Nameless

by Sam Starbuck

  "Please don't – they're poisonous," he said, as I reached out to touch one. "It's hemlock. Most people mistake it for parsley."

  "Ah," I said, looking back at Socrates. The real Socrates had been executed by the state, ordered to drink a cup of brewed hemlock. "Yes, I see."

  "I thought I'd decorate him with it. It's interesting to try growing it, anyway."

  I opened my mouth to ask him if these masks were why he wanted the book, and then I caught sight of the ceiling.

  "How the hell did you do that?" I asked, looking up at a charred spot in the plaster about three feet wide, spreading across one of the beams as well.

  "I..." he glanced up. "Little accident. I thought when I was feeling better I'd replaster it. Plaster, I'm good with," he said, gesturing at the worktables. "You said you brought my book?" he added, stuttering a little over the words.

  "Here," I said, setting my backpack down in a clear space on one table and digging out the package. "A friend of mine in the city found it."

  "Wrapped and everything," he said with a smile, picking at the twine. "You didn't have to come all the way out here."

  "The boy said your telephone was dead, and you're not used to living in these conditions – it's just as well I did," I answered, rubbing the back of my head and looking up at the dark spot on the ceiling. "At least now you'll know how to fix a flipped circuit."

  He looked embarrassed and my own scorn made me uncomfortable. I picked up another mask, toying with the beaded decoration around the edge as Lucas eagerly opened his book. He took out one of the bay leaves Marjorie had stuffed it with, brow furrowing.

  "Amazing she's stayed in business, smoking around the books like that," I said casually.

  "Yeah, I think she bleaches her teeth too – " he stopped mid-speech and looked up at me.

  "I assume that her reluctance to sell to an artist is your fault," I continued. "I told her I was a roofer. What a roofer would want with a book on classical history I couldn't say, but she swallowed it all right."

  He was quiet for a while. I wasn't sure what I even wanted. Not a confession or an apology, certainly. Acknowledgment, maybe. I don't know.

  "She wouldn't sell to me. She thinks it's a dangerous book," he said finally. "I wish I'd just stolen the copy from the library."

  "Why didn't you?"

  "Didn't want to go back into the city, and stealing from libraries is pathetic." He snuffled and turned his head to cough, away from the book.

  "You knew I'd find her copy."

  "I thought so. I offered her twice what it's worth, she still wouldn't sell." He put the bay leaf back and closed the book, pressing his hand flat over the cover.

  "It's not exactly top-secret," I said. "I don't see how it could be dangerous."

  "No, of course not. Maybe she just didn't like the look of my face. I'm sorry I lied," he said. "What do I owe you? I – I won't bother trying to buy your respect, but you should have something above the price and postage. You dragged up here through the mud and fixed my home."

  "We don't charge extra for delivery," I said with a small grin. "It's all right, really, Lucas. You wanted the book, she wouldn't sell it to you. I know how it is when you want a book you can't get."

  "Well, I'm still sorry."

  "Lucas, really," I said, and he looked up at me again. There was a little color coming into his cheeks from the heat of the fire. "It's fine."

  He seemed to consider, then nodded. Probably didn't want to press his luck, now that he had his book.

  "Do you want lunch, at least?" he asked. "The kitchen'll be warm enough to cook in, pretty soon."

  "What've you been doing in the meantime, roasting things over the fire?"

  "Haven't been very hungry, but that's a pretty good idea. I've never had a fireplace before."

  "Really?" I asked. "Never?"

  He shrugged, tucking his knees up against his chest so he could wrap the corners of the blanket around his feet. "Always lived in apartments. Central heating. Super took care of...the big light switches and stuff."

  "Circuit breakers."

  "Those."

  "You got the fire going, though."

  "The boy sold me some starter-logs when I bought the wood."

  I laughed. "Good for him. You stay here. I'll heat something up for us."

  "I can – "

  "Lucas, for God's sake, stay there. It's not exactly a chore."

  "There's canned soup in the pantry," he called after me, as I shut the door to keep the living room's heat in. The kitchen was still cold, but not the icy-frigid it had been when I came in. I put the milk away in the fridge.

  There was soup in the pantry, but not much else. I put it on the stove to heat and then poked around curiously for as long as I could justify. There wasn't much to see. When the food was ready I poured it into bowls and returned to the welcome heat of the living room.

  "Well," I said. "You're just about out of everything. I'll send the boy up with some food for you – he wants to see you anyway. You're in no condition to be wandering around in the snow."

