The Book Borrower (15 page)

They moved toward the car. Deborah said, So you like going to art school with Jeremiah? He's pretty weird, isn't he?

—Frankly, yes. Do you remember lending me a book? When we first met? Did I ever return it?

—He asked me about that, said Deborah. I thought you re-turned it. Didn't we both read it? I remember talking about it.

—You never read it, and I didn't finish it.

—Are you sure?

—Pretty sure. I wish I could find it. Poor Jeremiah.

—I know. He's rather special, said Deborah. Like a child with crutches. You don't want to lose his stuff.

The dog—not the dead dog at the bottom of the hill, but the living dog, Mac—was a big yellow Lab. He's blond, like the rest of you, said Ruben, though Jeremiah wasn't blond.

Deborah's mother had put his dish and leash into a plastic bag. She didn't seem sorry to give up the dog. She kept looking past them, over their shoulders, and twice Ruben turned to see if someone was there. Deborah's mother was smaller and quieter than Deborah, and sad. In the car on the way back, the dog licked the children's faces and tried to jump into the front seat. During a lull in dog hilarity, Deborah said, My mother makes me sad.

—She seems sad herself.

—I'm just like her. I've always been sad.

—No, you haven't, said Ruben.

—Yes. You don't really know me.

—Of course I know you! Who knows you? Janet Grey?

—Hush, said Deborah.

—What?

—Nothing. The children.

—What about the children? said Mary Grace.

—Nothing.

Mary Grace said, You're not changing your mind about the dog, are you?

—No, M.G., of course not.

—Don't call me that. That's a car.

—I'm sorry, said her mother, glancing into the rearview mirror. No, Mary Grace. We are keeping this dog!

—Mommy, said Mary Grace. What's wrong with Granny?

—She's always been like that, honey.

—I kept thinking someone was coming.

—She's always done that.

Ruben said, Is she looking for your father?

—I suppose, said Deborah, but I don't think she misses him much. Maybe she's hoping for a boyfriend.

—Maybe she has one, said Ruben.

—Maybe she does.

—What is it like to be old? said Ruben, although Deborah's mother was not terribly old.

—We'll find out if we're lucky, Deborah said.

—Why would it be lucky? said Stevie from the backseat.

—She just means it's better to be old than to die young, said Ruben.

—How do young people die? said Stevie. I knew a boy who died who was six.

—People die at any age, said Ruben. But it hardly ever happens.

—How old are dogs when they die? said Stevie. How did that dog die?

—Murder, said Deborah.

—Really? Really murder? said Stevie. Should we call the cops?

—No cops, Deborah said. Some mysteries are supposed to stay mysteries. Like what you did with Jeremiah's book, Toby.

—What
could
I have done with it? And why?

—Oh, it bothered you. I was surprised, I remember. You tried to make me feel guilty for letting you read it. You're awfully sensitive. I had no idea. Now I'm more used to you.

—I don't think I'm so sensitive. It was something about this book in particular. I like upsetting books, on the whole. It was something about the way it was written. I like upsetting movies.

—No, you don't, said Deborah.

—You say I don't know you, said Ruben, but you don't know me, either.

—Well, maybe not, maybe not.

But that would be terrible, all that not knowing. What was the point, then? Just rides to look at leaves and collect dogs? When Deborah stopped at Ruben's house to let her and Stevie out, Stevie got out and ran to the door. Ruben came around to the driver's side and Deborah rolled down the window. Ruben said, I want to tell you what became of my mother.

—What became of your mother? Deborah glanced into the backseat, but Ruben ignored Mary Grace.

—I killed her.

—No, you didn't.

—That's true. I screamed at her, said Ruben. She was at my house. On her way home she stopped at a gardening supply store and slipped on a wet piece of broken pavement, and broke her hip. They could never get her to walk again, and then she got pneumonia and died.

—Why did you scream at her? said Deborah.

—She was criticizing the way I watered my houseplants.

—Were you nice to her after she broke her hip?

—Reasonably nice. She was hard.

—I know how you feel, said Deborah. Not that it makes sense. It wasn't your fault, though.

Ruben kissed her and went into the house, happy again. She looked for Jeremiah's book until her mind changed the subject. In a bookcase where she thought she hadn't been attentive before, she put her finger on every book. Wasn't it just as Deborah said? Toby Ruben was a coward about books.

Gregory the art teacher gave specific homework assignments, but usually Ruben didn't do them. She kept drawing, though. At the pottery store she drew bowls, pots, and a terra-cotta teapot. She drew the teapot again and again, hoping no one would buy it. At first she had sketched when Archie was on his walks around the block, but after a while she drew when the store was quiet and they were together. Once he looked over her shoulder and pointed out that the handle of a fry pan was longer than she'd made it. Of course it's longer, he said. Look. It would have to be longer, and it is.

She laughed at that. She liked it. It would have to be and it is.

Ruben didn't usually bring her drawings to class. Some stu-dents brought homework, which everyone discussed with great respect. Once, they were supposed to make collages at home. Jeremiah brought in a collage of a decorated trolley, green construction paper on a white background, with decorations of gold foil, carefully cut and glued. Jeremiah explained that this trolley was a replica of one that had run in western Pennsylvania from 1912 to 1927. He'd done it precisely and the teacher didn't like precision. The teacher tried to explain to Jeremiah that that wasn't the idea.

—Condescending bastard, said Jeremiah to Ruben at the break.

