penance. a love story (The Böhme Series) (4 page)

I closed my laptop and went to the hall to begin on the boxes. As I was finishing my second one, Maggie came from her room with Toby right on her heels. He had his hands around her waist and he took the shape of a question mark as he bent his body to her height to nibble on her ear. I smiled at them and thought of how comfortable they were. They always touched each other and I wondered how the need felt. I hadn’t dated anyone since my One and I was jealous of their easy intimacy.

With One, there wasn’t a deep intimacy and I didn’t even consider it dating. He was an experiment for me. On our first date, we had sex. I saw it as a point I had to cross in my life as soon as I could.
It was just a number to check off my list.

I was thankful he was a sweet guy. I heard stories where teenage guys focused on their own needs, but he was kind in that he thought of me first. He lived the town over from ours and we dated for two years and I could count on one hand how many times he saw my father. This was a good thing.
 

My father raised us to believe that purity was the best gift we could give to our future, god-fearing husband and I hated him for it. I was going to live my own life and I promised myself to experiment and experience everything life had to offer. My future belonged to me.

The first time and many times after, One and I spent in the old tool shed my father neglected. The first sexual act was quick and painful, but we became better with time. It’s interesting though that many people think of teenage boys as the ones wanting to have sex and experiment. I wanted to experiment. He always asked to go on a date like normal people. I always said,
“Why don’t we try this?”
It became my mantra. I tried every new thing once, sometimes it got me in trouble. One time it changed my life forever.

I broke up with One when he began to speak of marriage. At eighteen, I was not ready for that conversation. He wanted to have a serious talk with my father on moving forward with me. It pissed me off, to say the least. I imagined that conversation compares to one of a farmer selling his prized cow off to breed. I wasn’t a property for them to discuss. I needed to experience more. So I ended it with him to do just that.

“You started without me?” Maggie asked, bringing my attention back to the present.

I laughed, “Oh right, you're upset I'm unpacking this stuff without you?” I threw a paperback at her as I continued to put books on our shelves.

Maggie read the cover and smiled, “Oh it's a good one.” She turned it toward me to show the cover photo of a man with long hair blowing in the wind as he embraced a large breasted woman, “
The Edification of This Man
. That sounds classic Hannah and a mouthful. From the looks of him, I assume it was,” she said with a laugh as Toby rolled his eyes at her.

“Whatever, Maggie, you’ve read the juicy parts fifty times yourself
,” I said with a smile and wagged my eyebrows at her.

She shrugged as she sat on Toby’s lap and flipped through t
he worn pages. “You’re right.” She kissed his cheek and ruffled his hair. The smile they both wore as they looked at each other was genuine and I wondered how long the looks were going to last. They were fighting more, so times when they were happy were good to see.

“I’m proud of you guys
,” Toby said. “I know it's a huge step for you, Hannah.”

I looked at the books, not wanting to speak of my big step of moving closer to home. But I didn’t want t
o be rude to him, “Yeah, I know,” I said as Maggie gave him a scowl. He tilted his head in question, not realizing he said something wrong.

Maggie though, knew my issues with discussing any topic pertaining to my parents. I looked at her with a tight-lipped smile and willed a thankful expression to touch my eyes. My smiles were that way—I had to force them to meet my eyes now. I hoped she saw I was thankful even though it was a struggle to show any form of gratitude anymore. I felt alien now, trying to understand my own emotions.

“Don’t you guys have books other than romance novels?” Toby laughed, trying to change the topic as he glanced at the pile of books.

“Yes, we do a
sshat,” Maggie said as she joined me on the floor to open another box. “See?” she smiled, waving her hand over the box.

Toby sat next to her. He looked in the box and retrieved my copy of
1984
. “Okay, that's better.”

“Yes. But you can’t thank Maggie for that box
,” I said with a raised eyebrow.

“She’s right. I stick to the trashy stuff. Hannah is the one wit
h the love of classic dystopias.” She took the book from Toby and flipping through, she smiled at my dog-eared pages of quotes I loved. “Why didn’t you dog ear every page, Hannah?”

I laughed at her as we continued with our unpacking. We spent the next several hours laughing and reminiscing on packed away history. My thoughts kept wandering to memories not found in boxes. They were the memories I never wanted to unpack because it was my burden to carry them.

We finished the last box and it was well into the afternoon. I unplugged my mp3 player from the stereo and grabbed my backpack and ear buds to head out.

“Okay. I have to get a job.” I said to Maggie in a fake southern drawl. She laughed at me and pulled me in for a hug.

“I love you, Hannah.” She kissed my cheek and gave my hand a quick squeeze. “Let me know where you are. You know how I worry.”

“Yes,
Mother,” I said as I turned toward the door. “Bye, Toby!” I yelled to him as he had abandoned the boxes a while ago to watch TV in Maggie’s room.

“Later, Hannah.”
 

I ran down the stairs and turned my mp3 player to shuffle. I didn't know what song was coming next, but whatever it was it played into the stories of people around me. They were characters in my story and I imagined different camera angles taking in the scene.

Camera comes in from the left and pans across the old street and zooms in on the girl walking past the fruit stand. A man offers a bagel, but she smiles and declines.
I was playing a part, this was not my reality. It couldn’t be. I wasn’t a haunted person; it was my role I played in a movie. The movie ends, my part played, and I return to my life.

As a girl, I dreamed of being part of a great story. I loved books, I loved movies, and I loved TV. They had a common trait—stories. When I was in high school a man in his late forties came to the school for an assembly. He fascinated me with his tales and I
convinced One to go with me though he wasn’t interested. I however hung on the man’s every word.

