In Laymon's Terms

Patricia Lee Macomber

HE OLD BOOKSTORE stood forlornly among the other, newer shops. It had once been a grocery, a church, a clinic, a candy store. With its band of candy-striped awning around the roofline and the large, overly heavy wood door, it seemed to be the place—the only place—where real books could be found in Stantonville.

Charlie Drier flew down the street on a Western Auto steed with playing cards on the spokes and a jet stream of leaves in his wake. He flashed past the other children, Christmas-dreaming through the toy store window and flew past the park where trees gently wept.

It was winter, land of snowballs and plows. Cold like an ice cube against a bad tooth. It was white, pristine snow, the LSD colors of gaudy Christmas decorations painting the sidewalk in an on-off spill of snow paint.

All the other children had sugarplums in their dreams. For Charlie, there were only the books, the store, and an old wooden stool. He breezed through the door like he owned the place, removing his hat and stuffing it in his back pocket so as not to lose it.

“Good afternoon, young Charles,” Mr. Standish said with a smile. He tilted back his head, peering through those half-glasses and chuckling. “And what have you for me today?”

Charlie fished through his pockets, his mouth curling and puckering, betraying the sorry state of his financial affairs. “Two pennies and an old fuzzy gumdrop.” He held forth one open hand, proffering his treasures to the bookseller.

“The pennies I’ll take. But I think I’ll pass on the gumdrop, if it’s all the same to you.”

Charlie dropped the pennies into the man’s pudgy hand, checked his blue eyes for a hint of surprise, then pocketed his hands once more. “Anything new?”

“Nothing new here, Charlie. Only old books.”

With a sage nod, Charlie turned and rushed toward the back of the store.

He doubted that Mr. Standish cared much for his book rental fees. In Charlie’s mind, the old man probably just wanted to gauge how important the reading of such books was to Charlie. Either way, it worked out just fine for Charlie. He got to read his pick of the books and all it ever cost him was the price of whatever happened to be in his pockets at the time.

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?”

“NO!” came the quick answer in the form of a volume of poetry.

“Then what ARE you?”

“Charlie, is everything all right back there?”

Only then did he realize just how loud his voice had become. “Just fine, Mr. Standish. Reading aloud is all. Just reading aloud.”

Charlie leaned one arm against the bookshelf and rested his sweaty forehead on that arm. A book promptly slid forward and struck him softly at the top of his head.

“What?” he asked, hands held outward, pleading.

A book flew from the shelf then. It careened wildly across the room, bounced off the opposite shelf, and landed on the floor. Then it flipped over.

HELP

Charlie pressed his open palms to either side of his head and groaned. “Stop it!”

Another book broke free and another. Charlie spun madly, trying to keep up with it all but it was no use. Every book bore the same ambiguous message.

HELP

He spun just in time to see Mr. Standish approach. The man’s face was red.

Charlie panicked all at once and began babbling. “I’m sorry, Mr. Standish. I had nothing to do with it. They just keep doing that. All over the floor. Just falling. And I...”

It was no use. Standish didn’t budge, didn’t blink. Charlie’s shoulders slumped and his head sagged. “I guess I better go home now.”

“I guess you better.”

He felt Mr. Standish’s eyes on his back, boring white-hot holes in his head as he trudged toward the door. It would have been one thing to be kicked out of the bookstore for something he’d done wrong. But this was quite another thing. Something was going on inside that bookstore and Charlie had nothing to do with it. Somehow, he felt as though the store needed him, as though the books needed him.

He walked outside and around the corner, waiting for the bell to stop tinkling against the door. Then he crept slowly back around to the window and positioned himself just beneath it, listening.

“You’re being very naughty, you know. And you’re scaring poor Charlie. You mustn’t scare away the customers like that. How will you ever find homes if we have no customers ?”

Charlie cringed inwardly. He had been convinced that Mr. Standish was lying to him. And now, it seemed as though the books really did want to find homes. He pressed his cheek against the brick below the window and listened.

“I have great plans for Charlie, you see. He’s such a pretty little boy.”

Charlie stood and ran. Something in that last sentence—though not entirely understood—was horribly wrong.

He spent all that night lying awake and staring at the ceiling. He had tried for the first few hours to read, but the concentration just wasn’t there. Then he tried to get his copy of Robin Hood to talk to him. But it was no use. Either the book couldn’t talk, or it couldn’t talk on its own. Either way, Charlie was still in the dark...and frightened.

The next day, Charlie found himself outside the bookstore once more. He sat on his bike at the end of the block, staring at the sign and chewing his bottom lip. He had to find out what was going on inside that store. And yet, he was terrified of the actual answer.

Finally, he screwed up his courage and pedaled down the sidewalk. He parked his bike in the usual slot in the bike rack. It seemed he was the only child in Stantonville who ever came to the store, so the bike rack was pretty much his own.

Charlie stretched out in the sidewalk beneath the store window, watching Mr. Standish through a mirror he had swiped from his mother’s vanity. He waited until Mr. Standish went into the office, then slipped inside.

He managed to pull the door open slowly enough that the bell didn’t sound. Once he had eased the door shut again, he tiptoed to the back of the store.

