The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry(52)

“That’s the library.”

“Bingo. You know I never read much back then. So I follow him up the stairs and into a library carrel in the back and I’m thinking, he’s probably going to do drugs or something there. Perfect place, right? Isolated. But you know what he’s got?”

“Books, I’d imagine. That’s the obvious thing, right?”

“He’s got one thick book. He’s in the middle of Infinite Jest. You ever heard of it?”

“Now you’re making this up.”

“The boy is reading Infinite Jest. He says he can’t do it at home because he has five siblings to babysit and he can’t do it at school because his buddies will make fun of him. So he skips school to go read in peace. The book takes a lot of concentration. ‘Listen, hombre,’ he says, ‘there’s nothing for me at school. Everything’s in this book.’ ”

“I take it, he’s Latino, by your use of the word hombre. A lot of Hispanic people on Alice Island?”

“A few.”

“So what do you do?”

“I haul his ass back to school. The principal asks me how the kid should be punished. I ask the kid how long he thinks it’ll take him to finish the book. He says, ’About two weeks.’ And so I recommend they give him a two-week suspension for delinquency.”

“You’re definitely making this up,” A.J. says. “Admit it. The troubled youth was not skipping school to read Infinite Jest.”

“He was, A.J. I swear to God.” But then Lambiase bursts out laughing. “You seemed depressed. I wanted to tell you a story with a little uplift.”

“Thanks. Thanks very much.”

A.J. orders another beer.

“What did you want to tell me?”

“It’s funny that you should mention Infinite Jest. Why did you choose that particular title, by the way?” A.J. says.

“I always see it in the store. It takes up a lot of space on the shelf.”

A.J. nods. “I once had this huge argument with a friend of mine about it. He loved it. I hated it. But the funniest thing about this dispute, the thing I will confess to you now is . . .”

“Yes?”

“That I never finished reading it.” A.J. laughs. “That and Proust can both go on my list of unfinished works, thank God. My brain is broken, by the way.” He takes out the slip of paper and reads, “Glioblastoma multiforme. It turns you into a vegetable and then you die. But at least it’s quick.”

Lambiase sets down his beer. “There must be a surgery or something,” he says.

“There is, but it costs a billion dollars. And it only delays things anyway. I won’t leave Amy and Maya broke just to prolong my life by a couple of months.”

Lambiase finishes his beer. He signals the bartender for another one. “I think you should let them decide for themselves,” Lambiase says.

“They’ll be sentimental,” A.J. says.

“Let them be.”

“The right thing for me to do is blow my stupid brains out, I’d say.”

Lambiase shakes his head. “You’d do that to Maya?”

“How is it better for her to have a brain-dead father and no money for college?”

THAT NIGHT IN bed, after the lights are off, Lambiase pulls Ismay close to him. “I love you,” he tells her. “And I want you to know that I don’t judge you for anything you might have done in the past.”

“Okay,” Ismay says. “I’m half asleep and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know about the bag in the closet,” Lambiase whispers. “I know that the book’s in there. I don’t know how it got there and I don’t need to know either. But it’s only right that it be returned to its rightful owner.”

After a long pause, Ismay says, “The book’s ruined.”

“But even a damaged Tamerlane might still be worth something,” Lambiase says. “I searched the Christie’s website and the last copy on the market sold for five hundred sixty thousand dollars. So I figure maybe a damaged one is worth fifty thousand or something. And A.J. and Amy need the money.”

“Why do they need the money?”

He tells her about A.J.’s cancer, and Ismay covers her face with her hands.

“The way I see it,” Lambiase says, “we wipe the book down of fingerprints, put it in an envelope, and return it. No one has to know where or who it came from.”

Ismay turns on the bedside lamp. “How long have you known about this?”

“Since the first night I spent at your house.”

“And you didn’t care? Why didn’t you turn me in?” Ismay’s eyes are sharp.

“Because it wasn’t my business, Izzie. I wasn’t invited in your home as an officer of the law. And I didn’t have a right to be looking through your stuff. And I figured there must be a story. You’re a good woman, Ismay, and you haven’t had it easy.”

Ismay sits up. Her hands are shaking. She walks over to the closet and pulls down the bag. “I want you to know what happened,” she says.

“I don’t need to,” Lambiase says.

“Please, I want to tell you. And don’t interrupt. If you interrupt me, I won’t be able to get it all out.”