Читать книгу The Bookshop Of Yesterdays - Amy Meyerson - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

In the morning, the remains of last night’s party looked staged: cups scattered haphazardly across the living room floor; a fedora resting on the couch’s arm; the hum of the stereo speakers left on after the music had stopped. It was already hot, the moist air rank with spilled beer and cigarette butts.

“It smells like a frat house in here.” Jay coughed harshly.

“I wouldn’t know.” Although there were several fraternities at Penn, I was more the type to indulge in jugged wine with the other members of the history review, making drinking games out of the presidents and state capitals. You’re such a nerd, Jay had declared proudly when I’d described my version of college partying.

“Come on, nerd,” he flirted. “I’ll buy you brunch.”

We walked to what had quickly become our regular spot. The tables lining the sidewalk were overcrowded but the dim, cool dining room was mostly unoccupied.

Jay ordered two Bloody Marys. The sight of that red liquid glittering with pepper sent a sharp punch to my gut. Jay gulped his down in a matter of seconds and didn’t fight when I pushed my drink toward him. Despite the news of Billy’s death and a pounding headache from a night of too much beer and not enough sleep, I couldn’t shake an expectant feeling. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Billy sent me something before he died. And where there was one clue from Billy, there were always more. I found the card in my bag and slid it across the table. Jay wiped his hands before carefully removing the card from its envelope.

“I got that yesterday from my uncle,” I explained.

“What’s it mean?” he asked, reading the inside of the card.

“It’s something he said to me after my first earthquake.”

That night was one of my first vivid memories. My parents had gone out, and Billy was babysitting. We stayed up late to watch Return to Oz. I wasn’t allowed to watch the movie, but I didn’t tell Billy, not that he’d asked whether shock treatments and a demonic Oz were appropriate for a four-year-old. From the entrance of the menacing score, I knew I was in for a sleepless night. When Billy put me to bed, I didn’t tell him to leave a light on, even though the shadows from the floodlights etched the monstrous shapes of the Nome King across my walls. I tossed and turned, and soon the floor began to vibrate. The trophies on my bookshelf rattled. The Nome King had overtaken my room, shifting the walls into stone gargoyles and goblins that wanted to eat me. I screamed. The room didn’t stop shaking. I screamed louder. By the time Billy opened the door, the bookshelves had stopped moving but the Nome King’s minions remained in the shadows across my walls.

Billy sat on my bed and rubbed my back. It was only a small earthquake, he said. He tried to turn on the lights but the power had died. He started to leave the room. I shouted for him to stay. I’ll be right back. I just need to find a flashlight.

I begged him not to go, and he abandoned the hunt for a flashlight, lying beside me on my narrow twin bed. Each time I drifted to sleep, I felt him slip out of bed, and I pleaded for him to stay. Eventually, he stopped trying to leave and fell asleep beside me.

In the morning, sunlight filled the room and Billy was gone. I searched for evidence of the earthquake. Billy was right. It was a small one. Nothing had been jolted so hard that it had moved or broken.

A sugary scent led me to the kitchen where Billy was pouring batter into a pan while Mom flipped pancakes.

Come on, Billy said to Mom, that looks exactly like a bird.

I’m just saying, don’t quit your day job, Mom teased.

What, you think you can do better?

This isn’t a challenge you want to take.

Bring it, sis.

Mom poured batter into the pan, and Billy laughed when he saw her creation.

What are you guys doing? I asked, and they turned in unison, smiling.

Making our favorite girl breakfast, Billy said as he lifted me into the air and carried me to the table.

My brave girl. Your first earthquake. Mom kissed the top of my head and put a plate of pancakes in front of me, the words I Win written in batter.

Later that day, Billy knocked on my bedroom door with a riddle.

I’m a type of lot and also a type of amusement. I’m national and in every neighborhood, he read as he uncoiled a sheet of paper.

What? I asked too quickly.

I bet you know, if you think really hard.

Along the drive I tried to get him to tell me the answer.

Where’d we go for your birthday? Billy finally said, watching me in the rearview mirror.

