In Laymon's Terms

Charlie’s eyes trailed down to the book and he nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Help. Please help.” Mr. Standish frowned for a moment and then his face brightened up. “Obviously, she’s having some fun with you. Which was next?”

“Umm...this one, I think.” Charlie held forth a fat book and chewed on his lip.

“All right, then. Please...help...us. I think I can figure out the rest.” Mr. Standish whistled as he shuffled books. All the while, Charlie watched the man’s face. It was without humor, tightly drawn as though someone had pulled back his skin. “There!” he declared, throwing his arms open wide and smiling most disingenuously.

“Please...help...us...find...a...home.” Charlie checked the man’s face for clarification.

“Exactly. These books need a home. I think you could give at least one of them a home, couldn’t you, Charlie?”

Charlie didn’t like the look on the man’s face just then. It was the same look that Mama’s boyfriends gave him whenever they wanted him to leave the room so they could be alone with Mama. “I could,” Charlie answered, anxious to go home.

“Robin Hood, perhaps? You do like that one, don’t you, Charlie?” Charlie nodded and held out his hand. Mr. Standish held out his own, the book offered at arm’s length. For a moment, Charlie got the unmistakable feeling that Mr. Standish would grab his arm if he tried to reach for it, perhaps hurt Charlie somehow. Charlie simply waited.

After a few longer-than-life moments, Mr. Standish placed the book in Charlie’s upturned hand and began the arduous task of standing up. “You run along home now, Charlie. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him, then turned and disappeared down a row of bookshelves.

Charlie left the store in a flurry of tinkling bells and slapping sneakers, the book tucked under one arm. He rushed back to his house, where Mama was sleeping after a long night of work. He lay down on his bed and began to read. He had nearly finished the fourth chapter when Mama came in to leave bright red lip prints on his cheek and say goodbye.

The next day found Charlie at the bookstore against his better judgment. For some reason, Mr. Standish had made him feel very afraid the day before. It was the kind of fear he felt when Mama had been drinking and Charlie had done something very wrong. Still, there was something going on inside that bookstore. And that something was too much of a curiosity for Charlie to bear.

“Good afternoon, dear Charlie. Have you something for me?”

Charlie wet his lips and dry-swallowed his nerves. “Just this.” He peeled open his hand to reveal a bright shiny quarter. He watched Mr. Standish’s smile as he plucked the treasure from Charlie’s sweaty palm.

“Well done, my boy. Well done. Happy reading.” Mr. Standish dropped the quarter into the old cash register and began his daily task of pricing the new arrivals.

Charlie swept off toward the back row of shelves, grabbing the first thing he laid eyes on and sitting on the little stool. He tried hard to stop the nervous rocking, but it was really quite impossible.

From where he sat, Charlie had a clear view of the desk and Mr. Standish. Before long, Standish disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains that separated the books from the office.

Charlie was up off the stool like a shot, eyes searching the books, ears pricked for signs of approach. He spoke softly, nervously, like a small child calling his cat from under a sleeping man’s chair. “Who are you?”

A book trembled a bit and made for the floor. Charlie caught it in the nick of time. “Don’t throw them, ok? Just push ’em out a little and I’ll grab ’em.” He looked at the first word of the title. “We.”

Another book slid forward, out over the edge of the shelf without falling. “Are.”

Charlie followed the trail of protruding books one by one, grabbing each as it was pushed out. “We are many.”

He sat down hard on the stool, nearly throwing it and himself to the ground. “Great. Many what? Books? People? Ghosts? Mr. Standish says the store can talk to me. Is that true?”

“NO!” came the quick answer in the form of a volume of poetry.

“Then what ARE you?”

“Charlie, is everything all right back there?”

Only then did he realize just how loud his voice had become. “Just fine, Mr. Standish. Reading aloud is all. Just reading aloud.”

Charlie leaned one arm against the bookshelf and rested his sweaty forehead on that arm. A book promptly slid forward and struck him softly at the top of his head.

“What?” he asked, hands held outward, pleading.

A book flew from the shelf then. It careened wildly across the room, bounced off the opposite shelf, and landed on the floor. Then it flipped over.

HELP

Charlie pressed his open palms to either side of his head and groaned. “Stop it!”

Another book broke free and another. Charlie spun madly, trying to keep up with it all but it was no use. Every book bore the same ambiguous message.

HELP

He spun just in time to see Mr. Standish approach. The man’s face was red.