The Book by M. Clifford Page B

his caution, Holden lifted the tarp enough to notice that the first box had a series of names written on it in thick, black lettering. Eleven surnames, to be precise. He remembered these names very clearly because the moment he noticed them, Holden understood why the cellar had been lined with shelving and why Winston had needed to hire a sprinkler fitter surreptitiously to protect it all. The names were: Farrell, Faulkner, Feynman, Fitzgerald, Flynn, Ford, Forster, Fowles, Frazer, Friedman and Fussell. Each name began with the same letter and each name was that of a famous author.
    Except for one.
    Holden pulled the tarp down and got to work. He finished the job in a remarkable three weeks. It easily could have taken triple the amount of time, but Holden wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. No matter how much he loved reading, he knew that he shouldn’t be associated with someone who was so blatantly disobeying the law. On occasion, he recalled the man and supposed that, at his age, Winston didn’t care if he were caught with such an extensive collection and arrested. What was a life sentence to someone with little life remaining?
    But now, this day, feeling the weight of the single torn page in the front pocket of his jacket, Holden pulled into the man’s long, curving driveway, knowing that somewhere in that hidden closet, there had been a plastic box with surnames that began with the letter ‘S’. A box that very likely held a book by J.D. Salinger.
    The rain instantly poured down as if, like in his recollection, the clouds were simply waiting to release their penetrating droplets the moment he left the van. Holden ignored the rain and tossed a bag over his shoulder (it held a random assortment of tools that would help him sell the lie) before rushing toward the door with a box of sprinkler heads under his arm.
    From outside, the enormous lake-side estate was just as exquisite as he remembered with thick, stone walls topped by a sloping roof line that was shingled with a charming patchiness. Even standing under the eave with its reticent columns and cornice work, Holden knew this man had a wealth he would never attain, even in ten lifetimes. Paper was so rare that for a man to keep such a vast store of books, his wealth was likely without measure. Steadying the box of sprinkler heads against the heavy iron wrench on his belt, Holden approached the door and knocked. After a few moments passed, he realized he wasn’t patient enough to wait and rang the doorbell. Just as he depressed the button, Winston poked his head a bit into the side window, wearing a bowtie and a grin. A series of unlocking latches followed and it gave Holden a chance to review what he wanted to say. After an annoying chime was silenced, the door opened and Holden and Winston met once again under the darkness of a cloudy, overcast day.
     
     
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    “A bit eager, are we? A knock and a ring?”
    Winston stood uneven in the opening of his front door, sprouting a surprisingly adolescent tuft of hair from the bottom of his boney chin. Behind a new pair of thinly-rimmed glasses, Holden saw the same fiery gaze. The bowtie on Winston’s neck spoke of a gallantry long before this digital world, where men looked their best even if they were stewing in their home behind a light, fiberglass walker.
    “Good Morning. I don’t know if you recognize me, but I installed the sprinkler system in your house.”
    “Yes,” the man nodded with a grin. “Holden. A memorable name.” His words and tone were courteous, but his face said differently. A strong suspicion seemed to tighten the skin on his cheeks and his filigree of eyebrow feathers hung drastically lower than Holden remembered. Still, the pale-lipped grin gave Holden hope and he quickly went into the act he had rehearsed during the long drive.
    “It’s very important for me to keep track of the homes I do work for and I believe that the sprinkler heads I