  "Snow?" Lucas asked, looking alarmed.

  "Probably this evening. I doubt it'll be very much, but they don't exactly plow your road."

  He ate a spoonful of soup, hissing when it burned his tongue.

  "Tell him I'll pay commission," he said, when he'd swallowed.

  "He'll like that, but you don't have to."

  "I want to. I should pay you too – by the time you get back your whole day will be wasted."

  "I don't think it's wasted. And even if it were, it's my choice," I said. "Besides, I got to see your workshop. All these masks – they don't make you nervous at all?"

  He glanced around. "No. But I made them, so..." another shrug. "Do they scare you?"

  "I wouldn't say scare, but I wouldn't sleep in here. There's just...a lot of them. They are beautiful, though," I added, picking up Dottore again and admiring the thin wire glasses and the high cheekbones.

  "I don't suppose you want one," Lucas said. I looked over the edge of the mask at him.

  "You're really determined to pay me, huh?" I said.

  "I just think you should have something."

  "Can I have this one?"

  He looked at Dottore nervously.

  "Wouldn't you rather have Arlecchino, though? I have some good ones..." he stood, still carrying his bowl in one hand, and reached up to a high shelf. The mask he took down had bulging cheeks and an intricate copper-and-white design, with a large knob on the left side of its forehead. "The clever clown," he said with a grin.

  "If you'd rather not give me Dottore, that's all right..."

  "No...I just thought you might prefer this one," he said hastily. He didn't seem to regret giving up the mask itself – there was no possessiveness in his gaze. It was more that he didn't want to give it to me. But, whatever mask fit Lucas best, I was no doubt destined for the educated fool.

  "I'll wrap it for you," he added, taking a piece of cheap white muslin from the workbench and tucking it around the mask carefully, padding the eyes with little folds of the cloth before tying the corners into a thick knot in the concave hollow at the back. While he was working I sat down and began eating, so that when he was finished he could join me without too much discomfort.

  There was plenty to look at, as we ate. Long flats of thin leather lay in a pile next to a pot on a complicated-looking hot plate. Nearby, a wooden upright had a wire structure built around it faintly resembling a face, and next to that were several dried lumps of clay that could be assembled into a nose, mouth, forehead, even ears if you squinted the right way. I caught myself glancing back at Lucas as he ate, studying the shape of his nose, the way the lamp cast little triangular shadows below his eyes.

  When the wind began to howl in the eaves I realized that I should be heading homeward if I didn't want to become a house-guest for the night. He saw me to the door through the now-warm kitchen.

  "I hope you feel better," I said, carefully
shouldering the bag with the mask inside it. I put my boots on, the dried mud cracking off here and there and falling onto the mat.

  "I'm sure I'll be fine in a few days," he answered. "I'll come to see you soon."

  "Well, don't push yourself, get well first. If you start to feel worse, the Culligan farm's closest – head south where the asphalt starts, they'll drive you in to see Dr. Kirchner."

  "Thanks, Christopher," he said, and gave me a smile before he closed the door behind me.

  Outside it was still cold and the clouds were turning the light blue, making the wet earth look almost black beneath the grass. Snow began to fall while I was still walking, and by the time I reached the edge of the village I was dusted lightly with white flakes. Children were out and running around in it, scraping the thin layers of snow off the pavement and hurling it at each other. The boy was among them, in fact, and I waved him over to where I stood on the opposite side of the street, avoiding the snowball-fight.

  "You come from The Pines?" he asked. "How is he?"

  "He's been sick. I want you to take him some food tomorrow, when you go up for tutoring. He says he'll pay you."

  His chest puffed out proudly. "I'll do it. You think the snow will stick?"

  "At least for a day or two. Ask the grocer to fix up a package of food for the man at The Pines and put it on Christopher Dusk's account. Butter, eggs, some canned soup, bread, some vegetables. Tell Lucas he can send the payment back to Dusk Books with you, or settle next time he's in town. Matters of high finance, now. Are you certain you're up to it?"

  "Of course I am!" he said. A stray handful of snow fell nearby and he turned to shout an insult at the girl who'd thrown it. "I better run or they'll hit you too. See you tomorrow!" he added as he ran across the street.

  I walked on, down into Low Ferry proper, where people were less jubilant and went everywhere with their collars turned up, muttering about the weather.

  I was glad to get back to the warmth of my home and unpack Dottore, setting him on the kitchen table upstairs. The way Lucas had handled him made me treat him with a little more respect than I had at first, and I wasn't certain where I wanted to display him yet.