Disneyland.

And what is Disneyland? An amusement... It begins with a P. No guess? Parrr—

Park, I shouted.

Billy pulled into the lot at the base of Malibu Bluffs Park where an envelope was fastened to the park’s sign. My name marked its face. There was a riddle inside.

What’s a fruit and also a color?

What? I asked Billy.

Is it a lemon?

No!

How about a grape?

No!

Well, what is it, then?

An orange, I shouted.

A single orange rested on the closest picnic table. Beneath the orange, I found a paring knife and instructions to cut off the rind in large chunks. Billy held my hand as I gripped the knife and together we cut a puzzle into the outside of the orange.

Pretend each of these is a plate. He held an odd-shaped piece of rind. Not the type of plate you eat off, but a tectonic plate that makes up the crust of the earth. This is the mantle. He twirled the peeled orange in his right hand. The lower mantle. It’s made of liquid like this orange. Well, will you look at that—Billy unfurled a piece of paper from the center of the orange. On it, the next clue.

I’m a female deer and also used to make pie. You might like me best in a form that’s playful.

I followed Billy’s eyes to the far end of the picnic area where a container of Play-Doh hid beneath a bench. Together, we lifted the lid to find a list of instructions folded on top of a ball of blue putty.

Step one, roll the Play-Doh into a flat circle.

Step two, wrap it around the orange. The orange became a blue orb.

This is the upper mantle, Billy explained.

Step three, wrap the rind around the Play-Doh. The puzzle pieces of rind fit roughly together around the orange.

Billy inched two pieces of rind toward each other. The plates are in constant motion. They move very, very slowly. We only feel their movement during an earthquake. The pieces collided and blue Play-Doh oozed between the edges of the rind in a rippled formation. When the plates converge like this, they form mountains and volcanoes. He spread the rind apart and the blue beneath stretched. When plates diverge, they create rifts, which on land make lakes and rivers. Billy rubbed two pieces of rind against each other until they would no longer move. The plates’ edges are rough, so sometimes they get stuck. These edges are called fault lines. When they lock up like this, they create a tremendous amount of stress. He kept rubbing them together until one piece slid beneath the other. With too much stress, they’ll slip and that’s one way we get an earthquake.

The fourth and final step instructed us to hike to the highest point we could find. I followed Billy up a steep incline. At the peak, we could see Pepperdine University across the Pacific Coast Highway. I gazed down the barrel of Billy’s finger as he outlined the Pepperdine Block, how over time it had moved upward and west of the land where we stood.

Is this where the earthquake happened? I asked.

Along the same fault line.

So an earthquake could happen right here? I braced myself for the shaking to begin. Billy laughed.

You might feel an aftershock in the next few days. If you do, just remember it won’t be as violent as the earthquake last night. Billy held my shoulders, looking me in the eye. We can’t stop earthquakes from happening, but you don’t have to be afraid. After every earthquake, scientists like me review the damage and we use that to make our buildings and bridges stronger, so there’s less damage in the future.

So we need earthquakes? I asked.

You could think of it that way. We need earthquakes to learn. Understanding prepares us for the future. Remember that. It’s the only way to make us safer.

“I remember all week I was hoping for an aftershock, but I didn’t feel any,” I said to Jay. “That’s how Billy was. He made everything an adventure.”

Jay handed the card back to me. “I don’t get it. Why remind you of that now that he’s dead?” Jay wiped the corners of his mouth and glanced at my barely touched food. He pointed to my eggs, and I nodded, trading my mostly full plate for his empty one.

“It’s another one of his adventures.” I reached into my bag and pulled out the copy of The Tempest, opening to Act 1, Scene 2, where Prospero told Miranda the story of his past. I ran my index finger beneath the highlighted line. Sit down; for thou must now know farther. “This is the only section that’s highlighted.” I explained Prospero’s story to Jay, how his cruel brother, Antonio, had betrayed him, overtaking Prospero’s kingdom while Prospero was absorbed in his magical studies. With the help of the king, Antonio had banished Prospero and young Miranda to sea.