“Please tell me what to do,” he begged in a soft whisper. “Please.”

The answer came by way of a single offering. “Get,” said the first word of the title.

“Charlie?”

At the sound of Mr. Standish’s voice, Charlie gasped and spun. His heart was pounding against his ribs, making his chest jump. “Get? Get what? Please!”

A book slid forward, easing itself into Charlie’s soft grasp. “Shovel.” Charlie screamed. The tight grip of Mr. Standish’s hand on his shoulder was too much to bear. Charlie spun in a second, purposefully knocking several books from their shelves in order to conceal his treachery.

“I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see you today, Charlie. Glad to see you haven’t lost your taste for the books.”

“Oh no!” Charlie laughed nervously, the little gulps of air turned into titters and spat out between chattering teeth. “I’ll never stop loving books.”

“They seem to love you, too, Charlie.” He tapped one thick finger on the spine of the volume Charlie still held. “They leap right into your hands.”

“Yes, well...”

“It would seem that the books favor you, Charlie. As does the store. I think you’re ready to see our special collection.”

“Really?” Charlie feigned interest, forcing his eyes away from the door, his escape.

“Indeed. These are very special books. One of a kind, really. And I think they’re right up your alley.”

Charlie knew how his face must look to Mr. Standish. The man was playing along, trying to lure him into the back of the store, behind all those rows of shelves. Something very bad was about to happen, Charlie could feel it. And yet, if he tried to run too soon, Mr. Standish could grab him. Then it would be all over.

Mr. Standish looped one thick arm around Charlie’s shoulders and led him away, toward the back of the store where the emergency exit was. Only, it wasn’t an emergency exit at all. It was a door that led, not into the alley, but into another room.

One fat hand slid into a pocket and produced a ring of keys. Mr. Standish sorted through the set until he found just the right one. Then he slid it home and turned the lock on that old knob.

“Bear in mind, Charlie, that each of these books tells the unique and wonderful story of one person. It’s the essence of the writer, really. Quite beautiful.”

No matter how mad Mr. Standish was that Charlie had run, Charlie knew the man wouldn’t chase him. He had neither the energy nor the time to do so. He never left the store, except to buy food. And even then, there were three locks he had to engage before he left.

The bricks against Charlie’s back were hard and cold. He stood still for a moment, letting the wall hold him up while his knees regained their strength. More than anything in the world, he wanted to cry. He fought that urge, trying to shore up his strength and think clearly.

He couldn’t go back into that store. It was too risky. Mr. Standish would be on him in a second, then whatever the man had planned for him would be just a heartbeat away.

He couldn’t tell anyone. Who would believe the nine-year-old son of a whore? They’d think he was crazy and lock him up.

Still, he had to know where the books wanted him to take the shovel. What did they want him to dig up?

Charlie paced back and forth along the sidewalk in front of his house. There were only two kids who passed that way, snotty Shawna Reilly and Greg Tremblay. Greg was younger by two years than Charlie, but smart as a whip. He’d been advanced to third grade and there was talk of sending him yet another year ahead.

And so Charlie waited. The minute Greg walked past, Charlie reached out and snagged him by the sleeve. The shorter, younger boy let out a small yelp and shied away from Charlie at once.

“Relax, Greg. I’m not gonna take your lunch money or nothing. I just want to talk to you for a second.”

Greg scowled at Charlie and yanked back his arm. “What do you want?”

“I have a little job for you. And I’m willing to pay.”

Greg’s face lit up at that. Charlie could see the little cash register symbols in his eyes. “How much? And what’s the job?”

“All I want you to do is go into the bookstore for me. See, I can’t go in there no more ’cause Mr. Standish don’t like letting people like me and my Mama in.”

“Okay, and what do I do once I’m in this bookstore?” Greg’s eyes scanned the sidewalk.

“Go to the back of the store. All the way to the back where they keep the adventure books. Then just ask the books, ‘Where should Charlie take the shovel?’ That’s it. But ask quietly so old man Standish doesn’t hear you.”

“You want me to talk to BOOKS?” Greg backed away.

Charlie advanced. “I’ll explain later. But for right now, you have to trust me...and this five spot.” Charlie waved the bill beneath Greg’s nose. “Once you ask the question, books will slide out from the shelves, all on their own. Don’t be scared, though, okay? It won’t hurt you.”

“So, I walk into the back of Standish’s bookstore and ask the books where you should take the shovel.”

“Read the first word of the title of each book, in order, as they pop out.”

“And the books will give me the answer. And for this I get five bucks?”

“You got it! Don’t let me down, okay? And get in and out fast. Don’t hang around.”

“What if I get caught?” This seemed almost as important to Greg as the five-dollar bill which still held his eyes captive.

“Doing what? Talking to books? Look, if Standish catches you, just say you’re rehearsing for the school play and that’s why you were talking to yourself. Okay? Do we have a deal?”

“You’re weird as hell, Drier, ya know that?”

“Yea, I know. But do we have a deal?”

“Deal.”