The man had a raffle at the end of his performance and I knew I was going to win. He read my number on that little blue ticket and I felt everything come into alignment. It was my destiny. As I raised my hand for the winning, he smiled at me. From the stage he said, “I’m so glad it was you. Not many people embrace stories or pay as close attention as you did. I could tell even from this stage you are a lover of words
.” I smiled and nodded—embarrassed that he saw
me
in the crowd. It was the first time in my life I felt as though someone understood me and he was a stranger.

After he finished his presentation I went to his table
to receive my signed book. He smiled and thanked me without another word. Little did he know though, in my young mind as I took in that smile, I was imagining running away with him and telling stories for the rest of our lives. I imagined running through a field—wearing nothing but our smiles. We lie in the grass wrapped in each other, and pain and sadness disappeared through every touch of our embrace.

Yeah, he was three times my age, but I didn’t care. I was creating stories of possibilities my life could contain. But they were unattainable dreams. They were my somedays waiting on the horizon that could never be reached. It was impossible to achieve, at least then. My father would have killed us. It still was not a possibility, because I learned that my idealism and dreams brought heartache when I put them before those I loved.

I looked up and saw that I was approaching the bookshop that was hiring. I hoped they hired me here as it was closest to my apartment. Books suited me more than coffee and alcohol, too. As I walked in, I pulled the ear buds out and a bell that sounded as if it were from another time rang above my head. Old books and stories filled my lungs as I breathed and this was heaven if there were one.

I paused for a moment closing my eyes, taking in the quiet and peace coming from the thousands of books surrounding me. Thousands of lives and thoughts wanting read, screaming into the silence. They lived when their worlds opened for the reader to explore. Longing for remembrance, they sat waiting on the dark shelves. While other children thought their stuffed animals had feelings, I always saw my books as having emotions of their own. If left unopened and unfelt, did they exist or did they drift away into loneliness?

The shop had every nook and corner filled with books on odd shelves that skirted the room. The shelves looked as if they came from random donors over the years and it gave it an even more eclectic vibe. The chaotic displays were natural and at home in the room. A smile stretched across my face and I continued farther into the shop. This smell was what pulled me into the land of the living from the walking death I felt at times. 

“The job is yours
,” a woman’s accented voice from farther in the store said.

“Excuse me?” I asked looking in the direction of the voice.

The woman stepped from behind a bookcase and I smiled because she looked as though she stepped right out of a book herself. She stood over an old cane, that she carried more for looks than for need. She had long salt and pepper hair that went to her waist and she appeared to be in her middle to late fifties. Braids adorned her head and wrapped around each other in perfect disarray. She smiled at me through her thick pointy plastic frames. “You are here for the job, right?”

I gave a soft laugh, “Yes, I am. How’d you know?”

She stepped closer to me and her smile bonded me to her. “Well, I didn’t for sure, but I was hopeful,” she continued. “Only one who feels the presence of books has a reaction as you did when you stepped in here. You could have stepped in here blind and felt them. That is the depth to which you feel them.”

She looked toward her shelves and ran her hand across one
before she continued, “I live for that reaction and I want one who knows books to that extent to work here. These are my children and I want them to be well cared for by someone who sees the same value as I in them.” She waved around the room with her raised cane and a laugh. She pointed at me with it, giving me a slight wink as she stepped toward the counter.

The counter resembled a bar belonging in a store from the 1800s and I wondered the age of the building and what its earlier purpose was. Old photos and collectibles hung behind the counter. I followed them up the wall with my eyes and the entire room had a balcony surrounding it filled with book shelves as well. “This place is… words can’t even express what this place is. Amazing, doesn’t cover it,” I said as I sat on a stool at the counter and she took a seat behind it.

“Thank you, schatz,” she said as she smiled. “My grandfather bought this building two years after he came here from Germany.”

“Wow, so your f
amily has owned it that long?” she nodded, “Has it always been a bookstore?” I asked, picking up an old copy of
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
, opening it and breathing in its glorious scent.

“No, my father made it the bookstore. My grandfather ran a bar and for a time it was the mo
st popular one in five counties.” She smiled at me as she lifted a cup of tea to her lips.

Hearing the history of the building, I thought of the many patrons crossing its threshold over its life. I imagined the walls held as many stories as the books resting on the shelves. “I love finding books that you can tell have been opened over and over by the wrinkles on the spine
.” I ran my hand across the spine of the book in my hand.

“It shows that others read it too. You have the experience of reading the book for its content, but every page that you turn someone else touched. They could have felt the same thing you had, at the exact part you did. Their emotions are trapped and with every touch of their fingertips they put part of themselves into the book
,” I opened the book and traced my fingers along the pages. “Who was this person and what led them to this particular book? What were their thoughts, hopes, and dreams? Had they found it in a store just as this one? Was that store hundreds of miles away and a buyer brought the book here to be traded for another?” I smiled as I put my hand toward her. “My name is Hannah Anderson, by the way. Sorry for my rambling.”

She returned her cup to the saucer and put her hand forward, “Petra Kafka. Pleasure to meet you, Hannah, no need to a
pologize, when can you start?” she asked as she returned her smile to her tea.

I laughed, “Whenever you need me to start.”

“Okay, why have you not asked of pay?” She raised an eyebrow and set her teacup back onto her floral dish.

“Yeah, I guess I should, shouldn’t I?” I looked at the rows and rows of stories for me to explore. “But I should pay you to let me work here.”