—I think it's a different point of view, said Ruben. A student in a composition class, years ago, had wanted only to parse sentences. Maybe to Gregory, Jeremiah seemed like that woman, whom Ruben had loathed. The woman's expression had seemed to accuse clever, creative Ruben of being lazy. She'd had a fight with Deborah about it, but she couldn't re-member why they argued.

She wanted to sympathize with Gregory, be serious fellow teachers together with Gregory, and forget Jeremiah. In imaginary discussions she mediated between them, but in life Gregory didn't answer when she spoke. He still didn't know her name.

Jeremiah had a rosy face and dark hair, not like Deborah and the girls. His hair waved neatly over his forehead, which made him seem old-fashioned: like a trolley conductor! and that was his way, too—friendly but impersonal. Jeremiah confided in Ruben, but she thought he'd say these things to anyone, and when another student joined them at the greasy spoon, Jeremiah was the same as ever. Almost the same. He told everyone about trolleys and interurbans, but only with Ruben did he talk about the sculptor who once was a Jewish anarchist, and the lost book. The book stayed lost.

One evening Jeremiah brought homework and the teacher liked it: a charcoal drawing of three bowls on a shelf. Gregory said it was interesting! He talked more that night. He said he'd been thinking they could chip in and hire a model for the last meeting. Use the eraser to change the texture, he said to Jeremiah, and then he said the same thing to Ruben. She erased the charcoal and it changed. Not too much, said Gregory. She was elated. He'd spoken to her.

Jeremiah, at the break, said, What did you think of my still life?

—It's great. She was drinking tea. Sanka was unbearable.

—A woman in my office did it.

—You're kidding.

—I can't draw like that, said Jeremiah. Don't you know that? The woman in his office knew about shadow. In class, when they'd drawn cylinders and spheres, the teacher pointed out the way light fell on the forms, but Jeremiah didn't seem to know what he meant. He always said, The light comes down from the ceiling.

—Well, I wondered, said Ruben. But she was upset. She said, I thought you converted. No more trolleys! Just cylinders and spheres.

In Ruben's fantasy, she took unfriendly Gregory aside and told him, teacher to teacher, what Jeremiah had done.

Meanwhile Ruben's life continued. A black-and-blue mark on her thigh, where a falling easel hit it, turned yellow and slowly disappeared. She sent a birthday card to her aunt, whom she didn't like. Harry whistled when he walked from room to room, and Ruben couldn't think whether it was new or if he'd always whistled in doorways. In the ladies' room at the college, she heard, Who do you have for English?

—Ruben.

—Is she hard?

—No. She whistles when she walks around the room.

One morning Peter walked out of the house to go to middle school and ten minutes later the phone rang. She knew from Harry's voice that it was bad. Peter had stepped off the curb into a moving car. Harry made her take off her nightgown and put on clothes before she ran. Ruben ran down the street. It was the day in November—it happens once a year, after a rainstorm—when many leaves fall at once. Suddenly there are more open spaces than leaves, and everything's yellow. Ruben ran crying in the new yellow day, with new sky. Near the school, Peter lay on the ground next to an ambulance, a collar around his neck.

But he was fine. The teacher who called Harry had begun by saying, Peter's all right, but Ruben hadn't believed him.

For a week, she and Deborah, day after day, said, There is no safety. There is no safety. Ruben's uncle died. Harry's uncle died. Two young women in Ruben's class brought her presents on the same day: a piece of spanakopita and an apricot Danish. She ate one before class and one after, feeling cared for. The baby-faced girl with long curls who brought the spanakopita said, You talked about spanakopita once. You said you liked it. Yes you did, yes you did.

And Stevie's teacher's dog had puppies, and the Rubens adopted a gray puppy. Stevie named her Granny because he had no Granny. He had liked Deborah's sad mother.

Deborah acted like such a puppy expert. Put bitter apple on the furniture, she said. There's no need for this chewing!

—I'm always running there, she said.

—Where? said Ruben.

—To my mother. She's sad, she forgets, her belly hurts.

 

On the way to class, Jeremiah went through a light that had just turned red. Fuck this, he said.

—Fuck what?

—I don't like this class.
Gesture,
he says. I don't know what that means. I'm not getting better at drawing.

—Lately I like the class. Ruben had made a pen-and-ink drawing of the boys eating cereal from big curved bowls. It pleased her like nothing she'd ever drawn before. She kissed the top of Peter's head with her pen. And Stevie's, too. Everyone seemed rescued lately, much of the time.

—I like bringing in drawings, said Jeremiah. He laughed cynically. I do like that. This week I had a contest in the office. Three people entered, and I picked the best.

—Do you think Gregory believes you do them?

—Why not? He thinks he taught me something.

—But each person has his own style.

—In the office, I tell them, Pots! I distribute charcoal and they go home and draw the pots in their kitchens.

Ruben laughed, but she didn't like it.

—What's wrong? said Jeremiah. This isn't medical school. I'm not going to be taking apart brains under false pretenses, just drawing pitchers, he said. Then, pleased: Drawing pitchers! Drawing pitchers!

She laughed again. She knew he could tell she didn't like it.

—Jeremiah, she said, to change the subject, I still can't find that book.

—Well, that's a shame. I'd like to have it. But maybe it's not at your house. Maybe you did return it, and Deb stuck it some-where. She does that.

—I don't think so.

—I'd love to find
her,
he said, and for a moment Ruben thought Deborah was missing. A week later, he began to talk about the artist as soon as Ruben got into the car, as if they'd had one unbroken conversation. I found that article about her, from the Jewish magazine. It was in a file at the office. I made you a copy, and then I forgot it.

—What does it say?