Bindings

A young man by some standards, an old man by others. Inside my haven, I was alone; I liked it that way: cozy and content. I was familiar with the ins and outs of my trade, the pattern of the work, and its well-defined outcomes. I was defended against the harsh, bustling, and noise-choked streets that loomed at me menacingly from the other side of the glass.

Inside, I had all the company I needed: the pungent smell of archival glue lingering in the air; the dust of freshly-shorn paper settling about shelves and floor; the soft feel of leather-bound tomes under my hand as I stretched it across paper-board covers.

I worked, going about my business, repairing the old, to make it like new. I liked to think of my trade as protecting the memory of things, of people, places, of whatever.

The bell chimed out, and in walked a relatively short bald man. Small in stature as he was, the fellow was absolutely massive. I’d never seen someone so big, muscles bulging out from a too tight black t-shirt.

“How can I help you today?” I put on a jovial tone, despite the fact that the guy looked like he could crush my skull with one hand.

He placed a book down on the counter, keeping his cold eyes trained on me.

Okay, not a big talker.

Looking down, I thought for a moment I was the subject of a practical joke. This giant of a man placed a copy of The Bell Jar in front of me.

I looked up at the man, then back down at the book.

I almost fell over.

Victoria Lucas, the name stared back at me from the top of the book.

Holy shit, it can’t be.

“Is this,” I looked up at the man.

He nodded.

Christ, I wanted to comb through the book, see all its pages, feel the history between my fingers. This guy had a first edition of an American classic. It was even published under the author’s pseudonym.

I could see what needed to be done right away. The binding was fraying, a rather common problem as books aged.

“I can fix it, should take me two—no, three days, I’ll want to be extra careful with this.”

The man nodded again.

“Right, well, if you could fill this form out,” I slid the customer invoice over to him. He filled it out in silence and slid it back over to me.

“Okay,” looking down to make sure he had filled out everything properly, I could barely read his chicken-scratch.

The big fellow was already headed out of the shop; I yelled after him, “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

As the rare-book possessing giant exited the door, the soft chime stirred. I noticed a small girl peering at me from beyond the glass. Her face was pressed up against it, hands cupped around emerald-green eyes.

I waved.

She scampered off.

People these days, no manners.

A few days passed, and I finished repairing the binding for Mr. Muscle’s book. Which he had yet to pick up, despite my calling him three times and leaving as many voicemails, I had yet to hear back from him. I wasn’t even sure I had been calling the right number; the man’s writing was impossible to decipher.

Musing to myself that if he never returned, then the book would be mine, I felt a rush of adrenaline. Could it be mine? No. The thought wasn’t necessarily evil—I would do all I could to try and return the book. But still, was it immoral to keep it? I didn’t know what else to do with it; he hadn’t provided a legible address.

A nagging thought began to form, a terrible recollection, then a flood of shame and guilt bubbled up. The thought made me shudder. I squeezed my eyes shut, and I tried to block it.

“No, no,” I pleaded aloud, in an attempt to stave off the memory.

Ding.

The doorbell sang out, and looking up, I thanked god for the distraction.

A fit thirty-something-year-old man, with gelled-back hair, walked in; he was wearing an expensive-looking suit, shoes shining so bright I almost had to squint.

“Hey, boss,” he said, “got a real special book here. I need you to spruce it up a bit, got ’90 Petrus on it.” He pointed to the crimson splotch on the white paper cover, “Got the firm’s partners coming over this weekend, and I need it on display.”

The book in question appeared to be a first edition of The Great Gatsby. I looked up at the man, who was clearly expecting me to magically repair the book.

“Well,” I exhaled a long sigh, “If it’s fresh, I can sometimes blot a bit of it up, but this has already dried. I can try and clean up a bit of the blotting, but in doing so, you run the risk of the ink bleeding.”

The man looked like I had personally attacked him, “It’s a signed, first edition,” he said indignantly. Flipping the cover open, he pointed to a black squiggle.

Perhaps it was a signature, but all that was there now was a black and ruby colored smudge.

“I see,” squinting, I supposed it could have been signed, “I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do.”

After sufficiently berating me, the man made his exit.

The carelessness, not to mention the arrogance. If you care for something, you’d better make sure that it’s safe.

Just out front, the man nearly ran into a small boy and his mother, who appeared to be coming in.

Maybe it was the neglected book, or perhaps it was watching the young man storm out, walking away from the mother and child, but a pang of regret hit me like a landslide. My chest tightened, and I felt my throat go dry. I brushed the thought aside, somewhat shakily greeting the mother and son.

“Welcome,” I cleared my throat, “what can I do for you?”

The little boy immediately started running around, looking at the vintage machinery that lay around the shop. He was bouncing up and down at an old Smyth sewing machine, used to bind books.

“Mom, mommy, mom, come look. What is it, what is it?”

“A sewing machine,” I said to the boy, “it’s used to bind books.”

“Whoaaa, awesome!”

The mother smiled at me, “Sorry about him, you know how kids are.”

How kids are, the thought wasn’t welcome, not here.

