it to be. Memories of Phillies games with Jay flashed through my mind. I quickly shook them off. It didn’t feel quite right, being here with Malcolm when things were still so uncertain with Jay, but it didn’t feel quite wrong, either. The leadoff hitter struck out. Malcolm muttered a string of nasty words as he sat back down.

  The music got louder as the Dodgers tumbled out of the dugout. The screen above the scoreboard went black and the words Kiss Cam appeared inside a pink heart. An old couple’s faces materialized in the heart. When they caught their profiles on the jumbo screen, they leaned into each other. Malcolm and I watched the pitcher warm up on the mound, both pretending we weren’t monitoring the screen.

  “When are you headed back to Philly?”

  “In two weeks or so. School starts the first week of September.”

  “You excited to head back to work?”

  The old couple’s image disappeared, replaced by a mother and son. He squirmed as she tried to kiss him.

  “I don’t know if anyone is ever excited to go to work.” My sarcasm surprised me. I’d never been flip about the start of the school year. By the time the summer was over, long days filled with reading and sleeping and a newfound, quickly abandoned exercise regimen, I’d itched to feel useful. Sure, the first morning my alarm went off at 5:15, I’d always asked myself, Can I really do this again? but I was never glib.

  “I always am.” He smiled. The Kiss Cam continued to capture couples, startled, then passionate, and I felt a subtle disappointment each time Malcolm’s face and mine weren’t broadcast across the screen. Malcolm had plump lips. They looked like good kissing lips. A tinge of guilt as I recalled Jay’s lips, how a few months ago I’d hoped he’d be the last man I’d ever kiss.

  “Once I’m back in the classroom, I’ll realize how much I missed it. For now, it doesn’t seem real that I’m leaving,” I said.

  In the bottom of the ninth, the Dodgers hit two doubles and a home run to win the game, and we were in the mood to celebrate. We stopped at a bar that was once an old cop haunt now overrun by recent college graduates. With the arrival of the new patronage, the owner had repurposed the neighborhood bar into a nightclub, fashioned with a dance floor and photo booth. Tonight, it didn’t matter if you were old Echo Park or new, because everyone was a Dodgers fan. Even I had a Dodgers hat on. Malcolm bought it for me on one of his trips to the bathroom.

  After a few beers Malcolm grabbed my hand and we danced to Michael Jackson beneath the glittering disco ball. The music’s beat was a call to action. While I wasn’t exactly comfortable, I was fluid, organic. Malcolm was a terrible dancer. That didn’t stop him from breaking out every move from his junior high days.

  When the Dodgers bar got too crowded, we stumbled down Sunset toward Prospero Books. It was over two miles and our drunken banter fizzled out as the cold night sobered us up. We stopped at a red light.

  “Should we get a car?” he asked.

  “We’re more than halfway there at this point.”

  “But you’re shivering.” He took off his coat. “At least take this.”

  The light changed and I pulled his jacket tightly around my
shoulders. It smelled like Malcolm. Cinnamon salted with sweat. I didn’t realize I knew his scent. I inhaled deeply, trying to lock it in as a sensory memory, something I could return to when I thought about Malcolm, something that from across the country would help me remember this night.

  When we got back to Prospero Books, Malcolm guided me around the store like I’d never been there before, introducing me to the books he loved, others that were Billy’s favorites. I showed Malcolm the books I loved, biographies on Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln. I told Malcolm that Thomas Jefferson loved books, that he spent weeks in seclusion, reading and rewriting sections he didn’t like. He even edited Shakespeare. Shakespeare.

  “I bet he didn’t change Miranda,” Malcolm said. “‘But you, o you, so perfect and so peerless, are created of every creature’s best.’” I was surprised he knew the line. “It’s from The Tempest,” he explained, grinning ear to ear.

  “I know what it’s from,” I said warily. His sincerity caught me off guard.

  Malcolm consolidated Billy’s titles on the staff table to make room for mine. He wrote my name on a card and sketched a caricature of me. My eyes were bigger in the drawing than in life, my lips pouty. I took the most recent biography on Paul Revere—one that highlighted his role in the Revolution while debunking Longfellow’s myth of the man—and put it on an empty stand. Malcolm watched me. Soon, his face approached mine. He kissed me tentatively at first, expecting me to stop him. When I didn’t, his kiss deepened.