The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend (8 page)

She nodded. How many new problems could it create?

‘So, why did you end up here of all places?' It was Andy's turn to try.

Because of Amy. ‘Why not?'

‘Did you even know Iowa existed?'

‘Of course.'

‘What did you know about us?' Tom asked.

She thought about saying that she knew his father had run his own newspaper but decided at the last minute that it wouldn't be a good idea. ‘I knew there was a cat,' she said instead.

It didn't quite have the effect she had been hoping for.

‘A library cat,' she added. ‘Dewey Readmore Books. You must know the one?'

‘God,' said Andy. ‘Spencer's cat. How the hell did you know that?'

‘Amy had –' Sara began, but stopped short.

‘A book about it, I bet,' Tom finished dismissively.

She drank more whiskey. Maybe it would help.

By the end of the evening, Tom was forced to give her a supporting hand as she clambered down from the bar stool. She was drunk, that much she knew, but not so drunk that any of her problems had been solved. She felt disappointed. Why did people drink if it didn't make them feel better? Maybe she just hadn't drunk enough.

Tom had to help her fasten her seat belt, too. She looked at him. She didn't quite know what to make of him. She pulled a face.

He raised an eyebrow at her scrutinising gaze and turned the ignition key.

‘So you
can
be nice?' she said, as much a statement as a question.

He smiled. ‘It has been known,' he said.

She nodded. ‘That's good to know.'

She leaned her head against the cool car window and closed her eyes.

He took her right up to the door. ‘Can you manage?' he asked.

‘Sure,' she said confidently, adding ‘Goodnight' to emphasise her point. She did actually feel braver now that she was drunk, and that was a fantastic feeling. Even though it had more to do with Amy's betrayal than the whiskey. If she had been lured over to America by a woman who knew she was going to die, then at least she didn't have to feel bad about staying there. Or at least that was what she told herself as she trudged into the house as though it was her own.

She would go to bed, and in the morning she would decide what to do. But as she passed Amy's bedroom, she stopped.

She hesitated. She was drunk enough that she could think of nothing at all for a few moments, and then, suddenly, she had an idea.

Books!

There had to be books somewhere in the house. The stack of books she had brought with her was all she had been able to fit in her luggage, even after she had taken out some of her clothes and her second pair of shoes. And besides, she had already read some of them, bringing them along more as familiar old friends than exciting new acquaintances. Amy must have more for her to read.

She stood still a moment longer. Swaying. Laughing to herself as she swayed, she slowly opened the door.

She sank down onto the bed and glanced around in amazement.

Amy's room was like her dream library. A large bed in the middle where Amy must have spent her days, slowly dying of her ‘silly little complaint'. Along each of the walls: bookcases. The bedside table was a pile of books. On top was a collection of aerial pictures of Iowa, covered in water rings from a glass.

Someone had taken the glass away, made the bed and vacuumed, and there was a closed-in feeling to the room which couldn't have been there while Amy was still alive.

On one side there was a curtainless window, the only section of wall not covered by books. From where Sara was sitting, she could see a treetop swaying in the breeze. And she could see hundreds, maybe even thousands of books flickering in front of her as the room started spinning before her eyes.

The books were a rainbow of colours; they were thin books, thick books, books with luxurious text and illustrations; cheap paperbacks, classic editions, old leather-bound volumes, incompatible genres. Sometimes sorted in alphabetical order, sometimes by genre, sometimes without any obvious system.

She stayed where she was on the bed, looking on in astonishment as books and colours and life and stories soared up around her.

Jane Austen was there, all of her works, as well as a biography and a book of collected letters. The three Brontë sisters were there too, but she seemed to have had a particular fondness for Charlotte: there were three different editions of
Jane Eyre
, a copy of
Villette
and a biography too. There were biographies of American presidents, even Republicans, and weighty tomes on the civil rights movement – a healthy balance of power and resistance.

