The Color of Dust

by Claire Rooney

  Gillian smiled but she didn’t pause. “There couldn’t be a more perfect opportunity to really understand what moved people in the past than by examining an unbroken chain of the books they read. Your grandfather’s books stopped at nineteen forty. The year he died. I’m betting that the books in the library don’t stop until nineteen ninety-eight.”

  Carrie rubbed her palm over the top of her knee. “You’ll lose your money if you make that bet.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Carrie’s hand did a slow slide back to her ankle. “I’ve dusted every book in the library, and I haven’t found a single one older than nineteen fifty-three. There’s The Robe, Battle Cry, From Here to Eternity, Desiree, The Silver Chalice, all best sellers from nineteen fifty-three, but not This I Believe, Angel Unaware, A Man Called Peter or the Kinsey Report, all best sellers from nineteen and fifty-four. And also…What?” Gillian was staring at her like she’d just sprouted an extra head.

  “You remember all that just from dusting the books?”

  “No, of course not, silly.” Carrie pinched her big toe. “I’ve read all of them, so I know what’s missing.”

  Gillian’s eyes got wider. “You’ve read every book in that library in the few weeks that you’ve been here?”

  “More or less. Well, not all of them. Not yet. To be honest, I’m skipping the ones that I’ve already read, and that’s most of them.” Carrie met Gillian’s flabbergasted look with a confused look of her own. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “You’ve read almost every book in that library?” Gillian asked again, her feet sliding off Carrie’s knees. She leaned forward in her chair and pointed to the glass doors. “That library, right in there?”

  “Well, what else do I have to do?” Carrie shook her head. “I don’t understand why that’s so surprising to you.”

  Gillian slumped back in her chair, her hands draped limply over the sides. “Well, I’ll be damned. Here I was thinking I was going to be the smart one. All this time I’ve been lecturing you and you just sat there listening politely and never once said, ‘Yes, Gills, I know all that already, you big dumb dork.’”

  “But, Gills,” Carrie said with a laugh, “I didn’t know all that. You know far more about my family than I do and more about history than I ever will.”

  “But if you’ve read all those books in there then you know more about literature than everyone in this whole town all put together.”

  Carrie shook her head. “Only if it’s American popular literature. I don’t know shit about the classics.”

  “Whew, now that’s a relief.” Gillian wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “So that means I can talk about Euripides without embarrassing myself?”

  “Eur-ribbit-who?”

  Gillian laughed and then her face turned serious. “God, Carrie, I think I could fall in love with you.”

  Carrie’s eyes went wide. “Now who’s moving fast, country girl?”

  “That’s how we do it in the country, love fast and make love slow. But it’s a small town thing. I doubt a city girl like you would understand.”

  “I may not understand it, but I sure do appreciate it.”

  Gillian leaned over and stroked her knee. “How about if we go inside, get a pad of paper and a pen, and you can tell me what each book is about as I assess its condition?”

  Carrie took one last swig from her coffee mug. “Gee, that sounds exciting.”

  Gillian reached up and pulled a book off the bookshelf. She opened it and flipped through to the title page. “Okay, how about Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter? List it in excellent condition.”

  Carrie leaned back against the second floor banister and tapped her pencil against her chin. “I think that was around nineteen ten. A girl survives her misfortunes by always looking at the bright side of things. It was a best seller for a couple of years along with its sequels.” She jotted the title and condition on her pad. “It was also a movie with Mary Pickford in the twenties.”

  Gillian put the book back and pulled down another one. “The Sheik by Edith M. Hull. Call this one fair.”

  “Nineteen twenties.” Carrie scribbled on her pad. “That book was just god-awful, but for some reason people ate it up. It was also a silent movie with Rudolph Valentino and the origin of the word ‘sheik’ used to mean something suave or sexy.”

  Gillian shelved the book. Her hand hovered over the next one. “Oh, heavens…here’s a first edition Elmer Gantry, with the Gantry spelled wrong on the spine and everything! It’s too bad the cover is missing.”