Did I? Had I once? No. I can’t, I couldn’t know, I—

“We were hoping to get his art bound, most of it’s on the same size paper, if that helps.” She presented a large folio with loose pages spilling out to me.

I froze, not knowing what to say, eyes darting between her and her son.

No, I can’t do this.

“It’s not something I normally do here,” I began, voice wobbling.

The woman seemed confused, glancing over to the thing I had just identified as a book-binding machine. She opened her mouth as if to say something.

“Trimming,” I hurried the words out, not wanting to seem any more ludicrous than I already did, “I mean trimming, the pages. You said they weren’t all the same size.”

“Oh,” she laughed, it was a bright, cheery thing, all the warmth of a summer breeze, “yes, well, most of them are the same size. Though you can just leave out the ones that don’t fit.”

“Of course.”

“Bye, mister,” the boy waved to me as they left. I held onto his collection of art. I looked down, seeing the stick-figure paintings of the family.

The mother, drawn in pink with yellow hair.

The son, a blue stick figure with black sunglasses on.

And the father, a green painted body with brown hair.

I fell to the floor, crumpling into a ball as I began to sob. Trying not to get my tears on the artwork. I lay there, until I had no tears left to give.

Another week passed, the mother came back to pick up her son’s art book, she was happy, and I was content to see her so. The bald man still hadn’t come back for his first edition of The Bell Jar, and maybe he never would.

Lost in a warren of unwanted and unwelcome thoughts, I almost didn’t hear the bright, metallic ding.

I shook myself free from my brooding and looked up, only to see a vaguely familiar face.

It was a small girl with sandy-blonde hair and green eyes. She looked no more than twelve years old.

“Hello,” her voice was small and timid, not in a nervous way, but just the still-new-to-world way most kids had.

“Hello,” I spied the warped cover of a rather large textbook the girl clutched in both her arms, “how can I help you?”

“Do you repair books?”

“I do.”

Where do I know this girl from?

“How much does it cost,” the girl looked afraid to hear the answer, “to fix my book?”

“Depends,” I needed to make a living, but then again, it wasn’t often a curious little child came through, so I figured I would at least take a look, “let’s see what we’re working with.” I motioned for her to bring the book over to the lamp at my workbench.

The girl slid the leather-bound book she brought up onto the smooth hickory counter.

“71 Minutes to Live Well,” I scrunched up my nose, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of this book, where’d you get it?”

“It’s not a book.”

“Here I was thinking I knew what books looked like.” I raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

“Duh, of course it’s a book,” she rolled her head, that annoyed look on her face kids get when they don’t find adults funny. “But you can’t go out to the store and buy it.”

“You can’t?”

“No, it’s my mom’s,” the girl’s gaze fell, “it was my mom’s. She passed away and left me this. It’s a very important book.”

“I see.”

No need for more words. I get it, life happens.

I began my evaluation. The book was in surprisingly good condition; whatever binder had crafted it had done so with care. I was almost astounded at the level of craftsmanship that went into it: Lumbeck binding, archival paper, and embossed lettering on the front. I felt myself getting more thrilled by the moment. This was an extraordinary specimen.

I was hesitant to open it; I didn’t know what the book was or how personal it was to the girl. I glanced over, and she was watching me with intent eyes.

I ran my fingers across the cover, examined the place where the page disappeared into the crease of the spine. All in all, it was in pretty good shape; the only damage had been the obvious warping of the leather cover.

“It’s in pretty good shape, just a bit of warping of the cover is all,” I looked back up at the girl, seeing her face filled with trepidation.

“Can you fix it?”

“I can, but I’m not going to.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, eyes swirling with emotion.

I almost realized my mistake too late.

“No, no,” waving my hands at the misunderstanding, “I just meant that you don’t need to pay me to fix it.”

She perked back up at this, wiping a tear not yet fallen from her eye, “I don’t?”

“Nope, just put it under something heavy for a few days. Make sure it’s flat, too. Books will do just fine, get a half dozen or so, depending on their size.”

She was still for a time, just looking back at me, somewhat puzzled. As the silence stretched out, approaching the uncomfortable, she finally spoke.”

“Books… to fix books.”

I let out a small chuckle, “Yeah, I suppose that would be books fixing books.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I picked up the volume to hand it back to the girl, then paused.

My hand started shaking, a small tremor in it.

The author’s name.

Krista Valance.

The book froze halfway between me and the girl, a bridge across an impossibly big expanse. She looked up at me, puzzled.

“Valance,” I said, barely a whisper.

The girl stared at me with a too familiar look. She had her mother’s eyes. The eyes of the person I let down the most looked back at me. A rage seemed to simmer below the surface of those green eyes, but the calm carelessness on the surface wouldn’t let it shine through.

My whole body was trembling, and I had to sit down. My heart was hammering in my chest; it felt like I had just run a marathon.

“Why,” I asked after fighting off the panic.

“Wanted to meet you, see if you were as bad as she said.”

I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t believe it, not after all these years.

“I’m sorry,” was all I could manage.

The nameless girl, the small baby I let down, never did come back.

The bell chimed one last time as she walked out the door on me, just like I’d done to her so long ago.

Ding.