Paul Auster, Harriet Beecher Stowe, plenty of Joyce Carol Oates and a couple of Toni Morrisons. A copy of Oscar Wilde's collected plays, a few Dickens, no Shakespeare. All the Harry Potters, hardback. On the next shelf, Annie Proulx, all the ones Sara had read – Proulx was one of her absolute favourites. There were hard and paperback copies of
The Shipping News
, the others were all well-thumbed paperbacks.

A few Philip Roths, F. Scott Fitzgerald's
Tender is the Night
, and a whole host of thrillers: Dan Brown, John Grisham and Lee Child, a discovery which pleased Sara almost as much as the Proulx.

There was also some Christopher Paolini:
Eragon
,
Eldest
and
Brisingr
, and Sara was forced to pause there, slumping back down on the bed.

Amy might not have had the most exciting life over the past few years, up here in her room, but she must have been fighting death to the very end. Sara could understand why she had been in denial for so long. It must have been a frightening realisation: so many books she would never get to pick up, so many stories which would happen without her, so many authors she would never get to discover.

That night, Sara sat in Amy's library for hours, thinking about how tragic it was that the written word was immortal while people were not, and grieving for her, the woman she had never met.

 

 

 

 

Broken Wheel, Iowa

February 26, 2010

Sara Lindqvist

Kornvägen 7, 1 tr

136 38 Haninge

Sweden

Dear Sara,

I completely agree with what you say about the Bible: with so many interesting stories, it's a shame no one edited it better. I do understand that it must've become tedious by the third and fourth gospels. By that point, you know fine well how it's all going to end. I've always thought that the very best stories are in the Old Testament. What a God they had in those days. If my father had been willing to sacrifice me, I wouldn't have taken it as a sign of religious integrity. Not that my father would have done. He was just like my brother Robert. Much too kind for his own good. Sometimes I think that Tom might have managed to escape that particular family trait. Don't get me wrong, he is very kind – much too kind to me, that's for sure – but he keeps himself to himself. Which my father and Robert never did. They also died young, the both of them.

I hope you'll forgive me if I tell Caroline that you have a Bible and that you've read it. I don't think she's someone who appreciates taking a literary view of it. She leads our poor minister William Christopher by the nose and she would take control of God too, if He came down and set foot in Broken Wheel. Though, of course, when it comes to God perhaps someone should. I hope that this conversation can stay between the two of us, if ever you happen to meet Caroline?

With kind regards,

Amy Harris

‘
THERE ARE PLENTY
of nice places to visit around here.'

Jen's voice struck Sara's ears like a cheerful hammer.

‘We've got a river, for example. A nice late-summer picnic maybe? I'll tell Tom to bring some typical Iowan food with him so you can have a nice time together while you get to experience the best of Iowa's food and nature.'

‘No.'

Sara covered her face with one hand. She had a headache, she was hung-over, and she had already made a fool of herself in front of Tom once.

She had woken up cold and stiff on Amy's bed, with the sharp edges of the book of photographs digging into her back and four Lee Childs as a pillow. She rubbed her cheek. She should probably have checked to make sure none of the embossed lettering from the
Gone Tomorrow
cover was imprinted on her face.

‘He can take you to a forest fire.' Jen was dressed in a salmon-pink, Jackie Kennedy-style dress, and looked shamelessly fresh. ‘I know the Association for the Preservation of Oaks was planning on organising one.'

‘Wh … A forest fire?'

‘It has something to do with the undergrowth,' said Jen. ‘Controlled, of course. But it must be exciting to see. Tom can give you a ride.'

‘No,' she said again. Then she froze. She raised her eyes from her cup of coffee and took in Jen's eager face, her early visit, her countless suggestions – all of which seemed to revolve around Tom.

She sat up straight with the shock. She had read enough books to suspect that Jen was trying to pair her off with Tom.
Her
.

‘Walk in the woods?' Jen asked hopefully.

Sara laughed. ‘No,' she said.

