Jan Burke - Dear Irene

I walked east a couple of short blocks to Las Piernas Boulevard, and then south a couple more, past the old post office and bank buildings and found myself standing in front of Austin Woods & Grandson Books, a used bookstore not far from the paper. I know a remedy when I see one, so I pushed the front door open and stepped inside.

The bookstore occupies a huge brick building that has withstood both earthquakes and city redevelopment plans over the last century. I’ve been told that it was once home to a market, then a car dealership, and later a machinery warehouse, but I’ve only known it in its present incarnation.

Once inside, I stood still for a moment, letting the store’s warmth and cathedral quiet welcome me. Skylights in the high, arching ceilings overhead brought softened sunlight into the cavernous rooms. Around me, wooden crates were nailed together to form walls of bookcases. Ten feet high or higher they stretched, holding row upon towering row of musty tomes. Each cover and spine seemed to long to be held again, the way a widower might long for his late wife’s embrace.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the distinctive old-book fragrance of yellowed paper and aged binding glue. Images of dark basements and bloodstained offices faded. I walked down the aisles, reading titles, and eventually began smiling to myself. You can find just about any book in this store, provided you aren’t really looking for it.

The shelving system was designed by Austin Woods, who has a mind that apparently views the universe of printed matter in a unique way. Books should not be subjected to silly things like alphabetical order or genres; even a division between fiction and nonfiction was unnecessary, since the latter might have less to do with the truth than the former. This whimsical approach was not to his only son’s liking; Louis Woods refused to work in the store and went on to start one of Las Piernas’s oldest accounting firms.

In one of those twists of fate that have long caused parents to go gray and balding, Louis’ own son, Bill, rebelled against the accountant’s orderliness. Bill spent most of his childhood helping his grandfather; Austin rewarded this loyalty by giving him half-ownership and adding the “ & Grandson” to the name of the store.

O’Connor had introduced me to the place, and taught me that the best strategy was to relax and browse and let something intrigue you on its own; if you really wanted a specific title, just ask one of the Woods and they’d miraculously make a beeline for it. O’Connor sometimes asked for a certain title just to watch Austin or Bill do this; he figured the entertainment value was worth the price of a book.

Austin is a dried apple of a man, with a face that can hardly be found among his wrinkles. At ninety-six, he spends most of his time sleeping at an old desk in a cluttered back office, glasses atop his head and buried in wisps of thin white hair, some favorite tome opened and serving as a pillow beneath him. Bill, his wife Linda, and his daughter Katy carry on the business, which has attracted a faithful clientele over the years.

I browsed for a while, then made my way over to the counter, where the fourth generation was at work. Katy Woods looked up from a beautifully bound volume of The Master of Ballantrae. She’s about nineteen, very pretty, but shy. “Hi, Irene,” she greeted me. “I didn’t think I’d see you until Christmas Eve. Are you doing some early Christmas shopping?”

I laughed. “I suppose I should, Katy. In fact, you’ve just given me an inspiration. I’d like to purchase one of Stevenson’s other works to give to my former brother-in-law.”

“The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”

“You know me too well.”

She called to her mother, who took over at the register while Katy unerringly steered me directly to the book, which was next to a 1948 high school science textbook. All the other works on the shelf appeared to be science fiction or relatives of science fiction.

“I give up,” I said. “Why’s the textbook here?”

“This science book has a few pages in it that espouse some pretty silly ideas about radiation. Austin says this shelf is where we should have works about what happens when scientists don’t fully understand the impact of their discoveries.”

With Katy’s help, I found an old edition of Jane Austen’s Emma, and decided to buy it for Barbara, quite sure that she would never get the hint it might offer about sticking one’s nose in where it doesn’t belong.

Katy found a few books on mythology for me as well. Hermes, or Mercury, was pictured on the cover of one of them. It sparked a memory, and I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the message slip I had taken from E.J. Blaylock’s office. Hobson Devoe.

“Could I use your phone for a local call, Katy?”

She nodded, and I followed her back to the front counter. The phone was made of black metal and had a rotary dial. “I’ll bet it really rings, too,” I said.

She smiled. “Yes. I like it better than an electronic chirping.”

I called the number on the message slip. I got a recording. A woman’s silky voice, saying, “Thank you for calling the Mercury Aerospace Museum. The museum will be closed for the holidays from Monday, December 17 through Tuesday, January 1. The museum will reopen on Wednesday, January 2. Museum hours are ten A.M. to three P.M. on weekdays; other hours by appointment. To make an appointment, please press the pound sign, located below the number nine on your Touch-Tone phone. If you are calling from a rotary dial telephone, or wish to speak to an operator, please stay on the line.”

I waited. And waited. I feared my call was a captive in that strange electronic dimension where transferred calls wander without direction until the end of time. I finally heard a voice say, “Mercury Aircraft. How may I direct your call?”

“I’m trying to reach Hobson Devoe-” I began.

“One moment,” she interrupted, and transferred me right back to the recording about the museum.

I hung up, muttering to myself, but softly enough to hear Katy clear her throat.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” she said. “You want to talk to Hobson Devoe?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I’m assuming there aren’t too many Hobson Devoes in Las Piernas. But if he’s the one who works at Mercury, he’s one of my great-grandfather’s friends.”

“Austin knows Hobson Devoe?”

She nodded. “Austin’s taking a nap now, but when he wakes up, I could tell him you need to talk to Mr. Devoe. I’m sure he’d be happy to pass a message along.”

I took out a card and wrote my home number on it. “Please ask him to tell Mr. Devoe that it’s urgent that I speak to him. I’d consider it a great favor.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “Remember that column you and Mr. O’Connor wrote about the store? Back when the city wanted to tear down this building?”

“It made more sense for the city planners to put the convention center where it is now, anyway,” I said. “They probably wouldn’t have stayed with the plan to close the store down.”

“Well, that’s not how we see it. You kept us from being closed down while they made up their minds. Austin will be happy to do a favor for you. Mr. Devoe is in here quite often. Austin talks to him about Las Piernas in the good old days. I like to listen to them – I love history. I’m thinking of majoring in it.”

“Are you dating anybody special these days, Katy?” I asked, thinking of Steven Kincaid. She blushed, then, as she rang up my purchases on the antique cash register, proceeded to describe her boyfriend. I had to admit that he sounded like a perfect match for her.

She paused and looked at me over the top of the register. “He knows how to find the books,” she said, pushing down the keys that made the bell ring, the cash drawer open, and the total-with-tax appear behind dusty glass.