The boys shook on it and Greg took off, bound for the bookstore. Charlie waited in front of his house, kicking stones and chewing his lip, hoping Greg wouldn’t get busted. It wouldn’t take Standish long to realize just who had sent Greg into the store. Then he might well come after Charlie.

At twelve past forever, Greg ran toward Charlie. He skidded around the corner and planted his gray sneakers on the sidewalk in a dead stop.

“So? So? What did they say?”

Still panting and holding his sides, Greg tried to stand fully upright. “I’ll tell you what, man. That bookstore is the creepiest place I’ve ever seen. How do they do that, anyway? Books popping out all over the place?”

“I don’t know how they do it. What did they tell you?”

“The old abandoned fishing pier. Dig at the end farthest from the water.” Greg paused for a moment, grimacing from the stitch in his side. “Now, where’s my five bucks?” Charlie yanked the bill from his pocket and pressed it into Greg’s sweaty palm. “Thanks, man.” And he dashed toward his house.

“Hey! What are you digging for, anyway?” Greg yelled after him.

“I’ll let you know when I find out,” Charlie hollered, then disappeared around the side of the house.

The ground was soft and mucky beneath the rotted old pier, so the digging wasn’t too hard. Charlie had waited for a spell, until all the old-timers dragged themselves home, fishing poles in tow. It had been a long time since fishing had been legal there, though the old residents refused to admit that.

Charlie watched the pile of dirt and sand pile up behind him, quickly at first, then more slowly as his arms got tired. He dug wide and deep, hoping against hope that he hadn’t lost his mind, and that he wasn’t digging in the wrong spot. Somewhere around seven that evening, he offered up a silent oath to pummel Greg into the ground if the kid had lied to him.

Then he tried to withdraw his shovel from the dirt and it stuck. Something soft and spongy had grabbed on to those little prongs on the head of the spade and held tight. Charlie let go of the handle and bent down to examine the hole more closely.

Something thin and black protruded from the sand and he poked at it, watching for signs of attack. Once he had decided that the thing was not really alive, he began pushing the sand away from it with his hands.

He poked one finger through the thin plastic, then shoved in a second finger and pulled. The bag slipped open, splitting easily from age and wear. Something white and hard poked through, stabbing through the air at him.

Charlie screamed and fell backward into the sand. His eyes locked on to the hole in that bag, he panted, gasped. It was a bone. Picked clean and bleached by time, a thick leg bone pointed at him accusingly.

He was off running then, spade and bag forgotten. He had to get to a phone, had to get help. Now, they would believe him.

Charlie wandered about the bookstore, looking in corners and peering among shadows. All about him, policemen gathered things and whispered among themselves. When he thought that no one might notice, Charlie stole away to the back of the store.

“How many of you are there? Did he kill you all?” Not a single book moved. “Why won’t you talk to me anymore?”

Charlie felt heat rise into his face. His muscles ached and his head pounded. He had digested an enormous amount of fear in the past twelve hours. Now, he merely felt empty.

“Hey, kiddo!” The tight grip on his shoulder squeezed a yell from Charlie’s lips. “You did a good thing.”

“Sir?” The policeman’s face was a welcome relief. Mr. Standish had long since been carted off to jail, but somehow, in Charlie’s mind, the man possessed superhuman powers and might well have shown up for one last crack at him.

“You probably saved a lot of children’s lives today. But tell me, how did you know to look under the pier?”

Charlie dry-swallowed his morals and stuttered. “I was just...you know...messing around under there. And I ran across the bag while digging for pirate treasure.” Charlie hated to lie. His mother lied all the time and it made Charlie feel sick inside when she lied to him.

“You must have been very frightened.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What I still don’t understand is how you connected it all to Mr. Standish.” The officer stared at him, unblinking and steady.

Charlie tried to think of something to say, tried to come up with some plausible lie that wouldn’t make him sound like a fool.

“Oh well! Of course! He probably showed you what was in the back room. All those books. Written in blood and bound in human skin. He’s really an awful man. And you’re damn lucky he didn’t get his hands on you.” The officer poked Charlie in the stomach playfully. “From now on, you leave the sleuthing up to us professionals, okay, pardner?”

“You got it, sir.” Charlie nodded vehemently and crossed his fingers behind his back...just in case.

The policeman walked away, leaving Charlie alone with the books. He turned slowly, sighing as he gazed up at the shelves.

“So what will become of you now? Will you get to go free? Or are you stuck here?” He waited a reasonable amount of time, then shook his head sadly. “Well, I might have hallucinated the whole thing. Who knows? Maybe I am a little crazy.”

Slowly, Charlie wandered down the aisle of bookshelves, his legs a little weaker than they were that morning, his load a little lighter.

Then he heard a sound, something familiar in its tone, yet strange in its timing. Two books, hitting the floor, though not as they usually did. These books simply landed on the wood floor, falling gently as though dropped from only an inch or two.

Charlie froze for a moment, holding his breath and wondering what he would see. When he turned, the two books were directly in front of him, not more than six inches away. He smiled as he looked at them, nodding reverently as he read the titles.

THANK

YOU

“You’re welcome,” Charlie offered with a little mock salute. Then he turned and left the store, the books, and the bones.