What were they thinking? She was ordinary and Tom … well, Tom wasn't. She always tried to be a fair person, so she made an effort not to judge him for it. But the fact remained, she was instinctively suspicious of a fit body. So often, they seemed to be entirely incompatible with other qualities, like intelligence or kindness or even basic politeness.

But then again, she was also well aware that an ordinary appearance by no means guaranteed charm either.

She stopped smiling. Oh God, imagine if they had suggested it to
him
? Was that why he had picked her up yesterday, forced against his will, part of some crazy plan cooked up by Jen and, presumably, Andy? Andy did seem like the kind of person who would come up with something like that. No wonder Tom had been so stand-offish. She really wished she hadn't called him nice now.

There was only one thing to do. Change the subject.

‘Have you found anyone I can pay the rent to?' she asked, which immediately made Jen look unhappy.

George had started stopping by the house every morning, to see whether Sara needed to go into town or run any errands. He was taking his role as chauffeur very seriously.

Today when he arrived, she was sitting on the porch, reading.

She lowered the book and looked up at him as he sat down next to her.

‘What're you reading?' he asked.

She held up the book. ‘
Bridget Jones's Diary
.'

He nodded as though the name sounded familiar.

‘Coffee?' she asked. ‘With milk and sugar? Though I don't actually know if I've got any milk.'

‘Doesn't matter,' he said quickly. ‘I can have it black too. It's no problem.'

‘But you normally have it with milk and sugar?'

‘Sometimes I do.'

‘I'm going to guess you like both,' she said.

‘Yeah … It's probably not so much the milk, though I must admit I usually go for cream, or the sugar as having to choose, if that makes sense?'

She knew all too well what he meant.

‘Sometimes I just think there are too many choices in life,' he continued. ‘It gets tough.' He turned towards her, and said: ‘Sometimes I almost wish I could get sick just so I could lie in bed all day. Not have to do a thing. No decisions for days.'

‘That's what books are for,' she said, smiling at him. ‘The perfect excuse to do nothing. Make no decisions.'

‘Really?'

‘Sure. Do you want to borrow one?'

Sara had meant it more as a joke, but he answered her seriously and slightly hesitantly. ‘A book?'

‘Yeah, a book.' It wasn't actually such a bad idea, Sara thought.

‘The one you're reading, is it good? Could I borrow it?' he asked, adding quickly: ‘Not 'til you've finished it yourself, I mean.'

‘I've already read it a few times.' A few times more than she wanted to admit. She must be up into double figures by now.

‘A few times? It must be good then.'

She held it out to him with conflicting feelings. She hoped it wouldn't put him off reading for good. She would just have to suggest something tougher next time. A hard-boiled thriller, maybe. Michael Connelly, nothing but dark manliness and violence and alcoholic policemen. Or maybe not Connelly, then. But when she thought about it, it would be hard to find a manly thriller which didn't involve alcohol problems.

She glanced at him. He was hardly a Jack Reacher. Still, Reacher never drank more than a beer now and then, which might be OK. She would just have to keep thinking about it.

George touched the book doubtfully. On the cover, Bridget was curled up on a windowsill, smoking. One of the early paperback editions, before the films were made.

‘Keep it,' she said.

He placed it uncertainly in his lap. ‘Do you need a ride anywhere?' he asked, as though one favour immediately demanded another, which was illogical since he had already been driving her around without asking for anything in return.

‘George,' she said slowly. ‘There's one thing you could do for me. The gas stove.'

He looked at her uneasily. ‘Is there something wrong with it?'

‘I don't know how it works.'

He seemed relieved. ‘I do,' he said, and went ahead of her into the house.

After having revealed the mysteries of the gas stove, George drove Sara into town to buy food to cook on it. He dropped her off by the hardware store along from Amazing Grace and strolled off for his third coffee of the day.

The Hardware Store had earned its name because it had, at one point in time, sold the kind of tools and machines that every self-respecting man and farmer needed, and every self-respecting boy wanted. Now it was more like a supermarket which also sold hammers.