Paul Robertson: According to Their Deeds

“And have we sold anything?”

“A 1940 Gone With the Wind.”

“I can empathize with Scarlet,” he said. “I feel like I’ve just come from the burning of Atlanta.”

He opened the gate in the middle of the rail and climbed the steps.

“There you are.”

Her voice was quicksilver and light and everything peaceful.

“Here I am,” Charles said. “Dorothy, it was worse than I’d expected.”

“I’m sorry.” Her hair was slow silver, short and easy, and lovely. “Were you there long?”

“Twenty minutes. But I sat beside Norman Highberg.”

“Oh, dear.” She smiled, which was the moon at its brightest. “Did you get the books?”

“Yes, for twenty-seven. I had to outbid Jacob Leatherman just at the end. Oh, he scowled!”

“He’ll get over it, and you will, too. I’m glad you got them. It helps to close the circle with Derek.”

“It does help. And I have to tell you about Derek’s desk.” His own desk was at the front window, and he sat and pushed aside newspapers and magazines and catalogs to make space for an elbow.

“I suppose there was something special about it?” Anything would be special if she only spoke its name.

“Everything he had was special. But this was more than just ordinary special.”

“It was auctioned today?”

“Yes, and sensationally.” Now that he was sitting, he stretched his back, and put his hands behind his head. “I came in right in the middle of it. It should have gone twenty-five thousand, and it was about to go for thirty-four, and whoosh, two people bid it right up to a hundred and five thousand. There was a riot.”

“A very calm one, I’m sure.”

“People actually turned in their chairs and looked around. It was that drastic.”

Her blue eyes widened in her own calm amazement. “Why would it sell for so much?”

“It’s a complete mystery.” He stared out the window at the street. “Poof.”

“What?”

“A lifetime. Three hours and it’s gone.”

“Selling off all his things?”

“His world. Everything he was, all scattered.” With his hands behind his head, the space on his desk he’d cleared for his elbow was empty now, abandoned.

“Life is more than what you own,” Dorothy said. Her own desk was perfectly ordered, with a computer screen, a neat pile of papers, and two photographs. She put her elbows on the empty middle and looked at him.

“Oh, I know,” Charles said. “But that’s what’s left at the end.”

“He was an important person, wasn’t he?”

“He was a bureaucrat in the Justice Department. Yes, he was important.” He glanced at the newspaper. The first page was rancor in Congress, and the president refusing to cooperate, and officials denying any wrongdoing. “What would the Post print if there were no scandals?”

“Hollywood divorces, like everyone else.”

“I guess that would be worse. Every story on the front page is about someone’s failing.”

The sun was overhead, in the west, full on the townhouses across the street. The shadow of his own building was creeping toward them.

He read a paragraph. “This poor man,” he said. “A highly respected federal judge. Ten years on the bench. Then it comes out that he cheated on his exams back in law school. Over thirty years ago! First he was forced to resign, and now he’s being disbarred.”

“It does seem severe.”

“There is more to life than what you own. There’s also what you’ve done wrong.”

“And what you’ve done right. Charles, you’re getting moody. Did you bring the books home?”

“Angelo has them, speaking of lives lived questionably.”

“I didn’t know you took him.” The two pictures on her desk were of Charles and of a teenage boy.

“I just decided at the last minute.”

“Was he dressed all right?”

“No, he was not. There wasn’t time. He wouldn’t have come inside anyway.”

“We have a delivery for him to make this afternoon in Arlington. And I was thinking we should get him a suit for his next probation review.”

“His regular business clothes are fine.” He dropped the newspaper into the wastebasket. “Felons in suits annoy me.”

“Besides Angelo, how many felons do you know?”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Mr. Beale?” Alice had come up the steps. “Mr. Leatherman is here to see you.”

“Take a deep breath,” Dorothy said.

Charles did.

“Jacob!” Charles said from the stairs. “Welcome!”

“What did you do that for?” It would have been a growl, but from such a small and fragile man it was a yip.

Charles reached the floor, smiling all the way. “Let me get you a chair.” He swept through the gate and came to rest at his guest. “I’d invite you to the office but it’s up all those stairs.”

“I don’t need a chair.”

“I’m glad you could stop in. I was sorry you couldn’t after dinner last night.”

“I have time before my flight and I don’t like sitting in airports. I told the taxi to bring me here.”

“I’m so glad,” Charles said.

Jacob smacked the floor with his walking stick. “You’re glad? You’re gloating, that’s what it is, for outbidding me. What did you do that for?”

“You could have bid higher if you wanted them, Jacob.”

“That’s all they’re worth. Now I’m going back without anything.”

“I’m sorry your trip was a waste. I’ll sell them to you, if you want.”

“How much?”

“Thirty.”

“Thirty?” He smacked the floor again. “They’re not worth that. I’d have bid thirty if they were.”

“Then I guess I’ll keep them.”

“I didn’t come to have you gloat. I’ll give you twenty-three.” Smack.

“Thirty-five. And you’re perfectly Dickensian when you do that.”

“Bah, humbug then. Dickensian?” He rubbed his nose. “I like that. And you said thirty.”

“You should have taken it while you could.”

“Whippersnapper! Mocking an old man! You’ll give me apoplexy, and I have all those airport lines to go through yet. You’ll send me to an early grave.”

“That’s no longer possible, Jacob.”

“I know when I’m not wanted. I’ll leave if that’s how it is.” He narrowed his eyes. “The Locke, I’d have liked to look at that one. Is it as nice as you said it is?”

“It is, Jacob. Nothing special-I know you’ve seen better ones. But it’s nice.”

Jacob’s scowl lightened a little. “I like looking at them. Do you have the books here?”

“No. I had a courier bring them.”

“A courier? Why would you do that for?”

“Just common caution. Shall I call you a taxi?”

“I have one waiting outside. Did you say twenty-five?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Thirty-five!” Whack. “Mocking an old man. I’ll leave. I have to go.”

Charles held open the door. “Then have a nice flight.”

“No such thing.” He started slowly and painfully down the first step, and then froze. “What’s that?! Don’t touch me!” He lifted his cane.

Angelo was four feet from him, also stopped, his eyes slits and his white teeth showing.

“Jacob--” Charles started.

“Street gangs!” Jacob yelped. “Here at your door! That’s why you use a courier!”

“Jacob,” Charles said. “This is Angelo Acevedo. He is my courier.”

Angelo was silent.

“Just take the box in,” Charles said.

Jacob shrank back as Angelo passed. “You let him touch your books?”

“I do,” Charles said. “And it’s fine. Let me help you to your taxi.”

“Bah! I’ll make it myself.”

“Take care, Jacob.”

“You too, Charles.” Once Jacob was launched he moved quickly. The cab door was opened for him, the cab driver was scolded, and the cab drove away.