"I’ll be right back, love" she said, giving him a quick kiss before opening the shop door which marked her arrival with the tinny jingle of its worn bell. Through the window, he watched her smile and say hello to the grocer who knew them both by name and who sold eggs and the funny, twisted loaves of crusty bread that she loved. In the midst of their pleasantries, she turned and pointed back outside at him and then the three of them waved in polite recognition of why he’d waited on the street with the dog, who was busying herself with the world that floated along the surface of the pavement. Without thinking, he smiled – his lips only beginning to part before he felt his cheeks redden in response. Instinctively, he tried to look away, but instead caught an unexpected glimpse of himself reflected in the shop window.
"Wait here," his father had instructed before crossing the street and disappearing into a shop that had no windows – only a heavy, carved door and a small trade sign swinging over head. His lips sounded out the words as he slipped a little deeper into the shadow of the alleyway where his father had told him to remain.
"Book Maker" it said. He repeated the name several times. Each whispered declaration a little softer than the last.
Book Maker.
His mind raced. His father had gone into the Book Maker’s. A shop where they made books. A shop where simply describing the kind of book you’d like most in the world would set some gentle soul to creating it for you. He could hardly breathe.
Alone on the streets of some strange seaside town, while his mother and sister shopped for taffy and t-shirts and tiny plastic globes filled with water and glitter, he tried to make sense of what was happening.
His father had gone into the Book Maker’s.
He thought about the piles of books at home that his father had been given for Christmases and birthdays, their spines still unbroken, and how on those occasions when he wanted to prove the worthlessness of such indulgences or just how unlike him his son really was, his father would spit and proclaim that he’d "never finished a book in his whole life… and just look how well he’d turned out."
Book Maker. The words themselves seem to teem with possibility.
His father had gone into the Book Maker’s.
His father hated books. But he loved them. And his father knew it.
And now his father had gone into the place that made the one thing that he loved most. Something in his stomach trembled. He closed his eyes and wondered what kind of book his father might be having made right now… just for him.
Both the grocer and his bell waved a hurried goodbye as she bounded from the shop full of stories of bread and smiles and all the other secret things he’d missed standing outside. He switched the dog’s leash to his right hand, before taking hers, so that as she walked, he could stand between her and the cars and the trucks and all the reckless people that they might encounter as they made their way home.
Over head a low, dark ceiling that had for some time been promising rain finally began to deliver. The rest of the world scurried to find shelter, but they slowed their pace a little, grateful for the pleasure of dripping hair and soggy shoes. In the distance he spotted a penny – a tiny copper island in a growing sea. And as his mind searched for the words to a long forgotten nursery rhyme, he wondered quietly about the hole in the pocket that had – accidentally or deliberately – freed the little penny that was now only a few feet away, just a faint sparkle in the gloaming. Just then, as if on cue, the words fell from her mouth:
"Find a penny, pick it up. For all your life, you’ll have good luck."
With each step the penny drew closer, the tip of his shoe sending wet ripples across the spot where he’d have to stop and bend down in order to claim this particular piece of good luck for his very own. He looked up, acknowledging the gray sky, its silver fingers reaching down to kiss the earth. Then he looked at her, the dog, the leash and their two hands joined together, swinging between them. He kept on walking.
Once again your words pick me up, and carry me gently along to the end of the tale.
I really like this piece, jennifer.. and everytime I arrive at the end of it, I have a feeling that it's all going to be ok.
Andrew
posted by: Lindy (reply)
post date: 06.28.06 (6:53 am)
Gosh, *I* arrived at the end wondering where the rest of it was. They end too quickly, darn it. That, or I really am impatient to read more from you. *smile* (Did he get the book? Hah? Hah? Did he? Did he? Hah?)
You manage to personify the unlikeliest things.
'Over head a low, dark ceiling that had for some time been promising rain finally began to deliver.'
'a tiny copper island in a growing sea.'
You cause the same reaction in me that Tracy Chevalier does. I just realized this.
Forgive me if I am stating the obvious... but a 'book maker' is a spot where people place bets... there never was a book, sadly.
You are terribly kind to me in all ways. Thank you.
j
posted by: Lindy (reply)
post date: 06.28.06 (5:19 pm)
Oh my. I do believe this little boy and I have something in common. -sigh- I like the idea or at least the possibility that a book might be waiting inside for him, however unlikely. Me and my rose tinted glasses. *smile*
Lately, I've been struggling the question of what's more important to me... the act of writing down the stories that bubble inside me, or putting them in a place where people happen upon them, read and leave a few thoughts... no matter what those thoughts may be. I may never know the answer... but what I do know, without question, is that a vital part of this process has always been and will always be having you here to look, listen and talk a little. With all of them, but with this one especially, you're not simply a part of how I write.. but why.
Thank you.
jennifer
posted by: akelso (reply)
post date: 11.24.06 (9:00 am)
Father out in the community with his daughter, in my case, also a lover of books - a lover especially of arcane compositions that he himself served as cleric to. Your tale caught my breath; swooped me back in time to city streets and rainy days, where as a small child the dimensions were way more vast than they are today. And today, my travels rarely take me by foot, onto city streets! And my dog spends only the briefest of moments at the end of a leash...
