The Bookman's Wake (7 page)

T
here wasn’t much to see of North Bend, especially on
a dark and rainy night. I got off at Exit 31 and Eleanor
directed me through the town, which had long since rolled
up its awnings for the night. The so-called business
district was confined to a single block, the cafe, bar, and
gas station the only places still open. But it was
deceptive: beyond the town were narrow roads where the
people lived, where the Graysons had once lived, where
Eleanor Rigby had grown from a little girl into a young
woman. We went out on a road called Ballarat and soon began
picking up numbered streets and avenues, most of them in
the high hundreds. It was rural by nature, but the streets
seemed linked to Seattle, as if some long-ago urban planner
had plotted inevitable annexations well into the next
century. We came to the intersection of Southeast 106th
Place and 428th Avenue Southeast: I still couldn’t
see much, but I knew we were in the country. There was a
fenced pasture, and occasionally I could see the lights of
houses far back from the road. “Here we are,”
Eleanor said abruptly. “Just pull over here and
stop.” I pulled off the road across from a gate,
which was open. My headlights shone on a mailbox with the
name rigby painted boldly across it, and under
that—in smaller letters—the north bend press.
We sat idling. I could hear her breathing heavily in the
dark beside me. The air in the car was tense.

“What’s happening?” I asked her.

“What do you mean?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Not the kind of problem you’d imagine. I
just hate to face them.”

“Why would you feel like that?”

“I’ve disappointed them badly. I’ve
done some things…stuff I can’t talk
about…I’ve let them down and suddenly
it’s almost impossible for me to walk in there and
face them. I can’t explain it. The two people I love
best in the world are in there and I don’t know what
to say to them.”

“How about ‘hi’?”

She gave a sad little laugh.

“Seriously. If people love each other, the words
don’t matter much.”

“You’re very wise, Janeway. And you’re
right. I know they’re not going to judge me.
They’ll just offer me comfort and shelter and
love.”

“And you shudder at the thought.”

“I sure do.”

We sat for another minute. I let the car idle and the
heater run and I didn’t push her either way. At last
she said, “Let’s go see if Thomas Wolfe was
right when he said you can’t go home
again.”

I turned into the driveway. It was a long dirt road that
wound through the trees. The rain was beating down
steadily, a ruthless drumbeat. In a moment I saw lights
appear through the trees. A house rose up out of the mist,
an old frame building with a wide front porch. It looked
homey and warm, like home is supposed to look to a tired
and heartsick traveler. But Eleanor had begun to shiver as
we approached. “Th-there,” she said through
chattering teeth. “Just pull around the house and
park in front.” But as I did this, she gripped my
arm: my headlights had fallen on a car.
“Somebody’s here! Turn around, don’t
stop, for God’s sake keep going!” Then we saw
the lettering on the car door—the vista printing
company—and I could almost feel the relief flooding
over her. “It’s okay, it’s just Uncle
Archie,” she said breathlessly. “It’s
Mamma’s uncle,” she said, as if I had been the
worried one. A light came on, illuminating the porch and
casting a beam down the stairs into the yard: someone
inside had heard us coming. I pulled up in front of the
other car at the foot of the porch steps. A face peered
through cupped hands at the door. “Mamma,”
Eleanor said, “oh, God, Mamma.” She wrenched
open the door and leaped out into the rain. The woman met
her on the porch with a shriek and they fell into each
other’s arms, hugging as if they hadn’t seen
each other for a lifetime and probably wouldn’t
again, after tonight. I heard the woman yell,
“Gaston!…Get out here!” and then a man
appeared and engulfed them both with bearlike arms. I had a
sinking feeling as I watched them, like Brutus
might’ve felt just before he stabbed Caesar.

Now Eleanor was waving to me. I got out and walked
through the rain and climbed the steps to the porch.
“This is the man who saved my life,” Eleanor
said dramatically, and I was hooked by the woman and pulled
in among them. The man gripped my arm and the woman herded
us all inside. “This place is a shambles,” she
said, picking up a magazine and shooing us on. I was swept
through a hallway to a well-lit kitchen where a tall, thin
man sat at the table. He got to his feet as we came in, and
we all got our first real look at each other. The woman was
young: she might easily have passed for Eleanor’s
older sister, though I knew she had to be at least my age.
But there wasn’t a wrinkle on her face nor a strand
of gray: her only concession to age was a pair of
small-framed granny glasses. The man was burly: my height
and heavier, about the size of an NFL lineman. His hair was
curly and amber and he had a beard to match. The man at the
table was in his sixties, with slate-gray hair and leathery
skin. Eleanor introduced them. “This is my father,
Gaston Rigby…my mother, Crystal…my uncle,
Archie Moon. Guys, this is Mr. Janeway.” We all shook
hands. Rigby’s hand was tentative but his eyes were
steady. Archie Moon gripped my hand firmly and said he was
glad to meet me. Crystal said that, whatever I had done for
their daughter, they were in my debt—doubly so for
bringing her home to them.

