The book, p.5
The Book, page 5
007-12549
The ladders clanged atop Holden’s wide, windowless, semi-white van, jerking the ropes taut as he banked a corner on Sheridan Road and drove further into the forest encroached suburb of Wilmette. He hadn’t slept last night. Two things had kept him awake: the lasting, raspy words of the antique shop owner, the world of thought is not safe these days and the message from Numbskull about a side job for cash. Throughout the night Holden watched as the sun gently rose through the milky bay window in his living room, knowing that he had finally figured out where he could find a copy of his favorite book and that the answers to so many unasked questions were only a wily, lie away.
At the end, when everything would make sense, Holden would recall this day, driving to Wilmette, as the culmination of seemingly unrelated acts that led to his beginning – a curious greed that forced him to accept a side job from an enchantingly worried elderly man named Winston and a lack of social skills that led to the discovery of the page from his favorite book. He thought, of course, that the answers awaiting him that morning would be simple. This was a gross error in expectation.
General Fire Protection had kept Holden constantly busy. His free time was limited because he often worked late into the evening. Even his weekends were detained for emergency calls and random side jobs that were too good to pass up. He made enough money to live well, if he chose to, but he was too cautious to enjoy it. You never know when Uncle Sam is gonna take a bite out of ya. It was good to feel a sense of security, no matter how false it was. But with such little free time available, it was better for Holden to turn down side jobs that weren’t worth the effort.
For that reason, when he was approached by an elderly man about a side job a year prior during his break at a café in Wilmette, Holden did his best to get rid of him so he could get back to his van and return to work. Fortunately, he hadn’t been able to. There was a deceptive persistence in the man who had eagerly introduced himself as Winston. Although his face was innocent and his manner gentle, Winston chose to place his walker fully between Holden and the door. Behind frail, thin glasses were two of the most active eyes Holden had ever seen. While Winston explained that he had seen Holden a few times that week and had noticed the emblem of a sprinkler head on the side of his clunky work van, Holden watched the man’s beady, gray eyes analyze his own. It was obvious that there was more happening at that moment than the man led him to believe.
“Well, I’m a wealthy man and I need to protect my house,” Winston continued, as he labored to recycle his plastic coffee cup. “I don’t move as well as I used to and if a fire erupted somewhere in my home, I fear I would be unable to put it out. The items within it are very precious to me.”
The man had one and a half feet in the grave. Holden had to laugh. You can’t take it with you buddy.
He tried to pass Winston onto someone from General Fire, but Winston continued. The man wanted Holden, and no one else, to do the work. When Holden pressed him for an explanation, the man dodged the question with ease. In an effort to end the conversation, Holden finally threw out a disgracefully high quote, assuming that the man would abruptly disengage and allow him to finish his croissant in the van. This was the moment when their conversation became the most memorable. Instead of responding, Winston asked Holden his name. When he replied, the man’s tender face brightened and he lost five years of age in a smile before speaking the words Holden would never forget, “Double it and the job is yours.” As Holden attempted to regain his composure, the man removed his copy of The Book from a satchel bag and rested the corner against Holden’s copy, transferring his contact information to Holden’s screen. “I expect you’ll be professional,” Winston continued, “because I intend to leave this off the books and pay you up front…in cash.”
Cash.
It was the only form of paper that was still legal. Really, the only use for paper anymore. All money was composed of synthetic material, but it was the paper element that proved authenticity. With the limitless technological advancements, anyone with a computer could create counterfeit money if it weren’t for the integration of paper. Paper was so expensive, especially clean, bleached paper, that it was nearly worth more than the bill itself. Cash was unforgable. Cash was untraceable. Receiving such an amount for a side job that was completely off the books was nearly impossible to pass up.
Holden slammed on his brakes and the van rocked to an abrupt stop as an over-eager driver tore out of their hidden driveway, yanking him back to the present. Their bumpers stopped inches apart from one another. The owner of the Jaguar ignored his recklessness and headed in the opposite direction without a worry in the world. Holden shook his head clear and took a deep breath before releasing the break and pressing the accelerator, throttling his memory further into the events that had taken place at Winston’s home a week after their first meeting.