  The door clattered in the shop below and a voice called my name – there'd be plenty of time to decide what to do with him later, while I was serving my customers. I yelled back, gave Dottore one last look, and went down the stairs to the shop.

  ***

  I soon had other artistic concerns regarding the decoration of the bookstore as well. Dusk Books actually had two front doors, one on top of the other: a wooden door that opened out and a glass door that opened in. In the summertime I only used the glass door, hooking the wooden one permanently against the outer wall. When the cold weather set in I usually reversed them, unhooking the wooden door so that it swung shut and propping the thin, uninsulated glass one against the inner wall until spring.

  The wooden door was faded and peeling a little, as it usually was come autumn, and I'd been waiting for weeks to paint it. I'd wanted to do it before the snow started, but the humidity rolled in so fast that I hadn't had the chance. In wet weather it would dry too slowly and peel too quickly.

  After that first flurry of snow, we had a handful of clear and reasonably dry days and Paula started to harass me about the sorry state of my storefront. So, four days after the snow had melted, when the clear weather seemed likely to hold for a little while longer, I went down to the hardware store and bought a gallon of green paint. I dug the old sanding-block, brushes, roller, and primer out of my closet, set them outside with the paint, and then began loading up a rolling shelf with books.

  Considering that a new layer of paint on the door in the winter and a touch-up to my store sign in the spring were the extent of my yearly upkeep on Dusk Books, I felt that I had the right to enjoy them a little. Thus, twice-yearly, Low Ferry's main street was treated to my out-of-doors book sale when the paintbrushes came out.

  I set out the second rolling shelf as well, with a pot of coffee and some pastries from the cafe as a lure to get people up the walk and onto the porch to investigate the books. I offer good bargains when I'm in a painting mood, and business is usually brisk.

  "Good morning, Christopher!" Charles called, as I was fitting sandpaper into the block and deciding where to begin my attack. "Sanding the door?"

  I paused and considered his question. He chuckled.

  "That's a yes," he said.

  "Something like that," I agreed. I knelt and smoothed my hand over the wood at the bottom of the door.

  "Going to start from the bottom or the top?"

  "Well, that's always the question. Do I sand top-down and save the crouch-work for last, or do I start at the bottom so that I can be stretching by the time I'm done?" I asked. "Have some coffee."

  "Don't mind if I do," Charles said, helping himself to a cup and a danish before stepping back. "Just on my way to see Old Harrison about some firewood."

  "Oh yes? For the bonfire?" I asked, lying down and squirming onto one shoulder, starting to sand.

  "Bottom-going-up, hm? Yes, bonfire – I thought his boys could build it for us this year. Are you coming?"

  "Wouldn't miss it," I replied.

  "What about the dancing afterwards?"

  "Oh, I don't know, it's really for the youngsters, huh?" I grunted, working at a knot in the wood.

  "What do you think you are? I don't ask for myself, actually, there are a few women in the village who think it's high time you settled down."

  I laughed. "Everyone seems to think that. Who's been asking? No, never mind. I'd rather not know."

  "Sandra, actually."

  "Sandra! Doesn't she have enough trouble on her plate with Nolan and Michael?"

  "I get the feeling she's not asking for herself. Anyhow, it all seems to have calmed down now."

  "Oh? Did she pick someone?"

  "I don't know," Charles said vaguely, just as Jacob appeared on my walkway, still sporting a spectacular bruise on his face from his car accident.

  "Mornin'," he said, stepping around the paint cans and helping himself to a pastry. "Painting the door, Christopher?"

  "Yep," I replied, sighing.

  "Going to seal it?"

  "Think so."

  "Before or after?"

  "Both," I said, to stop him from giving me advice.

  "Shouldn't seal before if you're going to seal after."

  Sometimes, the effort is pointless.

  "Jacob, just the man I wanted to see," Charles said. "Now, I was wondering what you think of the church buying a new coffee urn. I know we have three, but one of them's gasping it's last..."

  They talked and drank coffee, watching as I sanded dirt, mold, and the worst of the cracked and peeling paint off the door. Others came and went as well, while my shoulders cramped and my clothes became covered in a thin film of green powder.

  People like to watch other people work. There's something soothing in seeing someone use their hands and muscles to make a thing beautiful. They'll stop to watch someone build a chair or brick a wall or paint a door, and the sale on books gave them a good excuse. They took books and put money in the canister I'd set out for it and hung around criticizing my technique with the sanding block until I'd finished.