  “Poor condition.” Carrie made a note on her pad. “I liked that one. I thought it had a good message. That was nineteen twenty-seven, I think, and a film in the early sixties.”

  Gillian gasped and pulled out another book. She flipped it open to look at the title page. “Oh, God, I think I’m going to faint.” She sank slowly to the floor and sat down hard.

  Carrie looked over Gillian’s shoulder at the book she was holding. “Ah, nineteen thirty-six. The best selling novel there ever was, but it was only on the best seller list for two years because by nineteen thirty-eight everyone who could read already owned a copy.”

  “A first edition Gone with the Wind. Oh, Carrie, just look at it!”

  “Did you know it took her ten years to write that? In the end, her timing was perfect, post-World War I with the tensions of World War II beginning to build. Right there at the tail end of the Depression, she puts out a book about the fall of the mighty and the proud and then ends it with the hope of a better day. I’ve always wondered if she knew what she was doing or if she was just following her own feelings.”

  “Carrie,” Gillian’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Yes, Gillian?”

  “It still has the dust jacket on it.”

  “Yes, and I remember dusting it too.”

  “Oh, God,” she said and put her head between her knees.

  “You’re not really going to faint are you?” Carrie knelt on the floor beside her. “I mean, the book can’t be all that valuable. It looks like it’s been read a million times.”

  “It is worth a fair bit, but it’s not the monetary value of it that gets me all aflutter. It’s the history it represents. Layers of history, history on top of history, right here in my hands.” Gillian held the book up and fanned through the pages. A small piece of paper fluttered into her lap. She picked it up. The paper was ragged edged and folded in half. Gillian waved it at Carrie. “I really need to teach you to go through things and not just dust the outside of them. You know, one time, I was going through an old cookbook and found a three-dollar bill tucked inside a recipe for braised lamb.”

  Carrie looked at the paper suspiciously. “I don’t think that’s a three-dollar bill.”

  “Nope. It’s just a piece of paper, and don’t roll your eyes at me, missy,” Gillian said sternly before Carrie could roll her eyes.

  “This piece of paper could be something important.”

  “Okay, so what does it say?”

  Gillian opened it. She frowned. “How strange. Today is the twenty-second, right?”

  “Yes, June twenty-second all day.”

  “This is dated June twenty-second, nineteen oh-seven.”

  A chill shivered down Carrie’s back as her skin prickled into bumps. “Read it.”

  Gillian squinted at the paper, turning it this way and that.

  “It’s hard to read. Shaky handwriting, thin ink, bad paper and all that.” Gillian tilted the paper into the light. “Let’s see. It says, ‘To my dearest Celia’…well that’s a good beginning, don’t you think?”

  “Quite lovely.” Carrie began to feel a little queasy.

  “Okay. Here’s what it says.” Gillian cleared her throat. “‘Lay me down on your floor, wrapped in the throw your grandmother crocheted, in front of the fire laid with sweet applewood and oak. Sit down beside me on the handwoven rug your mother wrought, my head in your lap, your hands light on my
breast and brow. Speak to me, whispering softy, and tell me the stories that live in your mind but have never been written, bound into paper by pen and ink. Watch the fire dance in my eyes.’” Gillian looked up from the paper, misty-eyed and sniffing. “That was so sweet. I think it’s sort of a poem.”

  Carrie swallowed hard. Her head buzzed with a static hum as bile rose to burn the back of her throat. “What the hell does it mean?” She sat on the floor next to Gillian. Now she was the one who felt faint.

  “I’m not sure what it means, but it’s lovely. Who do you think it was from? There’s the date at the bottom but no signature.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it was from my grandfather.” Carrie knew that was wrong as soon as she said it. It felt wrong before it even came out of her mouth.

  Gillian looked back at the paper. “I don’t think so. It says nineteen o-seven, but they weren’t married until nineteen ten after your grandmother recovered from a prolonged illness.”