That day had also been murky. Chicago clouds interrupted the sky with cumulus resentment, as if waiting for the moment to pour out their wet revenge on unsuspecting citizens who were enjoying life too much. When Holden arrived at Winston’s home, the man led him quietly throughout the large estate, pointing out the many locations where he would like added protection. While the estate was luxurious and divided into many bewildering rooms, it was all very typical. That is, until Winston brought him down to the cellar.
From first glance, the cellar appeared to be fitted for a lavish wine collection. The brick ceiling was vaulted and the long walls were lined with empty racks that jutted out at even intervals to create many rows. But something was odd about them. They were shallow, almost too shallow, and seemed impractical for displaying wine. It almost seemed that these little alleyways created by the empty rack system were used to store food or containers of some sort in expectation of an apocalyptic disaster. Whatever the items were that the man had been storing in the cellar prior to Holden’s arrival, they had been moved. The entire cellar was bare.
Holden began sketching out a plan for the arrangement of the piping system on his Book with a sharpened fingernail. Winston watched as the sketchy lines quickly transformed to a well-drafted blueprint with dimensions and line weights and interrupted by placing a hand over the screen. “This room is quite unlike any area you have ever done before,” he said, with unease. “And I find it necessary to request that you triple the average number of sprinkler heads.”
Holden grinned at this. He had seen such reactions before from people who were obnoxiously protective of their home, regardless of what he said to set their mind at ease. Although it made logical sense in Winston’s mind to cover the basement with an overkill of sprinkler heads, Holden’s experience was to always keep the spray radius simple and orderly. Winston’s reaction to Holden’s grin was unforgettable. The man stated that he wanted saturation; that not a centimeter of space should be dry if a fire began. He then squeezed Holden’s hand to punctuate his declaration. Holden remembered that this articulated gesture gave more substance to the discovery he would find later that day, because the items that the shelving had been built for were not as plain as fine wine or containers of food. No, it was something far more precious to the man. Something that could touch water, but not fire.
After the complicated structure of plans had been devised, Winston trudged back up the stairs, leaving Holden in the cellar to map out his array of sprinkler heads. The space was vast and hauntingly empty, like a train station without smoking engines, and Holden had difficulty finding the existing water system. He began his usual reconnaissance mission of following the piping in the ceiling and was soon forced to twist Winston’s old appliances from the walls and peek behind closed doors. It was then, when he found a closet with a short door that angled sharply from the handle to the hinge, that he stumbled upon the source of the elderly man’s insatiable need for protection.
The space beyond the door was misleading. It resembled a long hallway but it led nowhere and was lit by a single bulb that hung like a specter at the center of the tight space. The wall opposite the door was lined with plastic boxes stacked waist-high and draped in a thick, tangerine tarp. Curious despite his caution, Holden lifted the tarp enough to notice that the first box had a series of names written on it in thick, black lettering. Eleven surnames, to be precise. He remembered these names very clearly because the moment he noticed them, Holden understood why the cellar had been lined with shelving and why Winston had needed to hire a sprinkler fitter surreptitiously to protect it all. The names were: Farrell, Faulkner, Feynman, Fitzgerald, Flynn, Ford, Forster, Fowles, Frazer, Friedman and Fussell. Each name began with the same letter and each name was that of a famous author.
Except for one.
Holden pulled the tarp down and got to work. He finished the job in a remarkable three weeks. It easily could have taken triple the amount of time, but Holden wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. No matter how much he loved reading, he knew that he shouldn’t be associated with someone who was so blatantly disobeying the law. On occasion, he recalled the man and supposed that, at his age, Winston didn’t care if he were caught with such an extensive collection and arrested. What was a life sentence to someone with little life remaining?
