The Books Never Lie
The world around me had become surreal as I sat at his desk. The leather chair caressed me in all the wrong places but I was not the usual occupant. The faint smell of cigar smoke and old cologne lingered in the stagnant air. The skies had gone gray and began to weep as if they too missed him as I did. I turned from my reflection in the smooth cherry wood desk and surveyed the books stacked high, resting neatly on the shelves that encompassed all four walls of the study; my reason for being here.
LOCAL PROFESSOR KILLED BY DRUNK DRIVER.
I could see the headline, like crystal, in the back of my mind. The images beneath it had invaded my dreams turning them to nightmares for the past week. My father didn’t deserve to die like that and so soon. He had been a pillar of the community: coaching the local boy’s lacrosse team, offering tutoring sessions to kids in need free of charge, volunteering monthly at the shelter, and his generous donations to the church provided them with a new youth center. His funeral was crowded with people from all walks of life. Words of praise and adoration readily danced on their lips. Tears, from some endless source, welled in my eyes. A fluttering caused me to wrap a tender arm around my abdomen.
My husband and I had never cared much about knowing the gender of our soon to be children. We would love them and that was that. We already had one of each and had decided we would keep this child’s gender a secret and be surprised at their birth. In that moment, I longed for another little boy so I could give my father one last honor by naming my son after the greatest man I knew. My father would never get to hold him, or take him to a baseball game, or read to him in that deep gentle voice. It pained me to think of all the events and holidays that would pass without him and the hole this would leave in my memories to come. The child kicked yet again, a soft reminder to stop dwelling on what would never be and to get started on the task at hand.
These books were my father’s life. His passion for literature was second only to his love for me; his only child. My mother had died in a rare incident during my birth; it had been just me, him, and these books my entire life. I remember watching his eyes illuminate and hearing the tenderness in his voice when he spoke of Emerson, Elliot, and Shakespeare. It is why I, too, pursued a degree in literature. Now, it was up to me to decide which books came home with me and which were to be donated to the university library, as per the instructions in his last will and testament. There must be hundreds of volumes to sort through. The task would take all day and so I began.
An hour passed, then two, then three. Two ever growing piles started to form on the Persian rug. I worked steadily, keeping books that held precious memories that I would one day share with my children and giving away books I already owned or could be of use for scholarly research. I pulled the books, one by one, leaving behind bare shelves like a buzzard picking a carcass clean. My arms tired and feet began to ache but I persevered. I didn’t want to have to come back tomorrow to finish the job.
When the shelves were clear I began to work on the cabinets located beneath them. Here he kept rare books and his own attempts at multiple unfinished novels. Most of these would find their home in the university under tempered glass for all to admire. The manuscripts I would keep for myself. I handled these books like they were delicate artifacts from an ancient civilization; admiring them and taking extra precautions in their protection.
In the last cabinet I found no books, no real books anyway, just their shells and a camera. It was an old polaroid camera, the kind that prints a picture instantly. I had never seen my father use one of these before. We always had our pictures done professionally or took our own film to be developed at a photo center. I set the archaic camera aside, perhaps my five-year-old would find joy snapping pictures later. I grabbed one of the boxes made to look like a giant volume of Gray’s Anatomy. I opened it, a phantom serpent coiled around my stomach and constricted. The book fell from my hands and snapped shut. I shot up on shaky legs and immediately collapsed into the nearest leather chair.
My breath came rapidly as if I had just finished the Boston marathon and I struggled to catch it. My mind reeled; wondering if what it had seen was true and trying to make sense of it all. I ran my fingers repeatedly through my dark hair and mumbled to myself; telling myself to relax. I slowly worked up the courage to look a second time and gain some concrete knowledge. Sliding to the floor, not trusting my legs, I crawled over to the box. With unsteady hands and a thundering heart, I pulled back the lid once more.
Inside were pictures, countless pictures.
I wanted to see images of my mother, of a time before I existed, when she was young and beautiful and untouched by the grave. There were no pictures of my mother, only children. Bile rose in my throat and I squeezed my eyes tight forcing it back down.
When the threat was neutralized I opened my eyes and found myself staring into the faces of dozens of boys. They were all boys. Boys with blond hair and brown hair and thick black curls. Boys with scrapes on their knees and missing front teeth. Boys with freckles. Boys with pale skin, copper skin, with farmer’s tans and sunburns. Boys I knew from my childhood and ones I had never met before. Their eyes were blue, brown, hazel, black, and they all started at the camera pleading and ashamed. Eyes calling out for mercy; humiliated and betrayed. In the white space at the base of each photo was their name and the date written in my father’s hand. I closed the box.
I sat there feeling vacant; devoid of all emotion. My mind recalled all the times a child had entered my father’s study for a private tutoring session. I played unknowingly outside while innocence was being stolen from them inside. These “free” lessons apparently came with a grave cost. My father was not the honorable man I had known him to be. Instead, he was the boogeyman who lurked in the shadows of children’s dreams. No longer a myth but a tangible man of flesh and blood. My mind worked sluggishly, as if it waded through a swamp with muddy truth up to its knees. “What do I do now?” I asked myself over and over again.
Do I contact the boys I could and try to offer some kind of consolation? Do I call the authorities and drag my family name through the muck? What good could come from either of those? I dug out the other false books, five in all, and piled them high with the camera placed on top. I stood on numb legs, everything was numb, picked up the pile and headed for the den. The weight of each life ruined pulled on my already tired muscles. The next hour passed by like a memory being recalled; fragmented and shrouded in a gray haze. Lighting the fire, waiting, feeding the books to it one by one, then the camera, and settling into the russet couch and watching the famished flames consume it all.
I closed my eyes and tried to recall memories of my father now: our trip to Walden Pond, Poe’s grave, and the tour of Smith College. Of how he could recite Green Eggs and Ham from memory and always did so when I was upset. Of how he always burned my toast until I learned to make it myself. With each memory I saw his enchanting emerald eyes and gentle smile. A boy’s face flashed before my eyes casting a shadow over each memory. My father’s demeanor transformed from one of love to something vile. For a moment I blamed the boys for ruining my memories. Fury began to course through my veins bringing my blood to a simmer. I wished I had never come across their sullen faces and pleading eyes. I envied my mother; ignorant in the grave. The discovery of those faces caused an eruption equal to that of Mt. Vesuvius; leaving my world in ash covered ruins.
The child inside me stirred and I was reminded they were only innocent victims. I took a breath and traced abstract shapes mindlessly across my swollen belly. I had made my decision. I would give all the books to the university, including his unfinished manuscripts. I would sell this house and everything in it. I would tell my husband to take that job in Oxford and we would put an entire ocean between us and the past. I would lock away all memories of the man who raised me, never utter a word of him to my children, and give this child a name of their own.