Earl

Harry browses through the books, brushing the dust off of a few particularly thickly coated volumes. His fingers linger on a tall leather-bound book with an unintelligible title. He squints through his glasses, trying to make out the words, and then finding it impossible, he pulls it from the shelves. His favorite thing about working at the bookstore is that he can, at any moment, sit down and read. He can open any book to any page and immerse himself within whatever story he finds there. Mrs. Ryan doesn’t mind. She is constantly hoping for the men her husband had promised her would come when they opened the bookstore. Every time the door opens she peers at the new customer, expecting each to be one of the men in their dark, expensive suits coming into her store to offer her thousands, perhaps even millions, for one of her rare editions. Every day, when it doesn’t happen, she consigns herself to wait another day, just one more.
Harry sinks into a squat, rocking his weight onto the balls of his feet. He opens the aged book and thumbs a dark stain that spreads across the title page, obscuring any title that might have been there. The stain is dark brown, almost black, and has nasty looking faded edges. Quickly, he removes his hand from the stain, feeling contaminated in some way.
He flips through a few pages, noting the thick paper was darker around the edges of the pages, as if the book had been dipped inadvertently in water. He notes also the handwriting. Dark ink has, over time, faded into a pale blue script. It seems to be a journal of some kind. Skimming a page halfway through the book, he picks out the words “war,” “blood,” “Death,” and then reads the last sentence on the page, which appears to be the end of one particular entry. “God has deserted us.”
He tucks the book under his arm and rises slowly, feeling the blood rush into his head and simultaneously, chills running down his spine. Unconsciously, he rubs his right temple with the fingertips of his right hand.
“Harold, dear,” calls Mrs. Ryan suddenly. “Harold? Could you come and give me a hand?”
“Of course. I’ll be right there,” he calls to her. As he makes his way from between the dusty shelves, he suddenly realizes the book is still tucked under his arm. Just to be rid of it, he settles it onto the corner table alongside with the small pile of books he will be taking home over the weekend.
As soon as the weight of the book leaves his fingers, he felt relief, and walks quickly away from it and towards the aid of Mrs. Ryan.
Throughout the day, an unusually large number of people visit the shop, and Mrs. Ryan keeps him quite busy. Perhaps the approaching holidays drive people to shop in less-frequented stores, or perhaps it is merely a fluke; either way, he is on his feet until the shop closed at five.
He gathers the short stack of books he’d set aside, dons his sweater, which he shed earlier, and bids Mrs. Ryan have a nice night. Then, in his slow, nearly invisible way, he threads through pedestrian traffic and back to the flats.
As he pauses while waiting for the traffic light to change, he shuffles through the books in his arms. He catches sight of the journal, and takes a deep breath. He halfway wants to turn around and take the book back to the store, but while he waits on the curb in his indecision, the light changes and foot traffic pushes him forward.
He finds himself walking next to a man who lives in his building.

His name is Earl, and Harry only knows a few things about him. He’s English, and he’s young, and Harry knows of the Englishman’s fascination with wartime literature. They’d had a scintillating conversation about books in the elevator once when it had stopped halfway between two floors and were trapped for nearly an hour. He catches Earl’s arm. “Hullo,” he says in his crisp accent, “what are you doing here? And what’s that you’re holding?”
Harry presents him with the book, saying hurriedly, “Well, I found this at the book store. It…ah, well, it made me think of you. I know you like wartime novels and such. This isn’t a novel, but, ah, it is about a war. Interested?”
Earl takes the book from him, flipping through the pages slowly. “Fascinating. I think it’s a war journal. Not as good as these, though.” He indicates the novel under his arm.
“Well, anyways, if you don’t want it…” Harry begins.
“No, no, I didn’t say that. It looks brilliant.” Earl’s nose is already buried in the book.
“That stain on the inside cover… what does that look like to you?” He wonders aloud, “It almost looks like coffee, doesn’t it?”
The Englishman flips to the inside cover and traces the stain. “No, you know, I think it’s…. I think it might be blood.” He peers at the dark stain.
Harry blinks and notices they’ve arrived at the apartment building. “Yes. Well. Be seeing you, I guess.”
“Thanks so much,” Earl calls after him as Harry quickly enters the building. Harry raises a hand in response, anxious to get into the elevator and away from dusty blood-covered war journals.
A young man wearing a flannel and wool coat is standing patiently in the elevator. “What floor?” he asks.
“Ah, four,” replies Harry distractedly. “Thanks.”
The elevator doors slide shut with a clang.