But now, this day, feeling the weight of the single torn page in the front pocket of his jacket, Holden pulled into the man’s long, curving driveway, knowing that somewhere in that hidden closet, there had been a plastic box with surnames that began with the letter ‘S’. A box that very likely held a book by J.D. Salinger.
The rain instantly poured down as if, like in his recollection, the clouds were simply waiting to release their penetrating droplets the moment he left the van. Holden ignored the rain and tossed a bag over his shoulder (it held a random assortment of tools that would help him sell the lie) before rushing toward the door with a box of sprinkler heads under his arm.
From outside, the enormous lake-side estate was just as exquisite as he remembered with thick, stone walls topped by a sloping roof line that was shingled with a charming patchiness. Even standing under the eave with its reticent columns and cornice work, Holden knew this man had a wealth he would never attain, even in ten lifetimes. Paper was so rare that for a man to keep such a vast store of books, his wealth was likely without measure. Steadying the box of sprinkler heads against the heavy iron wrench on his belt, Holden approached the door and knocked. After a few moments passed, he realized he wasn’t patient enough to wait and rang the doorbell. Just as he depressed the button, Winston poked his head a bit into the side window, wearing a bowtie and a grin. A series of unlocking latches followed and it gave Holden a chance to review what he wanted to say. After an annoying chime was silenced, the door opened and Holden and Winston met once again under the darkness of a cloudy, overcast day.
* * * * *
008-14592
“A bit eager, are we? A knock and a ring?”
Winston stood uneven in the opening of his front door, sprouting a surprisingly adolescent tuft of hair from the bottom of his boney chin. Behind a new pair of thinly-rimmed glasses, Holden saw the same fiery gaze. The bowtie on Winston’s neck spoke of a gallantry long before this digital world, where men looked their best even if they were stewing in their home behind a light, fiberglass walker.
“Good Morning. I don’t know if you recognize me, but I installed the sprinkler system in your house.”
“Yes,” the man nodded with a grin. “Holden. A memorable name.” His words and tone were courteous, but his face said differently. A strong suspicion seemed to tighten the skin on his cheeks and his filigree of eyebrow feathers hung drastically lower than Holden remembered. Still, the pale-lipped grin gave Holden hope and he quickly went into the act he had rehearsed during the long drive.
“It’s very important for me to keep track of the homes I do work for and I believe that the sprinkler heads I installed here may have been faulty. If it is alright with you, I would like to replace them. Free of charge, of course.”
Winston nudged the door a little wider and stared down at the box of sprinkler heads under Holden’s arm. Gradually, his eyes rose to mark Holden’s face with a deep, inquisitive gaze. “You couldn’t come back another day?”
“The structure I installed was a dry system which means that the water only discharges when a fire is present. If you would allow me to do this today, I could be finished before lunch.”
Winston scratched the bushel of white hair atop his head, realizing that he was losing whatever game was being played. “Well then, it appears as if I do not have a choice. The protection of this home is paramount to me.” Before his next words, a grin tipped from the corners of his mouth and stretched like a stain across the contours of his face. He took Holden by the eyes, skewed his head to the left and said, “I was wondering how long it would take you to come back.”
Before a response could come, the elderly man stepped aside and allowed the door to open on the weight of its own hinges. Holden had once more been invited into the perspective of Winston Pratt.
The interior of the immense estate was exactly the same as when Holden had completed the job. The smell of leather and pipe tobacco hung in swags from the heights of darkened rafters; not an off-putting smell, but something that just didn’t seem to agree with Holden’s nose. The simple decoration, subtle furniture and clean environment were that of someone who had everything and had nothing. It was depressing, yes – but comfortable.
By the time Holden closed the door, Winston was halfway to the kitchen. “I was in the midst of brewing a pot of coffee, if you would like some.”
“Nope. I’m good,” Holden replied, turning his eyes toward the cellar door. “If it’s alright with you, I’m gonna jump right in. Get started downstairs.”
