To Charlie, those books were his life.
The bookstore was lined with heavy shelves. They climbed the walls to twice Charlie’s height, so loaded with books that it made the walls appear to tilt inward. They were neatly arranged according to author and subject, just like the library in Charlie’s school. But this was more than a library, more than a bookstore. For Charlie, the store had life in it, the same as the characters in those musty old books.
He shored up his stool with one sneaker and scanned the rows of books. In the back, away from everything else, were the adventure books. Those were what young Charlie favored. While other boys toyed with piano lessons or tossing balls about, Charlie fought pirates and slayed dragons. Occasionally, he rescued a maiden, though he wasn’t exactly sure just what that entailed.
Charlie stood on tiptoe, reaching for that tattered old copy of Robin Hood until his fingertips finally brushed the spine. It was no use. He was too short.
Thunk!
On the same row, some three shelves down, a book fell to the floor, landed face-up, and pointed toward him. Charlie froze. He listened for the sounds of Mr. Standish’s approach, feared that he would be kicked out for being rough with the books.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Standish. It just slipped.” A pathetic pre-emptive strike to be sure. But it was the best he could do.
Charlie walked over to retrieve the book and put it in its rightful place. As he bent, another book fell from grace and landed flat on the floor.
Shit! Charlie thought, as he hurried to retrieve that book also.
“Is everything all right back there, Charlie?”
His heart pounded now, fearing the worst. “I’m sorry, Mr. Standish. I don’t know what’s wrong. They just keep...falling.”
He held his breath after that, awaiting the inevitable. As quickly as he could, he gathered the books in his arms. But as he gathered, more books fell.
He stood straight up, skinny-kid arms laden with books. And there was Mr. Standish, his fat arms folded over his chest, lips pressed into service as a scowl.
Bambi caught in headlights, Charlie froze.
“So, she talks to you, too, hm?”
Charlie blinked. “Who does?” He moistened his lips and began to count slowly to ten, trying to calm himself and bleed the crimson from his face.
“Why, the store, of course.” Mr. Standish approached, placing one beefy hand on Charlie’s shoulder. The weight of it was enough to throw him off kilter, nearly making him drop the books. “She talks to me, too, my boy. But I’ve never known her to talk to anyone else.”
Charlie swallowed hard, wanting more than anything to sit down before his legs gave out. “How can a store talk, Mr. Standish?”
“Oh, I know! You think I’m off my medication or something. I assure you, this store does talk...to those who will listen.” He smiled then, the first truly warm, friendly gesture Charlie had ever seen from the man. “Here. I’ll show you.”
Mr. Standish took the books from Charlie and sat down on the floor. The effort of it made him huff and grunt. Charlie slid down across from him, sitting cross-legged and leaning on his jean-clad knees.
“Now, do you remember which book fell first?” Charlie’s finger darted out to indicate the blue one. “Fine then. First book, first word of the title. Please.”
“Please, what?” Charlie flashed a look of wide-eyed innocence at Mr. Standish and blinked.
“Which was next? This one?”
Charlie’s eyes trailed down to the book and he nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Help. Please help.” Mr. Standish frowned for a moment and then his face brightened up. “Obviously, she’s having some fun with you. Which was next?”
“Umm...this one, I think.” Charlie held forth a fat book and chewed on his lip.
“All right, then. Please...help...us. I think I can figure out the rest.” Mr. Standish whistled as he shuffled books. All the while, Charlie watched the man’s face. It was without humor, tightly drawn as though someone had pulled back his skin. “There!” he declared, throwing his arms open wide and smiling most disingenuously.
“Please...help...us...find...a...home.” Charlie checked the man’s face for clarification.
“Exactly. These books need a home. I think you could give at least one of them a home, couldn’t you, Charlie?”
Charlie didn’t like the look on the man’s face just then. It was the same look that Mama’s boyfriends gave him whenever they wanted him to leave the room so they could be alone with Mama. “I could,” Charlie answered, anxious to go home.
“Robin Hood, perhaps? You do like that one, don’t you, Charlie?” Charlie nodded and held out his hand. Mr. Standish held out his own, the book offered at arm’s length. For a moment, Charlie got the unmistakable feeling that Mr. Standish would grab his arm if he tried to reach for it, perhaps hurt Charlie somehow. Charlie simply waited.
After a few longer-than-life moments, Mr. Standish placed the book in Charlie’s upturned hand and began the arduous task of standing up. “You run along home now, Charlie. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him, then turned and disappeared down a row of bookshelves.
Charlie left the store in a flurry of tinkling bells and slapping sneakers, the book tucked under one arm. He rushed back to his house, where Mama was sleeping after a long night of work. He lay down on his bed and began to read. He had nearly finished the fourth chapter when Mama came in to leave bright red lip prints on his cheek and say goodbye.
The next day found Charlie at the bookstore against his better judgment. For some reason, Mr. Standish had made him feel very afraid the day before. It was the kind of fear he felt when Mama had been drinking and Charlie had done something very wrong. Still, there was something going on inside that bookstore. And that something was too much of a curiosity for Charlie to bear.
“Good afternoon, dear Charlie. Have you something for me?”
Charlie wet his lips and dry-swallowed his nerves. “Just this.” He peeled open his hand to reveal a bright shiny quarter. He watched Mr. Standish’s smile as he plucked the treasure from Charlie’s sweaty palm.
“Well done, my boy. Well done. Happy reading.” Mr. Standish dropped the quarter into the old cash register and began his daily task of pricing the new arrivals.
Charlie swept off toward the back row of shelves, grabbing the first thing he laid eyes on and sitting on the little stool. He tried hard to stop the nervous rocking, but it was really quite impossible.
From where he sat, Charlie had a clear view of the desk and Mr. Standish. Before long, Standish disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains that separated the books from the office.
Charlie was up off the stool like a shot, eyes searching the books, ears pricked for signs of approach. He spoke softly, nervously, like a small child calling his cat from under a sleeping man’s chair. “Who are you?”
A book trembled a bit and made for the floor. Charlie caught it in the nick of time. “Don’t throw them, ok? Just push ’em out a little and I’ll grab ’em.” He looked at the first word of the title. “We.”
Another book slid forward, out over the edge of the shelf without falling. “Are.”
Charlie followed the trail of protruding books one by one, grabbing each as it was pushed out. “We are many.”
He sat down hard on the stool, nearly throwing it and himself to the ground. “Great. Many what? Books? People? Ghosts? Mr. Standish says the store can talk to me. Is that true?”