Jack (Gilead #4)(86)
He thanked her, stepped off the bus, and noticed a café and a bookstore. First a roll and coffee, then, unshaven and weary of his clothes, he nevertheless stepped into the bookstore just for the familiarity of shelved books, some of which, in shabbier versions of themselves, he had spent stray or furtive hours with, engrossed from time to time despite the comeuppance or plain maleficence that stalked his contracted world. It was a beautiful bookstore with high ceilings and fine old books in glass cases. All the classics were there, robust ranks of them. There were books in French and German, books of poetry and history. There was the smell of books. To calm himself he took down good old Leaves of Grass, and stood in the aisle reading until he almost forgot where he was. When the clerk spoke to him, he quickly checked his memory to assure himself he had not slipped anything into his pocket, took off his hat, and smiled.
She was a young woman with a pleasing face, smiling at him.
She said, “Can I help you find anything?”
“Hart Crane,” he said, to impress her. “He’s difficult. I thought I might give him another look.” He’d checked. There was nothing by Hart Crane. He wouldn’t have to talk his way out of buying anything. He touched his shadowed jaw. “I’ve been traveling all night. I should find a hotel. But this is such a beautiful store, I had to look in.”
“We’re proud of it,” she said. “I see you found Walt Whitman.”
“Yes, an old friend. I knew he wouldn’t mind if I’m a little rumpled, a little weary.” His reluctance to shelve the book was unfeigned, but with this pleasant little woman standing there, there was nothing else to do with it.
“Not so many people come here asking for Hart Crane. For poetry, really.” She asked, “Are you a writer? You sort of look like one.”
“From time to time I try my hand. I don’t think that counts. A nice thought, though.” Even dishevelment seemed to be working in his favor.
“Well, if you’re new in town, we have an opening here. My father is always looking for someone who knows the merchandise, he says. If you come by late morning tomorrow, he’ll be here.”
“Yes. Late morning. Thanks.” He backed out the door, gesturing ceremoniously with his hat, and she laughed. It was a joke. It wasn’t nerves.
This was all very strange. Here he was with the prospect of a position that would be both suitable and desirable. Then he remembered that the address of the boardinghouse was in a book in the valise he had left in the store. He stepped back in, and the young woman was waiting there to give it to him. Another flourish of the hat, very pleasant laughter, and he was in the street again, thinking, to his surprise, he’d have to find a way to mention that he was married.
He found the boardinghouse, not so far away. It was surrounded by commerce of various kinds, low-lying buildings with signs over their doors and parking in front of them. But the boardinghouse was a holdout from another time, with gardens in front of it and a wrought-iron gate. It looked like the very idea of a comfortable old home, curtains in the windows, rockers on the porch. Nevertheless, he went up to the door and knocked. This time it was a pleasant old woman who asked if she could help him, then smiled and said, “Oh, yes! My niece telephoned. She said you were very kind. Yes, I have a nice room all ready for you.” He followed her up the stairs, and she opened the door on what indeed was a very nice room. The bed was fat with pillows and blankets, there was an overstuffed armchair, a big, polished dresser. Oh, for heaven’s sake, a trouser press with a shoe brush. Decent prints of old paintings. Bathroom next door.
He said, “It’s very nice. My wife will love it. I believe I will have a job soon—”
“Good for you. You get some rest now. I put out a little light meal at seven in the evening. Then there’s breakfast. You’re on your own for lunch.”
What was the joke? He tried not to be too obviously amazed, too effusive. But there was an enormous porcelain tub in the bathroom. Tile everywhere, all intact, shining. The lavender in the air was about half as sharp as smelling salts, a purgation all by itself. Stacks of white towels. He would scrub that scrawny devil, Jack Boughton, within an inch of his life, shave him to perfection, lay him down on that fat bed and drowse until it was time for the light supper. He could not stop wondering when he would make the fatal misstep, when the trapdoor would open. Everything was going far too well. At very worst, though, he would face ridicule or denunciation clean and shaved. The light meal was sliced beef, warm brown bread, potato salad. The four other boarders nodded but showed no interest in him or in one another. Wonderful.
The next morning, after ham and eggs and a stiff black coffee, he strolled in the direction of the bookstore. He worried a little about being too early or too late, but then he noticed that ahead of him there was a doughty old church with a clock in its steeple which was just then confirmed by a peal of bells telling the hour. Eight o’clock, they said, as if they had heard him wonder. Uncanny. He had left the bus two stops late and found himself—here. If Teddy somehow tracked him down, Jack could show him an acceptable life. For how long? If he got a job, and if he could pay his room and board. In the meantime, he would consider it all unusually satisfying theft. The distance wasn’t so far from his window to the ground.
Five minutes before the church bells would ring ten, Jack walked into the bookstore. He was Teddy for the moment, calm and forthright. The father was there and so was the daughter, both, it seemed, pleased to see him. “John Boughton,” he said, and they shook hands. In just a few minutes he was employed at a decent salary, expected to keep up more or less with the new books coming in, though a wider familiarity with their stock would be a good thing. He would actually be paid for this, for standing around looking as though he belonged there, with a book in his hand. He had left university without a degree—this was very true—then knocked around awhile—also true, though he shrugged and smiled when he said it, to suggest that his scarred face had a raffish tale or two behind it. He did not mention his stint as a dance instructor, which seemed even more inelegant in retrospect, and of course dishwashing and the rest were so firmly unmentioned that he almost forgot them himself, together with the time in prison. He had really never considered that there could in fact be a place in life suited to Jack Boughton. The boardinghouse had a parlor with a piano. It had a washroom and a porch for hanging laundry. And his rent was just a little higher than the rent he paid on that bleak room in St. Louis. Still, he was always writing letters in his mind—If only you could be here, too, dear wife. Dear friend, the loneliness might kill me. He would save up some money and go looking for her.