The man rose a tired hand and waved it flippantly with his back turned, marching his walker toward the kitchen.
Be my guest, it said.
Exactly what Holden wanted to hear.
His greedy footfalls echoed off the crown molding, harmonizing with the creaking tones from uneven floorboards as he moved through the sitting room, foyer and dining room before tracing the narrow runner toward the singular door that he had been envisioning throughout the night. It was positioned to the left of a wide, curving staircase and beckoned for him to open it. He approached the door like a man to a mirage, envisioning everything that could take place the moment he reached it. The dull brass handle was cold and it turned with an unrelenting shuffle to expose a wall of darkness beyond that smelled of something biting and unidentifiable. Holden set that aside for the moment and recalled the light switch to the right of the door before allowing his finger to unearth it in the evocative darkness. It snapped on with little effort and a crackle of electricity released before the cellar stairwell was coated with incandescent splendor.
Holden ground his teeth and turned the corner. Staring down at the unvarnished wood steps, he was almost frightened by the uncertainty of the place in which he was about to enter. Light traced gracefully down the hand rail and the wall to the left guarded Holden’s view from what he remembered to be a very open and cavernous cellar. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the view that met his eyes and the smell that reached his nostrils were altogether astounding. The rows of shelving he had once seen empty were now lined with hundreds upon hundreds of books. Lanes of story and fact along a city of so much unrecycled paper. The stripes of tattered bindings stretched along each shelf like a rectangular horizon of dull rainbows. A potent, almost minty, smell caught itself in his nose and it made him want to simultaneously cough and breath deeper. The absolute quiet of the cellar allowed him to wonder for a moment if two of his senses had overpowered the other three. Holding The Book and knowing any story was a double-tap away had been one thing, but seeing them lining the space all around him - a new romantic fascination came over Holden.
In the silence, he noticed, from the sound of his own breathing, that his jaw had slackened, leaving his mouth open and vulnerable. Holden forced himself to abandon his shock for the moment, in fear that Winston would come to the stairs and see him standing there dumbstruck, and unloaded his box of sprinkler heads and tools. He stumbled into the nest of illegal paper and reached for the step ladder Winston had placed at the center of two aisles, no doubt to reach the top tier of shelving, and positioned himself below a pageantry of pipes to begin his fictitious renovations.
Over the course of the next seventy-two seconds, Holden breathed very evenly and allowed his eyes to soundlessly navigate the lines of the nearest shelving unit. He was simply amazed at the number of book spines and how the sheer volume of names embossed upon them with sparkling gold ink had chipped to leave a shadow of authors behind. He hadn’t come that morning expecting so much bewilderment. The reason he eventually rested on was the thickness. He had seen only a few books in his life and had never imagined the disturbing thickness of multiple books beside one another. So much information squeezed together in a printed form and yet, so little information taking up so much space. His digitized viewpoint was designed in the web of the internet and the green arms of The Book, where entire encyclopedias of knowledge took up less space than a pair of shoes. And yet, he instantly understood the man’s willingness to break so many laws and risk sacrificing his future for such tender obsession. Each one of those books had pages upon pages of shadowed text that, even at that very moment, were sitting stagnant, yearning to be flipped through. Among its dusty volumes, Holden could lock himself away and lose his life with a tome in hand. It was a dream he never knew he had.
A sprinkler head came free of its threading and fell to the ground, waking him swiftly from a dazed sleep. Holden had been unscrewing it, unaware. He stepped down from the ladder and reached for the fallen metal sprocket, but once down there, so near the closest shelf, he felt a duality of strength and sadness take over him and he dropped to his knees. The space around Holden seemed to pulse with an overwhelming power. It was as if the books were alive. And yet, there was a heartbreaking sensation lingering in the dust that reminded Holden of a job he had done a few years back at a small assisted living facility downtown. The two spaces shared the same air, and he knew why. It was the dissonant melody of life ending. Life that was barely holding on in a world that had forsaken it and moved on to something it believed was better.