  “I didn’t know she was sick. What did she have?”

  “I don’t know, but she was sick enough to be sent away for two years. My assumption is that it was tuberculosis, but that’s just a guess. I think the letter probably predates her engagement to your grandfather. Don’t forget that he was a doctor and it’s entirely possible that he fell in love while tending to her during her illness.”

  Carrie knew that was wrong, too. Why was she so certain?

  Something scratched at the back of her mind. It felt like a present waiting for Christmas. It was sitting and waiting but she couldn’t touch it. She thought hard. The buzz in her ears turned into a ringing, but whatever it was, it stayed just beyond her reach.

  She held out her hand. “Can I see the letter?”

  “Sure.” Gillian handed her the paper.

  Carrie unfolded it carefully. She read it through. Looking at it made her dizzy. The handwriting was so familiar, but she was sure she’d never seen it before. It didn’t make sense. “Did you see this?” Carrie pointed to the bottom right-hand corner of the letter. “It’s that flower again.”

  “So it is. Maybe it’s a signature of sorts. I bet it stands for somebody’s name, like Iris or Rose or Violet or something.”

  Carrie looked at Gillian. Her skin felt like it was stretching too tight over her bones as a piece of the puzzle struggled to click into place. “But this is a love letter.”

  “Not necessarily. Women expressed affection more freely and enthusiastically back then. It could be from a very close friend writing to your grandmother.” Gillian turned her eyes back to the shelves. “I wonder what book it was in originally? It couldn’t have been this one.”

  “Do you know anything about my grandmother’s close friends?”

  Gillian shook her head. “No. I’ve never run across anything to make me think she ever had any friends. She was not the most affectionate of women. Polite but very distant. Very aloof according to the house staff, but that was after her marriage. Anyone who knew her before would be dead and buried by now.”

  “And yet, someone once loved her enough to write her a poem.” Carrie read the paper again.

  Gillian frowned at Carrie and carefully closed the book in her lap. “Maybe we shouldn’t go through any more books.”

  Carrie looked at her a little surprised. “Why not?”

  “You don’t look at all well.”

  “I feel all right,” Carrie lied.

  Gillian shook her head. “I so totally don’t believe you. You’re looking very gray.”

  Carrie managed a grin. “Terrific, then I’ll match your eyes.”

  “Aren’t you a funny girl.” Gillian reached out to touch Carrie’s cheek. Her hand felt hot and dry.

  Carrie’s skin felt cold and clammy. “I’m fine, Gills. Really. I just need to take a break or something. Get some coffee maybe or a drink of water.”

  “How about if I make us something to eat?” Gillian brushed Carrie’s hair back away from her face. “It’s close enough to dinner time to call it a day.”

  “I have no idea what’s left in the refrigerator besides leftover turkey sandwiches.”

  “I’ll look around. I can be pretty creative.”

  “Yes, I know.” Carrie looked at her with a hopeful grin.

  “Maybe we could skip dinner.”

  Gillian looked at her sharply. “I think you need to eat.”

  “It doesn’t have to be dinner.”

  Gillian leaned over and gave her a kiss. “Silly.” She handed her the book, stood and headed for the front stairs.

  Carrie folded the paper and slipped it back in between the pages of Gone with the Wind. She stood on shaky knees. Her breath was shallow and short, but the nausea was fading along with the buzz in her ears. She put the book back on the shelf and walked slowly down the spiral staircase to the first floor of the library. She caught a glimpse of her reflection as she passed by the mirror. She stopped and stood in front of it. Her face did look gray and haggard, but everything behind her looked as it should. That is, it looked faded and old. It struck her suddenly that while she did feel tired, she didn’t feel old anymore, not like she did when she first came here. She thought of Gillian in the kitchen rummaging through the pantry and then of Gillian in the bathtub. She felt herself flush. A very creative woman, that Gillian. She liked her very much and knew that she would, in time, fall head over heels in love. If she wasn’t halfway there already. She knew this with certainty. The problem was that a small piece of her felt like it was already in love. And not with Gillian. She touched the mirror. The surface was hard and cold.