“You were named after Shakespeare?” Jay asked.

“You didn’t know that?”

“The Tempest isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse.” He flipped through the play like it was a guidebook to me. “So what’s your uncle want you to know now?”

“He had a huge fight with my mom when I was twelve. She did something to him, or at least he thought she did. I’m not sure. I think he’s using Prospero to tell me what happened.”

“Miranda,” he said carefully, “it can be really confusing when someone close to you dies.”

“What are you saying?” I wished those words hadn’t come out so defensive.

“Do you think possibly you’re trying to give your uncle’s death meaning?” Jay reached over and stroked my cheek. His expression was close-lipped, full of pity.

“I know my uncle,” I said assuredly. Did I really, though? I hadn’t seen him in sixteen years. I knew nothing of his life after us, whether he’d had a family of his own, if he continued to live in Pasadena. Still, the card he’d sent, The Tempest... I knew he was leading me somewhere.

The waitress brought over the check and Jay unearthed enough crumpled bills from his pocket to cover the bill.

Outside, the humidity assaulted us. We stood in the doorway, allowing our eyes to adjust to the blinding afternoon.

“What did your mom and uncle fight about?” Jay asked.

“My uncle missed my birthday party, but it was more than that. I just don’t know what.”

“Your mom never told you what happened?”

“Billy became something we didn’t talk about. It was like he never existed.”

“That’s sad.”

“It’s just the way it was.” Every family has its unspoken stories. Billy was ours. It didn’t matter whether or not it was sad.

“Did you tell your mom about the card?” I didn’t like the condescension in Jay’s tone.

“It’ll just upset her,” I said.

“You should tell her,” he insisted.

“Please don’t tell me how to handle my own mother,” I snapped. “You’ve only met her once.”

During my parents’ most recent visit to Philadelphia, the four of us had gone to dinner. Over small plates, Jay had talked to Dad about baseball and Mom about the gigs her all-girl rock band had had on South Street in the ’70s. After dinner, as we’d strolled down the cobblestone streets of Old City, Mom belted the closest thing her band had had to a hit, a rare performance emboldened by the two neat bourbons she’d ordered to impress Jay. Her voice was phlegmy from the liquor but still silky enough to send chills down my arms. We—and other passersby—stopped to applaud her. Jay had thought this was Mom, an impulsive woman who drank whiskey and sang whenever she felt like it, but this wasn’t Mom. This was only a role she played because she knew it would make Jay like her.

Jay kicked at the sidewalk, obviously upset over what I’d said.

“I didn’t mean that.”

He pulled me to him, and I hugged him back, trying to ignore the gnawing disappointment that we wouldn’t continue to fight.

I started to follow Jay back to our block, but I wasn’t ready to return to our smelly, filthy apartment. I told Jay I was going for a walk, and he pretended not to be hurt that I wanted to be alone.

At Walnut, I turned toward the river. The moist, hot air provoked beads of sweat that ran down my thighs and collected behind my knees. From the steps at the Great Plaza, I watched joggers and rollerbladers race down the path that followed the Delaware River. I found my phone in my purse and searched “Billy Silver, Los Angeles, seismologist, obituary.” I couldn’t think of anything else to include about him. It was enough for the Los Feliz Ledger, which had published a brief obituary for Billy that morning. It described the loss of Billy Silver, LA native, seismologist and earthquake chaser, owner of neighborhood staple Prospero Books. The obituary included a somber quote from the store’s manager, who vowed to keep Billy’s legacy alive through the bookstore and a listing of the funeral, set for Tuesday afternoon at Forrest Lawn.

Prospero Books. I should have made the connection the second I realized the copy of The Tempest was from Billy. Of course any reference to the play was also a reference to Billy’s bookstore, where books were prized above dukedom, where he’d taken me countless afternoons as a child and told me to pick a book, any book. Somehow, the copy of The Tempest Billy had sent had to do with his bookshop.

