Not Right (No Time, part 7)

“Something’s not right,” she said, or rather thought. She was very nervous about feeling that way. She had left in a hurry, hoping he wouldn’t notice how upset she had been. With herself, not with him. For being too curious and disrespectful of his home. She was only supposed to be taking care of the cat, not poking into dusty corners. 

“Something’s not right,” he thought. He was concerned, worried that something was wrong. The look on her face as she was leaving was a troubled one. What had happened while he was gone? She was uncomfortable, that was clear. 

What she had discovered in his house had disturbed her and intrigued her. Her effort to find out things not meant for her eyes made her feel ashamed. And shame was what he had detected in her expression.

He was worried about her. To tell the truth, he had hoped she’d explore his place a little while staying there to take care of the cat. She hadn’t done that, or so it seemed. But he had hoped she would be drawn to his books, wanting to see what they contained. She would learn things about him if she did that, but apparently she hadn’t.

She was musing about the boy whose best friends were books, but who was also lonely. Where were his parents? Were they alive? She imagined very sad scenes from his childhood, not wanting to think about that and not having much evidence of it. Most of all, she didn’t want to make any assumptions that were based on her own early years

He sensed she was driven to physical activity because she was either fleeing something or was desperate to maintain a high level of fitness. Why did he think that? She had just gone almost flying out of his house. Maybe she had felt too confined and was longing to be outdoors, being more active.

She wondered if he had ever lived alone, surrounded as he was by characters in his books, not needing human company. But they weren’t real, they were only fiction and could only partially provide relationships. Still, they did form a pretty good wall for him to hide behind. 

I admit I’m what some call a hermit, he thought. He also thought her toughness (which he liked) had a tinge of fragility to it. Why did he think that? No physical weakness was visible in her appearance. This thought reinforced his initial concern.

She realized the poems and fragments of prose he’d shared with her previously, when they met for walks - at his suggestion! - were only the tip of the iceberg that was his life. She realized she didn’t know him very well after all. Never would she have imagined his dedication to reading and being alone because he had carefully restricted the literary texts he brought her when they met; they were for when they had coffee afterward. He might have might have feared that he was forcing her to read the texts and she’d only pretend she liked them. He knews not everyone shares his passion, she thought, and kept walking.

He wanted her to come back and let him show her his library. He had been in such a hurry to get to his ‘commitment’ that he hadn’t been able to explain much, except for the few details she needed about Sonnet, his cat. He wanted her to see his Cabinet of Curiosities - an odd thing, yet with a long history and one that had always fascinated him. The idea of creating a furniture item like a cabinet with random items had turned into a real project and he truly liked filling it with bits and pieces of his life.

She was becoming frantic as she neared her place, because she knew she’d have to tell him what she’d seen, how she’d rummaged through the shelves and drawers of the Cabinet, how she now had many questions, how she wanted to know more.

He started thinking about how to show her some of his most beloved books, some of them exquisitely bound and engraved. Then he would take her to see his Cabinet of Curiosities, which he liked to think of as a three-dimensional journal. He had never shown it to anybody before, but he trusted her. Something about her was very good. She would react honestly, he knew. Above all, he wanted their friendship to continue, needed it to continue. That meant he would also have to continue to accompany her sometimes when she was practicing a sport.

She started to feel extremely anxious, worried he’d feel betrayed by her going into those drawers, opening those books he’s hollowed out to store random objects. Yet it made no sense hiding what she’d done. She’d have to find a way to get him to invite her back. Or … she had a better idea. She would start with one of the items in the cabinet: large flakes of mica, several layers thick that he had labeled as having come from Maquoit Bay. She would ask him to meet her there, using some made-up reason for having invited him.

Can you meet me tomorrow, late afternoon, at Maquoit Bay? She asked, and he said of course, with a smile that made her suspicious. She didn’t know why she had that impression. It was after 4 pm when they met at the designated place and sat down on two of the boulders near the ramp where occasionally small boats departed or returned.

He spoke first: I heard about this beach from my book arts instructor. The mica you can find here is interesting material for artist’s books. I’ve come here a number of times.

She replied: What a coincidence. I’ve always been curious fascinated by mica. I think it works as an insulator? I have two thick pieces of it wrapped in a tissue in my dresser drawer. I can’t explain why I like having them there. They’re comforting, as odd as that might seem.

He smiled, wryly. Then he stood on the ramp where small boats were inserted into the waters of the bay and recited the Emily Dickinson poem by heart: There is no frigate like a book… 

She was watching him, aware of the connection between the place where the lonely book lover was standing and the poem. She could see how content he was at that moment and unconsciously gained more respect for literature. It tied so many things together.

He turned back to her, and they heard a dog bark nearby. The sound led him to tell her that he had read a novel titled Rusty (a dog) when he was a boy. He even remembered where it was on the library shelf, at a level between the hip and the knee. He’d finally found the information he needed to track down a copy. He explained that he had been given a cocker spaniel when he was five and had never been able to get another one. The dog in the novel resembled the one he’d had. Did you ever have a dog? He asked her.

She thought about how she could never have one in the house where she grew up. One of them would mistreat it, and a dog doesn’t deserve that. When she left that place and wasn’t able to find a place to live, she’d taken an old sock and stuffed it with something and drawn a face on it. She’d pretended it was a real dog. She didn’t think she wanted to tell him that. I had one, its name was Toby, she replied, unsure why she even said that much.

They both began to search for mica flakes among the boulders and seaweed. They gathered a few, placing the fragile flakes in a plastic container with a lid. Then they sat on the rocks again, watching the sun dip lower in the sky over the rippling waves. It seemed the conversation was not over yet.

[To be continued]