118
I know they want to throw me out.
They want to grab me by the nape of my neck and heave me into the trash, like they do in old comic strips.
But as the two Secret Service agents walk me down the paved path that borders the South Lawn, I stay two steps ahead of them. Still, I feel how close they are behind me.
“Taxis won’t stop here,” the agent with the round nose says as we reach the black metal pedestrian gate and wait for it to open. “Go down a block. You’ll be better off.”
“Thanks,” I say without looking back at them.
From the security shed on my right, the female uniformed agent never takes her eyes off me. She pushes a button and a magnetic lock pops.
“Have a safe night,” the agent with the round nose adds, patting me on the back and nearly knocking me through the metal gate as it swings open. Even for the Secret Service, he’s far too physical. “Hope you enjoyed your visit to the White House.”
As I rush outside, the gate bites shut, and I fight the cold by stuffing my hands in my pockets. To my surprise, my right pocket’s not empty. There’s a sheet of paper-feels like a business card-waiting for me.
I pull it out. It’s not a business card. It’s blank. Except for the handwritten note that says:
15th and F.
Taxi will be waiting.
I glance over my shoulder at the agent with the round nose. His back is already turned to me as he follows his partner back to the mansion. He doesn’t turn around.
But I know he wrote that note.
I look down, rereading it again: 15th and F Street. Just around the corner.
Confused, but also curious, I start with a walk, which quickly becomes a speedwalk, which-the closer I get to 15th Street-quickly becomes a full-out run.
As I turn the corner, I’m shoved hard by the wind tunnel that runs along the long side of the Treasury building. At this hour, the street is empty. Except for the one car that’s parked illegally, waiting for me.
It doesn’t look like a cab.
In fact, as I count the four bright headlights instead of the usual two, I know who it is-even without noticing the car’s front grille, where the chrome horse is in mid-gallop.
It’s definitely not a cab.
It’s a Mustang.
I take a few steps toward the pale blue car. The passenger window is already rolled down, giving me a clear view of Tot, who has to be freezing as he sits so calmly inside. He ducks down to see me better. Even his bad eye is filled with fatherly concern.
Just the sight of him makes it hard for me to stand. I shake my head, shooting him a silent plea and begging him not to say I told you so.
Of course, he listens. From the start, he’s been the only one.
“It’ll be okay,” he finally offers.
“You sure?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer. He just leans across the passenger seat and opens the door. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”
119
Fourteen years ago
Sagamore, Wisconsin
"Beecher… customer at buyback!” Mr. Farris shouted from the back office of the secondhand bookshop.
At sixteen years old, Beecher had no problem darting up the aisles, past the overstuffed shelves that were packed with old paperbacks. The only thing that slowed him down was when he saw who was waiting for him at the register.
He knew her from behind-from just the sight of her long black hair.
He’d know her anywhere.
Clementine.
Ducking underneath the drawbridge counter and sliding to a stop behind the register, Beecher worked hard to keep it cool. “Clementine… Hey.”
“I didn’t know you worked here,” she offered.
“Yeah. I’m Beecher,” he said, pointing to himself.
“I know your name, Beecher.”
“Yeah… no… that’s great,” he replied, praying better words would come. “So you got stuff for us?” he added, motioning to the blue milk crate that she had lugged inside and that now sat by her feet.
“I heard you guys pay fifty cents for old records and CDs.”
“Fifty cents for records. Fifty cents for paperbacks. And a full dollar if it’s a new hardcover-though he’ll pay a lot if you’ve got the ’69 Bee Gees Odessa album with the original foldout artwork.”
“I don’t have the Bee Gees,” she said. “I just have these…”
From the milk crate, she pulled out half a dozen copies of the CD with her mom’s photo on it: Penny Maxwell’s Greatest Hits.
Beecher knew the rules. He could buy back anything he wanted-as long as the store didn’t already have too many copies.
Two hours ago, Clementine’s mom came in and told Mr. Farris that her family was moving to Detroit for her singing career and could they please buy back a few dozen of her CDs to raise some much-needed cash. Of course, Mr. Farris obliged. Farris always obliged, which was why the store’s front window still had a crack in it and the air conditioning would never be fixed. So as Beecher looked across the counter at Clementine’s exact same offerings…
“We can definitely use a few extra copies,” he finally said.
“Really? You sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ve listened to them. Your mom’s got a real voice. Like early Dinah Washington, but softer and with better range-and of course without the horrendous drug overdose.”
Clementine couldn’t help but grin. “I know you already bought my mom’s copies-and you’re stuck with those.”
“And we have thirty copies of To Kill a Mockingbird. But each new school year, we sell every damn one.”
Cocking her head, Clementine took a long silent look across the counter. It was the kind of look that came with its own internal calculation. “You’re not a jackass like everyone else.”
“Not true,” Beecher said, motioning to the milk crate. “I’m just buttering you up so I can lowball you on that Frankenstein paperback you’ve got there. That’s a British edition. I can get big bucks for it. Now what else you got?”
Lifting the crate, Clementine dumped and filled the counter with at least twenty other paperbacks, a few hardbacks, and a pile of used CDs including Boyz II Men, Wilson Phillips, and Color Me Badd.
“I also got this…” Clementine said, pulling out a frayed blue leather book with a heavily worn spine, torn soiled pages, and a shredded silk ribbon bookmark. “It’s not in good shape, but… it’s for sure old-1970.”
Tilting his head, Beecher read the gold lettering on the spine. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. “Good book. This your mom’s?”
“My mom hates to read. I think it’s my grandmother’s. Oh, and there’s one other problem… the cover is…” She flipped the leather book over, revealing that it was missing its front cover.
“Y’know the pages still stay together,” Beecher pointed out.
“Huh?”
“The pages… look…” he said, lifting the book by its remaining cover and dangling it in the air so all the pages spread out like a fan. “If the binding’s good, all the pages stay in place.”
“That some sorta used bookstore trick?”
“Actually, it’s from my mom. When my dad… when he passed… Reverend Lurie told her that even when one cover gets torn away from a book, as long as the other cover’s there, it’ll still hold the pages together. For me and my sisters… he said my mom was the other cover. And we were the pages.”
Clementine stood there silently, staring down at the old blue leather book.
“He was trying to make an analogy about life,” Beecher pointed out.
“I get it,” Clementine said, still studying the old volume. She was quiet for nearly a minute, resting her left elbow on the counter. Within a decade, that elbow would be covered with deep white scars from an incident she’d never tell the truth about.