  Carrie took a sip of her soup as she watched Gillian pick another cracker out of the box, top it with a slice of sharp cheddar and pop it into her mouth. She leaned across the table and wiped a crumb off Gillian’s lip. Her fingers lingered over the point of her chin. “Would you like to stay again tonight? I can run you home to pick up a change of clothes and we can stop at the grocery store to get something for breakfast.”

  Gillian shook her head. “I really shouldn’t. Tongues will wag before we’re ready for it.”

  Carrie sat back in her chair. “That doesn’t bother me any.”

  “Then before I’m ready for it.” Gillian closed the box of crackers. “I want the chance to break it to my father gently.”

  Carrie picked up her spoon and stirred it around in her soup.

  “Your father’s a reasonable man. He’s not going to stop speaking to you just because you’re spending the night with me.”

  “He is a reasonable man, but he’s old and big changes don’t come easy at his age. He still has his hopes for me, and I’d like to let him down easily. I don’t want him to hear about us as gossip before he hears the truth from me.” Gillian wiped her mouth and put her napkin on the table. “Will you be all right if I leave? I’m a little worried about the sleepwalking thing.”

  “I’ll be fine provided I don’t sleepwalk into the kitchen and eat this entire wheel of cheese.”

  Gillian smiled over the table at her. “You better not. I claim half of this cheese as mine and I intend to eat it myself.” She pushed her chair back from the table and stood. She yawned and stretched.

  Carrie watched her shirt stretch tight over her chest. It made her own chest ache just a little. “When will I see you again?”

  “Very soon. I am worried about you. You look better but still a little peaked.”

  Carrie dropped her spoon into her soup bowl and stood. She walked around the table to Gillian and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Please don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  Gillian traced the edge of her face with her fingertips. “See that you are.”

  She gathered her keys from the kitchen counter. Carrie walked her to the front door, kissed her goodbye and watched her get into her car. It seemed that she had done this all too many times before. She was starting to dislike seeing red taillights disappearing into the trees.

  Carrie sighed and closed the door. Without Gillian, the
only thing to do was to clean something or read a book. She didn’t feel like cleaning and she was running low on books that she hadn’t already read at least once. There was still the Pimpernel book even though she had read that one before and wasn’t quite sure why she picked it up again. She had put it down days ago and still hadn’t finished it.

  Carrie went into the library and found the book still sitting on the table under the lamp. She sat, propped her feet on the ottoman and opened it to the page she’d marked with a frayed scrap of ribbon. It was hard going. With only one page turned, she missed Gillian already. The chair, with her feet propped up, was comfortable enough, in a thin cushioned way, but her eyes wouldn’t focus on the words. Her mind kept sliding off the page and back to the note they found tucked inside Gone with the Wind. Lay me down on your floor…Sweet applewood and oak…your hand on my breast… Carrie’s head jerked back up. She blinked at her book. She couldn’t see the words at all. The library was dark and still. The sun had set and she could hear night noises drifting in through the windows, the busy whirring and clicking of the cicadas and the crickets.

  Carrie reached over and switched on the lamp. The air was turning nippy. That was unusual for the day having been so warm, but as Gillian always said, “there was no accounting for the weather.” Carrie frowned and tilted her head to one side. Gillian never said that. Somebody else said that, but Carrie couldn’t think of who it might have been. She marked her page and put the book down. It didn’t matter who said it. It was still chilly. She couldn’t turn on the heat because she hadn’t had anybody out to look at the furnace yet, but a small fire in the fireplace sounded like a good idea. It would take the chill off the air and look nice glowing and crackling underneath the old mirror.

  She carried in two armloads of half rotten logs from the woodpile by the patio and a big bundle of fresh green clippings from the path trimmings. She got the fire going easily enough once she found the matches, though the wood snapped and popped irritably. The smell of smoke was faint but pleasant.