Books from a Friend

I wonder when I’ll be able to admit that I think about them every damn day.

 

A very thin volume of poetry.  I lean forward from my waist and placed my nose upon the book.  Could I possibly smell the faint residue of tobacco?  The paper felt dry and the binding sounded a small revolt as I turned the pages.  I pushed my luck and kept turning the pages.  His hand writing in the margins, his penciled questions along the edges of verse and again I feel the November wind that blew the day he gave me the books.

 

The books were used – used by him for many years so of course they smelled musty but not in an unpleasant way; the books smelled musty in a way I understood.  He had placed the books in a box and they moved with him; from placed to place.  Men treat books differently than women treat books.  It doesn’t matter what type of man, he treats the book as he would any good leather shoe or long time girl friend.  Books were indestructible; books could be ignored, stay in storage, hold up in a friend's garage for the winter or in their Mother’s basement and really to men - what smell.

 

Of course, the storage of a book is only part of the saga.  When the books aren’t in storage, they are by his favorite chair.  The same chair that he smokes his cigar in when his now wife isn’t around or tries out that new pipe tobacco that she likes only around Christmas.  The same chair that looks fine even with the spilled grape juice his daughter cried over and his son giggled at so many years ago.  The books absorbed it all.

 

We met, he and I, on a perfect, gray, autumn day.  A fine mist of rain, cold and windy – the type of weather unkind to fall foliage but the type of weather that makes me want to draw in the cold air and smile.  Fall - late October all through November; rain and wet, raw wind, dark blue skies and rolling, fast moving clouds.  In short, invigorating and I - I was to meet him for lunch.  Something we tried to do once a month, just the two of us, me because I really needed his input and him, well for different reasons; on this gray autumn day, to give me a few books.

 

Poetry; not really my thing.  I needed narrative, conversation, description not ranting or ambiguity.  I just didn’t get poetry I was and am too dense to be lead around by rhyme couplets.  I could tell by the books’ well-thumbed appearance that they were important to him, yet he had to give them away.  His wife of many years no doubt had had enough.

 

His mounds and piles of books followed him into his marriage and I could only imagine, ignored by her, until menopause brought the thought that another winter among his dusty tomes would be akin to visiting Niagara in January.  So, as with all things, and the dictates of time, a weeding out occurs and occurred.  But his wife’s weeds were my blossoms.  That musty smell, to me, was only the process of autumn moving toward spring, the nights alone reading his books, the winter between.  Now what he treasured, would open up for me.

 

I didn’t say this to him, I would not have dreamed of saying such things to him.  I laughed.  “Has she finally had enough?”

 

He smiled back at me and I sensed my mistake.  Did he feel that I was doing him a favor by taking his books?  I backed up and tried again.  I kept my mouth shut and reached for the poetry books.  No poet’s name struck a chord of recognition within my filmy and flimsy portfolio of read poetry; Frost did not appear, nor Whitman to save the day, I was looking at contemporary works of at least thirty years ago.  Laments of space travel when we didn’t know our own earth, anger over Asian wars, love affairs that were unfulfilling and the sudden surge of passion in the cold dark night; all encased within a thick paper cover stapled in the center upon spotted creased pages.

 

I placed my hand on one underlined page to feel the grit and texture, a page powdery dry and the ink now tightly woven into shrunken paper fibers.

 

“Thank-you,” I said, speaking softly.

 

He looked away and picked up his tea and as he lifted it to his lips, the steam twinned into the air encircling his head.  His mouth curved downward and he blew gently into his cup, causing the steam to swirl tendrils up and around his dark and silvering hair.  “Nothing, just something I’ve had for a long time.  Throw them away if you want to.”

 

I picked up the second book and did not open it, I just felt the thick cover bend back and forth in my hand the pages curling easily within – yes men treated books the same.

 

I told him I had no wish to throw the books away, that I appreciated him thinking of me.  I would read what he had underlined and then perhaps we could talk about the poetry.  He shrugged and seemed to want to put away the subject.

