Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

He drops them off at the burial site. Nobody’s there yet, not even the van or the prayer reader he called the cemetery for late yesterday. A secretary in the cemetery office tells him how to get to town and says there are two bookstores there—“Lots of people must read around here, and perhaps there are two stores because the nearest mall is fifteen miles away”—and he drives there in five minutes. Both stores are on the main street. The first is really just a used paperback shop, with mostly romances, spy fiction, mass paperbacks of every sort, and the only poetry is religious; St. Augustine is in this section, plus several of the same editions of a book of poetry by the pope. The second store has an anthology of twentieth-century American poetry and books of poems by poets like Hardy, Whitman, and Blake but no Dickinson. “I know we had one,” the salesman says. “The Everyman edition: hardback, complete works, and only eleven dollars — a steal. Ah, it was sold, it says here,” looking at the inventory record on the computer screen by the cash register. “Last week, May third. I could order a copy today,” and he says, “No time; I need it right away.” “Try the library; they should have it if Miss Dickinson hasn’t been assigned as a class project at one of the local schools,” and he says, “Great idea, why didn’t I think of that?” and at the library down the street he locates a volume of Dickinson poems with the one he wants in it and goes up to the main desk and says, “Excuse me, I don’t live in this area; I’m not even a resident of New Jersey. But I’d like to borrow this book just for an hour or so,” and the librarian says, “If you want to sit here and read it, that’s fine, but we can’t loan a book to a non-New Jersey resident.” “Let me explain why I need it,” and he does, points out the poem, and she says, “I’m sorry, I appreciate your reason and offer my condolences, but it’s a bylaw of our town’s library system I’d be breaking if I loaned you the book. In the past we’ve had every excuse imaginable for loaning books to nonresidents, and if we see a fifth of them returned we call ourselves lucky. Try to imagine what that figure would be if—” and he says, “Believe me, I’ll return it. I’ll drive back here right after the burial. You can even call the cemetery — I have the number here — to see if my mother’s being buried today,” and she says, “Whether you’re telling the truth or not—” and he says, “I am,” and she says, “Then even though you are telling the truth, which is what I meant to say, it’s strictly prohibited to give loaning privileges to people without valid library cards of this town. If they have cards from other New Jersey localities, then that town’s library has to request the book for them and it’s sent to that library through the state’s interlibrary loan system.” “Look, I have people waiting at the cemetery for me; the burial service was supposed to start five minutes ago. Not a lot of people — I don’t want to lie to you — but my wife and daughters and my wife’s cousin and her family from Brooklyn — they drove all the way from there to come — and other people; cemetery personnel, et cetera. Again, it was among my mother’s favorite poems and to have it read at her funeral was really one of her last wishes. But because I was so upset over her death yesterday — confused, everything — I forgot, and we didn’t — I didn’t; I’m the only surviving child — have a regular funeral; this is the only ceremony we’re having. And when I was driving to the cemetery I suddenly realized—” and she says, “I wish I could. What if I photocopied the poem for you?” and he says, “I thought of that as a solution. But I want to hold a book — not a Bible, not a prayer book, since she didn’t go for that stuff at funerals or really anywhere, but a book of poems — and read from that. Look, I’ll leave a deposit. Ten dollars, twenty, and when I return the book I’ll donate the money to the library,” and she says, “This book”—turning to the copyright page—“is more than forty years old. In excellent condition for a book that’s been circulating that long. Maybe it’s the delicacy of the poetry that makes readers handle the book delicately, though I don’t want to engage in that kind of glib speculation here. I don’t know what it originally cost, nor do I know what this copy’s worth now. Fifty dollars, perhaps, though more likely five, but around twenty to replace. I’m not a rare book collector, so that’s not my point. We simply can’t be loaning works to out-of-state residents because they’re willing to give money to the library. That policy would mean only the more privileged among you can borrow from us, which wouldn’t be the right perception for a library to give.” “Okay, okay, I’ll try and get the book somewhere else,” and starts back to the poetry shelves with it, and she says, “You can leave it here, sir; I’ll reshelve it,” and he says, “Nah, I’ve put you through enough already,” and she says, “Thank you then, but please make sure it’s in the right classificatory order,” and once there he thinks, Take the photocopy; better than nothing. Have her copy two or three different Dickinson poems; they’re all there in that last Resurrection-and-something section he just saw…. No, you want what you said you did and that’s a book to read from and not some flimsy photocopy sheet, and this edition particularly because it has a real old-book look, and he looks around, doesn’t seem to be anyone else here but her, and sticks the book inside his pants under the belt. Feels it, it feels secure; he’ll take it for the day, return it by mail tomorrow with a donation and his apologies, won’t give his name or a return address, of course. Though she can probably find out who he is, if she wants, from the cemetery, for how many burials can there be there at this hour in one day? and he gave her enough information to give himself away. But what is she going to do, get the police to arrest him in Baltimore or New York for stealing a book for a day after he sent it back carefully wrapped and in the same condition and with a ten- or twenty-dollar bill?

Alarm goes off as he’s leaving. She’s looking at him from behind the main desk. “Oh, Christ,” he says, “who the hell thought you’d have these books electronically coded in such a small library. Here, take it, will ya?” and sets it on a chair by the door, and she says, “Oh, no, mister, you’re not getting off as lightly as that. I don’t believe your mother-burial story one iota now. And don’t think of bolting or I’ll follow you outside and take down your license number,” and dials her phone and says, “Officer Sonder? … Anyone, then, though he’s the one I’ve dealt with so far for this particular problem. Amy LeClair at the library. I have a man here whom I caught stealing one of our items …. A book, but a potentially valuable one, and I believe he knew it …. Thank you,” and turns to him and says, “He says for you to wait; a police car will be right over,” and he says, “Call back and tell him I can’t; to catch me at the cemetery on Springlake,” and she says, “Leave now and you’ll be in even deeper water. We’ve lost too many books and documents as it is, and this is the only way to stop this kind of petty crime that tallies up for us to grand larceny.” What to do? Take the book, read the poem at the burial, and then tell everyone what he did and wait for the cops there, or leave it and go and just hope they don’t come after him, or wait for the cops here? Surely they’re not going to arrest him. “Do you mind, while I wait, if I call the cemetery to hold up the burial?” and she says, “If that is whom you’ll call,” and he says, “Then you dial for me — I have the number right here, or get it out of the phone book,” and she says, “I’d rather not waste anymore of the library’s money by using the phone, even for a local call. We have restrictions regarding that too. We’re barely surviving, you know. People aren’t exactly putting this institution in their wills.” “Then will a dollar cover the phone cost?” and she says, “I’d also rather not take money from you. Who knows what that’d imply.” Just then a policeman comes in. Gould explains quickly. She says, “Nothing for me to add; whatever his reasons for the theft were, he just admitted he was caught walking out with one of our books,” and the policeman says to him, “Looks like I’ll have to write out a summons or even arrest you if Miss LeClair insists I do,” and she says, “I don’t think we have to go that far, but certainly a summons.” The policeman starts writing one out. “This means you’ll have to appear in county court in a number of weeks. Unless you check the ‘no contest’ box on the court notification you get and request to be fined through the mail and the judge accepts it,” and he says, “Okay, but please hurry it up. I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but there are all those people waiting at the cemetery for me, and I still have my mother to bury,” and the policeman says, “No disrespect meant either, sir, but I can do it much faster with machines at the station house if that’s what you want.”