There was more fussing, those first awkward moments
among strangers. Rigby seemed shy and reserved: he hung
back and observed while Crystal and Eleanor did the
talking. Hospitality was the order of the moment: Crystal
wanted us to eat, but Eleanor told her we had stopped on
the road. “Well, damn your eyes, you oughta be
spanked,” Crystal said. She asked if we’d like
coffee at least: I said that sounded wonderful. Eleanor
said, “I think what Mr. Janeway would like better
than anything is some dry clothes,” and Crystal took
my measure with her eyes. “I think some of your old
things would fit him close enough, Gaston,” she said.
“Get him a pair of those old jeans and a flannel
shirt and I’ll get the coffee on.”

Rigby disappeared and Crystal bustled about. “Get
down that good china for me, will you, Archie?” she
said, and Moon reached high over her head and began to take
down the cups. Eleanor and I sat at the kitchen table,
lulled by the sudden warmth. Impulsively she reached across
and took my hand, squeezing it and smiling into my eyes. I
thought she was probably on the verge of tears. Then the
moment passed and she drew back into herself as Moon came
with the cups and saucers and began setting them around the
table.

“None for me, honey,” he said. “I been
coffeed-out since noon, won’t sleep a wink if I drink
another drop.”

“I got some decaf,” Crystal said.

“Nah; I gotta get goin‘.”

“What’ve you gotta do?” Crystal said
mockingly. “You ain’t goin‘ a damn place
but back to that old shack.”

“Never mind what I’m gonna do. You
don’t know everything that’s goin‘ on in
my life, even if you think you do.”

They laughed at this with good humor. They spoke a rich
Southern dialect, which Crystal was able to modify when she
talked to us. “This old man is impossible,” she
said. “Would you please talk to him while I get the
coffee on?—otherwise he’ll run off and get in
trouble.”

Moon allowed himself to be bullied for the moment. He
sat beside Eleanor and said, “Well, Mr. Janeway, what
do people call you in casual conversation?”

“Cliff sometimes brings my head up.”

“What line of work are you in?”

“Why is that always the first thing men
ask?” Crystal said.

“It defines them,” Eleanor said.

“So, Mr. Janeway,” Moon said loudly.
“What line of work are you in?”

“Right now I’m between things.”

“An old and honorable calling. I’ve been in
that line once or twice myself. Sometimes it can be pretty
good.”

“As long as you come up smiling.”

“Just for the record,” Crystal said in her
Southern voice, “we don’t care what you do for
a living. I’m just glad you were in the right place
at the right time, and I’m grateful to you and
we’re so glad you’re here with us.”

“That was gonna be my next comment,” Moon
said, “in more or less that same choice of
words.”

“Where’re you staying, Mr. Janeway?”
Crystal asked.

“He’s going where the wind blows,
Mamma,” Eleanor said, as if that explained
everything.

“Tonight the wind dies here,” Crystal said.
“I won’t hear any argument about it,
we’ve got a fine room in the loft over the shop.
It’s warm and dry and there’s a good hard bed.
Best of all, it’s private.”

“You’ll love it,” Eleanor said.

“In fact,” Crystal said as Rigby came in
carrying some clothes, “why don’t we get that
done right now?—get you into some dry duds and
checked into your room. We’re putting Mr. Janeway in
the loft,” she said to Rigby, who nodded. To me she
said, “The only thing I need to ask is that you not
smoke over there. Gaston doesn’t allow any smoking in
the shop. I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Not for me.”

“Good. I’ll whip us up some cinnamon rolls
to go along with the coffee. You get yourself thawed out
and come back over in half an hour so we can all get
acquainted.”

“Me, I gotta go,” Moon said.

“You ornery old cuss,” Crystal said.
“Damn if you’re not the unsociablest one man I
ever met.”

“I’ll take Mr. Janeway over to the loft
while I’m goin‘ out,” Moon said to Rigby.
“No sense you gettin’ wet too.”