 

“Did you bring anything for me to read?” he asked.

 

And I had that autumn day, cold and gray, his words and the weather seemed to shake me out of a revelry I was only suddenly aware.  I felt awkward though handing over my work for him to read it seemed selfish now.  I wanted only to go home.  I wanted to make coffee, shut off all the lights, except my reading lamp, and watch it rain and read poetry.  I wanted to think about where the books may have stayed waiting on him to give them away.  I wanted to feel lonely and look out on the gray autumn day.

 

But he read my work and smiled and we chewed our food carefully.  He seemed fine but I found myself wanting to cry and to bump my hand against his.  I wanted him to notice that I felt different now, taking his books.  I wanted him to notice me.

 

He stood first, saying it was time to get back to work.  I looked down, my half-eaten sandwich still on my plate.  I pushed it aside and let my hair drop across my face slightly dismayed at the burn of tears.  I thought suddenly if I could get outside, feel the cold autumn air, I would feel better, my mind would clear.

 

I shrugged into my coat, my hands tucked well within its sleeves.  I pulled my large messenger back over my head and down upon my shoulder.  It pulled my hair as the strap settled upon my shoulder and I snapped my head back, angry whenever my hair is pulled.  I reached for the bag of books.  The bag crinkled as I picked it up.  Poetry within a grocery sack; did he think of using anything else besides a grocery sack?  I simply kept my head down and walked toward the door.  He stepped in behind me and said nothing.

 

He followed me to my car.

 

“What’s wrong?” his voice low, I shook my head and would not look at him.  I turned deliberately away from him, trying to decide how I could I get through the rest of my day, thinking of the books he gave me sitting upon my desk within their plastic grocery bag.

 

His hand reached out and firmly grasped my upper arm.  I hated to think how I looked; hair blowing in the wind, tears mixed with the mist of that cold autumn day.

 

We embraced often enough but this was different, a stumbling awkward coming together, our feet tripping over each other and my mop of hair suddenly in my eyes.  If he laughed, I thought in that moment that stretches into eternity and never leaves the memory, if he laughs, I thought to myself, I will die.  But he didn’t.  He did not laugh.  He was serious, his eyes in a frown, his arm now around my waist holding me steady and real concern creasing his face.  He moved my hair from my eyes, so he could read me like so many of his books.

 

We came together so hesitantly.  Me who didn’t know how to kiss and he who had taken a peck on the lips every morning and every night, too much for granted.  I opened my mouth slightly and he touched my lips with his.  I could not take my eyes away from his face and he touched me again.  I tasted warm salt.

 

Warm salt.

 

A heat that did not burn and a taste that warmed.  Fascinated I compressed my lips together and tried to taste what he had given me again.  I felt him surge as I contemplated his taste and again felt his lips wet upon mine but this time he took instead of gave.  His hands deeply curled into my hair the intimate sounds of his mouth kissing mine, the deep breathing the consuming feeling and fire.

 

And then over.

 

He moved me so easily.  I felt pliable next to his body, not moving but feeling suddenly tired and warm  - safe my head on his shoulder and his face buried deep within my neck and fly away hair.

 

Safe for only a moment, for I moved and the bag of books sounded, crinkling and banging against us.  The books that held within them a musty smell of years, the words that at the time meant so much, the tobacco smoke of Christmas, the grape juice his daughter doesn’t remember and the echoed giggles of his son.

 

He said it then, “I’m sorry.”  Those two words that made me feel like I was thirteen with braces and acne or the time when in the gloom of night a young man took my hand and suddenly realized that I was not who he thought.

 

I shoved him back, trying not to remember his taste.  He whispered my name, a plaintive pleading sound.  He was wet from the mist, his face older somehow while his hair seemed to turn darker in the rain.

 

I got into my car.  I saw him standing there, within my rear view mirror as I accelerated away.  Then he whirled around as if taken up by a strong wind and I could almost hear the expletive he uttered under his breath to nobody.

 

I keep the books still, packed away and think about them every day.

 

Sandra K Woodiwiss Copyright 2012