I took The Tempest out of my bag and reread the story Prospero told Miranda. Prospero needed Miranda to know how his brother had betrayed them in order for her to understand why he’d created the storm that stranded Antonio on the island. It’d been years since Billy sent me one of his riddles, yet I could still read his coded messages. Thou must now know farther, Prospero’s words. Understanding prepares us for the future, Billy’s. Like Prospero, Billy wanted to tell me of his betrayal, the event that had exiled him from our family. And also like Prospero, Billy had planned his return, wielding not spells and incantations but the magic of his clues, of the adventures he’d plotted for me in my youth. I wasn’t a child anymore. Still, I could feel the rush of Billy, the exhilaration of the first riddle, how it always led to another clue. This time was different, though, the excitement bittersweet. This was the last time Billy would reach out to me. My last chance to discover the story Mom would never tell, the truth of what had driven them apart.

* * *

My schedule was wide open for the next two and a half months, so I booked a flight for Monday, home in time to make Billy’s funeral. I had to go. Not just because I wanted to find the next clue. It was the right thing to do. I’d loved him as a child. I would go to his funeral. I would honor what we once were to each other.

Jay lay across our bed, watching as I packed the bulk of my summer clothes.

“Do you have to bring so much?”

I zipped my suitcase and hopped onto the bed beside him. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you were going to miss me.”

“Of course I’m going to miss you.” He rolled me over and lay on top of me, his face so close to mine I could see stubble erupting along his jawbone.

“It’ll just be a couple of days.” I hadn’t bought a return ticket, but I hadn’t spent more than five consecutive days in LA since I’d left for college. If I was right and Billy had left me another clue, it wouldn’t take more than a few days to uncover the secrets he wanted to tell me.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come to the funeral with you?”

“You’ve got camp next week.”

“It’s only soccer.”

“Only soccer? Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” I was still getting used to the way that word felt in my mouth.

He ran his hand through my hair in the way I didn’t like, unfurling my curls. “You don’t have to go alone.”

“It’s just a few days,” I said, shaking my hair free of his touch.

Jay insisted on driving me to the airport even though he had to get a zip car and it would have been cheaper to call a cab. He pulled up to the terminal and walked around to the trunk to get my bag.

“Call me when you land?” He placed my rolling suitcase on the curb. I expected him to tell me to hurry back, but he said, “Take the time you need. You’ll regret it if you rush back and aren’t there for your family.”

“Who knew you were such a sentimentalist?” Jay turned away, clearly hurt. I was tempted to tease him again for being too sensitive. Instead, I kissed him intently, giving him something else to return to in the days we were apart.

* * *

On the flight across country, I tried to decide what I should tell Mom about The Tempest and the clue Billy had sent. When I’d told her I was coming home for the funeral, she’d asked, Why would you want to go to that? with such disbelief, such utter bafflement, I didn’t know how to respond.

You aren’t planning to go to Billy’s funeral? I asked her.

Why would I be?

Because he’s your only brother, I thought. I’ll go alone, then, I said.

Whatever, she said with the cool indifference of one of my students.

How was I supposed to tell her that Billy had reached out to me when she hadn’t even forgiven him enough to honor his death, to memorialize the closeness they once had? And what was worse, whatever he wanted to tell me was something Mom didn’t want me to know. I just hoped I’d know what to say to her when I saw her in person.

Dad was waiting at baggage claim with a printed sign that read Teacher Miranda. It was what all the teachers in my Quaker school were called. Teacher Anne. Teacher Tom. Teacher Jay. Jay. I texted to tell him I had landed. He blew me an emoji kiss. While I hated how easy and generic emojis were, I liked that Jay was willing to be corny on my account.

Dad was a reluctant hugger. I knew not to take it personally. Mom was the only person he was comfortable offering physical affection to. I would find them slow dancing in the kitchen as Mom sang an old folk song, or him absentmindedly rubbing her feet as they watched a Nora Ephron movie. To most people, he offered his hand. At least he hugged me, even if there always was that stilted discomfort.

“Where’s Mom?” I asked as Dad released me from the sideways embrace. Every time I came home, Dad’s hair had grown more salt than pepper, his olive skin more leathered, his blue eyes grayer. It made me want to clutch his hand and beg him to stop getting old.