I followed him back through the house. We popped open
two umbrellas and went down into the yard. Moon pointed out
the path with a flashlight he carried, leading the way to
an outbuilding about twenty yards behind the house. The
first thing I noticed, even before he turned on the light,
was the smell…the heavy odor of ink mixed with
some-thing else. The light revealed a long room, cluttered
with machinery and steel cabinets. Two large
ancient-looking presses stood against the far wall, a
smaller handpress on a table near the door, and, nearer the
door, was a vast, complicated machine from another century,
which I thought was probably a Linotype. It was.
“That smell shouldn’t bother you any,”
Moon said. “It’s just the smell of hot type.
Gaston must’ve been working out here till just before
you showed up. You shouldn’t even notice it
upstairs.”

He flipped on the lights. Our eyes touched for less than
a second, then he looked away. “I’ll leave you
a slicker here by the door, and the flashlight and the
umbrella too. If you need anything else, there’s a
phone upstairs, you can just call over to the
house.”

The first thing I saw was a no smoking sign. Moon moved
me past it, onto the circular staircase in the corner
opposite the presses, then up to the loft, a spacious
gabled room with a skylight and a window facing the house.
In the middle of the room was a potbellied stove, which
looked to be at least a hundred years old. Moon stoked it
and soon had a fire going: “This old bastard’ll
really dry out your duds. And it’s safe, Gaston has
it checked every so often. It’ll run you right out of
here if you let it get too hot on you.” He walked
around the room looking in corners. Opened a door, peeped
into an adjacent room. “Bathroom. There’s no
tub, but you’ve got a shower if you want
it.”

He made the full circle and stood before me. He radiated
power, though his was wiry, a leaner brand than
Rigby’s. His voice was the prime ingredient in the
picture of hard male strength that he presented to the
world. It was a deep, resonant baritone, bristling with
Southern intelligence. He’d be great on talk radio, I
thought, and I was just as sure that he’d have
nothing to do with it. “The phone’s here beside
the bed,” he said. “It’s on a separate
line, so you just call over to the house just like any
other phone call.” He bent over the end table and
wrote a number on a pad. Then he stood up tall and looked
at me. “I can’t think of anything
else.”

“Everything’s great.”

He turned to leave and stopped at the door.
“Crystal kids around a lot, but I really do have to
go. There’s a waitress in Issaquah who’s got
dibs on my time. You look like a man who understands
that.”

“I do have a faint recollection of such a
situation, yes.”

He gave a little half-laugh and asked if I’d be
around tomorrow. “If you are, come see me. I run the
newspaper, my shop’s over in Snoqualmie, just a few
minutes from here. Anybody in either town can tell you
where I’m at. If the sun comes out tomorrow,
I’ll show you some of the best country in the world.
I’ve got a cabin up in the hills about an
hour’s drive from here. Built it forty years ago and
it’s been swallowed up by national-forest lands,
about a million acres of it. That’ll keep the Holiday
Inn bastards at bay, at least for the rest of my life.
It’s yours if you’d like to unwind in solitude
for a few days.”

Again he paused. “I can’t quite put my
finger on it, Janeway. I’ve got the feeling we owe
you more than we know. Does that make any sense?”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“I don’t know either, it’s just a
feeling I’ve got. Like maybe you came along in the
nick of time, not just to keep our little girl from getting
herself wet.”

“If I did, I don’t know about it. But
I’m glad I could help her.”

He looked at me hard. “The kid doesn’t tell
us much anymore. She’s all grown-up, got a life of
her own. She never had a lick of sense when it came to
strangers. Hitchhiked home from L.A. when she was eighteen,
damn near drove her mamma crazy when she told us about it
that night at dinner. Today she got lucky and found you.
Don’t ask me how or why, but I know we’re in
your debt.”

I made a little motion of dismissal.

“All of us. Me too. Hell, I’ve known that
kid since she was born, she used to hang around my
printshop for hours after school, asking questions,
pestering. ‘What’s this for, what’s that
do?’ She’s such a sweetheart, I couldn’t
think any more of her if she was my own daughter. And I
know that anybody who helped her out of a tough spot could
walk in here and the Rigbys would give him damn near
anything they owned. So rest easy, I guess that’s
what I wanted to say, just rest easy. These people
aren’t kidding when they say they’re glad to
see you.”

Then he was gone, clumping down the stairs, leaving me
with one of the strangest feelings of my life.

I sat at the stove in Gaston Rigby’s clothes,
gold-bricking.

What the hell do I do now? I thought.