29
Now
I roll back into River City as the sun is setting. The streetlights are blinking on, and kids riding bikes push the limits of what it means to be in by dark. With my windows down I hear voices on porches, dogs barking, a lawn mower choking into silence. I cruise down Midway with my foot off the pedal. I brake lightly as I near the store, then change my mind and keep driving to the riverwalk. At the sprawling playground at Columbus Park, one last dad drags reluctant children from the swings and piles them into a Subaru. A couple teenagers rollerblade past my parked car. Then I’m alone.
The long drive back to Michigan has given me plenty of time to think, and my mother has given me plenty to think about. By the time I crossed the Pennsylvania-Ohio border, I had managed to forgive my mom for being taken in by Billy Ackerman’s lies. It was so easy to allow another person to derail you. So easy to go on blaming the winds of chance for one’s misfortunes. Hadn’t I done that for most of my life?
What I couldn’t forgive her for was not standing by my dad. The irony is not lost on me. I’ve spent half my life believing her loyalty to him had meant disloyalty to me. Now I know the truth to be the exact opposite. She had stood by me to the extreme. So why am I not happy? Why am I never really happy?
I get out of the car and place my hands on the rail at the water’s edge. The river slips silently by at August’s unhurried pace. On the other side, the last gasp of the setting sun reflects off the windows of the new loft housing where the gravel quarry used to be. Funny. Last time I looked at that building, there had been no glass.
In a town where nothing much had changed for decades, a sudden spate of new construction and renovation seems to promise better times ahead. Ugly facades that had been erected in the 1970s are being removed to uncover the beautiful stonework of River City’s lumber boom years. Abandoned factories are being turned into luxury condos. Spruce up the old, and when it can’t be saved, raze it to the ground and build something new. The question is, what is worth saving? And what must be destroyed to make room for something better?
I turn away from the river and lean back on the railing. On the darkening park lawn, a robin yanks a worm from the ground and flies away. He and his mate are likely on their second or third brood of chicks. He’ll work hard to provide for them until fall, when they’ll all fly away from here to someplace where the worms and insects they feed on are plentiful. No one will tell him when it’s time to move on. He’ll just know.
The next morning, I open the store as usual, pleased to read notes from Dawt Pi and Ryan about how smoothly the weekend ran. A few customers trickle in and out, including old Mr. Sutton looking for more westerns. Everything is, by all accounts, normal.
Yet something feels off, skewed somehow. It must be the shelves behind the counter, empty since I boxed up Peter’s books. I hate empty shelves. In fact, as I look around the store, many of the shelves feel a bit on the scanty side, so many books have been lugged down to the marina. It looks like I’m already having a going-out-of-business sale.
It’s not until evening when I flip the Open sign to Closed and start up to my apartment that I notice that the boxes of books I stacked by the stairs before leaving for Connecticut are missing. I glance around the back room, but they’re nowhere to be seen. I don’t find them back in the store either.
I pull the notes from Dawt Pi and Ryan out of the trash and reread them, searching for clues about what they may have done with Peter’s books. Dawt Pi’s note is simple, short, and to the point: Thank you for $. 12 custumers. Talk soon! Ryan’s is longer, explaining how far along they have gotten on the Dreadnoughtus. On the last line, my breath catches: The legs are all covered and they look awesome!
I rush down the sidewalk to the marina and through the unlocked door. The dinosaur skeleton is complete. The legs are indeed covered with books that look like colorful scales. In the southeast corner of the cavernous room are stacks and stacks of boxes, each one filled with books gleaned from all over River City and beyond.
“Didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” comes Ryan’s voice. “How did it go with your mom?”
“Where are the books from the back room?”
“What?”
“I stacked six boxes of books in my back room and put a sign on them that said Not for Sale. Where are they?”
Ryan glances nervously at the Dreadnoughtus. “Um . . .”
“Please tell me you didn’t—” I race to the trunk-like legs of the sculpture, my eyes darting like hummingbirds over the book covers.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Ryan says as he follows right behind. “I did bring those boxes down Saturday. But that doesn’t mean they’ve been opened.”
“Why would you take those? Didn’t you see the sign?”
“It said they weren’t for sale. We’ve been bringing boxes of books from the store for weeks. I thought they were for the Dreadnoughtus.”
I circle each leg. They are not here. I try to force my racing heart to slow. “Okay, where would you have put them?”
He indicates the mountain of boxes. “All the books are in there. But it shouldn’t take long to find them.”
Silently we open box after box. The first three boxes of Peter’s books are fairly easy to find. The next two are more challenging. The last one seems to have disappeared altogether, but Ryan eventually locates it on the worktable by the Dreadnoughtus. Beside it is a nearly empty box. It’s obvious that the books in this box were going to be used next. I nearly faint when I open it. The Catcher in the Rye sits right on top.
Silently we lug the boxes back up to the store, then up the stairs to my apartment.
“I can bring them in for you,” he says on the landing.
“No thanks. I can manage.”
He looks reluctant to leave. “Look, Robin, I’m so sorry about this. I didn’t realize they were your personal books.”
“It’s fine. It was a misunderstanding. That’s all. Nothing happened.”
But we both know what could have happened.
When Ryan is gone, I drag the boxes into my apartment one by one and realize that, despite my best efforts, Peter has finally made it through the door.