“She went to bed early. Said she’ll see you in the morning.” Mom never missed an opportunity to meet me at the airport. She always pushed her way through the crowd of limo drivers and multigenerational families waiting in baggage claim, so her face was the first I saw.

“How’s she doing?”

Dad took my bag and wheeled it toward the exit. “You know your mom. She’s putting on a brave face, but this is hard on her, harder than she would have guessed.”

Outside the arrivals terminal, the air was thick with exhaust and cigarette smoke. Cars lunged at each other as they tried to weave in and out of rings of unmoving traffic. Only a few palm trees in the distance hinted that we were in Los Angeles, not some neglected airport of the developing world.

Dad pulled out of short-term parking into the outer circle of traffic. “How’d Stanton’s words go over this year?”

I ended every school year the same way, on Lincoln’s deathbed. Moments after the president died, his friend and secretary of war, Edwin Stanton, commemorated the loss, Now he belongs to the ages. Or was it, Now he belongs to the angels? I’d pose to my students. While Lincoln’s doctor had heard Stanton say “ages,” the secretary at the scene had heard “angels.” So which quote was right—did Stanton fate Lincoln to history or the afterlife? The students would evaluate each option, debating Stanton’s true words. In the end, it was a trick question.

“Stanton’s words remain an enigma,” I said to Dad. We have to allow for competing experiences of historical events, I told my students. Then we can decide how to interpret the past, what makes sense to us today. “I think a few of them understood. I hope so, anyway.”

“You can only do your best. It’s up to them to commit to caring about the past.” Dad’s car screeched to a halt as the Flyaway bus darted in front of us.

“Do you remember when Billy showed up that time, in the middle of the night?”

“Of course.” Dad’s attention was focused on the bus, squeezing into an impossibly small space between two cars ahead.

“I’m sure Mom must have told me, but I can’t remember what they fought about.”

“I don’t know.” Dad honked at an SUV that crossed in front of us. “Come on!”

“You don’t know what happened?”

“All I know is Billy showed up drunk and told your mom he never wanted to talk to her again.” He wove around traffic, onto Sepulveda where the road opened up. “Then he bought you that stupid dog.”

“Billy wasn’t drunk.” I thought back to his flushed face, his glassy eyes. “Was he?”

Dad turned onto Ocean Park Boulevard where the air grew cooler and saltier as we neared the ocean. I rolled down the window and inhaled deeply. Every time I returned to LA, the city felt a little more my parents’ home, somewhere I’d been an extended visitor, never a resident. I couldn’t tell Mom this. She was waiting for the time when, like her, I would move back to Southern California, but it was never going to happen. I didn’t want to teach the children of movie stars and musicians. Directors. TV executives. I didn’t want to teach American history in a state that hadn’t been part of the union until the Compromise of 1850. I wasn’t an Angelino, a Californian at heart. The salt in my nostrils was the closest I came to feeling homesick.

“Look,” Dad said when we were stopped at a light. “I don’t want to ruin your memory of Billy. There were sides of him you were too young to see.”

“What do you mean ‘sides’?”

“Nothing. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Don’t do that. What sides?”

Dad turned off Ocean Park into our neighborhood. I took in the familiar scene of our quiet street, knowing the colors of all the houses we passed, even if they all appeared charcoal in the evening’s pale light. Los Angeles never got dark, no matter how late at night, not completely.

“I get that Billy’s death is bringing up a lot of questions. I just don’t feel comfortable speaking on behalf of your mother.”

“I’m not asking you to speak for her.”

“It’s her past,” he said.

“It’s our past,” I corrected. Pebbles crackled under the tires as Dad pulled into the driveway. The house was dark, save the porch light, moths swarming in its glow.

“It’s up to your mom what she wants to tell you.” He hopped out of the car to fetch my bag from the trunk. I watched him in the rearview mirror until the lid of the trunk turned the mirror black and I couldn’t see him anymore. Just before it did, I saw an expression sweep across his face, something I hadn’t seen before, something that looked a lot like fear.