In Laymon's Terms

Charlie panicked all at once and began babbling. “I’m sorry, Mr. Standish. I had nothing to do with it. They just keep doing that. All over the floor. Just falling. And I...”

It was no use. Standish didn’t budge, didn’t blink. Charlie’s shoulders slumped and his head sagged. “I guess I better go home now.”

“I guess you better.”

He felt Mr. Standish’s eyes on his back, boring white-hot holes in his head as he trudged toward the door. It would have been one thing to be kicked out of the bookstore for something he’d done wrong. But this was quite another thing. Something was going on inside that bookstore and Charlie had nothing to do with it. Somehow, he felt as though the store needed him, as though the books needed him.

He walked outside and around the corner, waiting for the bell to stop tinkling against the door. Then he crept slowly back around to the window and positioned himself just beneath it, listening.

“You’re being very naughty, you know. And you’re scaring poor Charlie. You mustn’t scare away the customers like that. How will you ever find homes if we have no customers ?”

Charlie cringed inwardly. He had been convinced that Mr. Standish was lying to him. And now, it seemed as though the books really did want to find homes. He pressed his cheek against the brick below the window and listened.

“I have great plans for Charlie, you see. He’s such a pretty little boy.”

Charlie stood and ran. Something in that last sentence—though not entirely understood—was horribly wrong.

He spent all that night lying awake and staring at the ceiling. He had tried for the first few hours to read, but the concentration just wasn’t there. Then he tried to get his copy of Robin Hood to talk to him. But it was no use. Either the book couldn’t talk, or it couldn’t talk on its own. Either way, Charlie was still in the dark...and frightened.

The next day, Charlie found himself outside the bookstore once more. He sat on his bike at the end of the block, staring at the sign and chewing his bottom lip. He had to find out what was going on inside that store. And yet, he was terrified of the actual answer.

Finally, he screwed up his courage and pedaled down the sidewalk. He parked his bike in the usual slot in the bike rack. It seemed he was the only child in Stantonville who ever came to the store, so the bike rack was pretty much his own.

Charlie stretched out in the sidewalk beneath the store window, watching Mr. Standish through a mirror he had swiped from his mother’s vanity. He waited until Mr. Standish went into the office, then slipped inside.

He managed to pull the door open slowly enough that the bell didn’t sound. Once he had eased the door shut again, he tiptoed to the back of the store.

“Please tell me what to do,” he begged in a soft whisper. “Please.”

The answer came by way of a single offering. “Get,” said the first word of the title.

“Charlie?”

At the sound of Mr. Standish’s voice, Charlie gasped and spun. His heart was pounding against his ribs, making his chest jump. “Get? Get what? Please!”

A book slid forward, easing itself into Charlie’s soft grasp. “Shovel.” Charlie screamed. The tight grip of Mr. Standish’s hand on his shoulder was too much to bear. Charlie spun in a second, purposefully knocking several books from their shelves in order to conceal his treachery.

“I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see you today, Charlie. Glad to see you haven’t lost your taste for the books.”

“Oh no!” Charlie laughed nervously, the little gulps of air turned into titters and spat out between chattering teeth. “I’ll never stop loving books.”

“They seem to love you, too, Charlie.” He tapped one thick finger on the spine of the volume Charlie still held. “They leap right into your hands.”

“Yes, well...”

“It would seem that the books favor you, Charlie. As does the store. I think you’re ready to see our special collection.”

“Really?” Charlie feigned interest, forcing his eyes away from the door, his escape.

“Indeed. These are very special books. One of a kind, really. And I think they’re right up your alley.”

Charlie knew how his face must look to Mr. Standish. The man was playing along, trying to lure him into the back of the store, behind all those rows of shelves. Something very bad was about to happen, Charlie could feel it. And yet, if he tried to run too soon, Mr. Standish could grab him. Then it would be all over.

Mr. Standish looped one thick arm around Charlie’s shoulders and led him away, toward the back of the store where the emergency exit was. Only, it wasn’t an emergency exit at all. It was a door that led, not into the alley, but into another room.

One fat hand slid into a pocket and produced a ring of keys. Mr. Standish sorted through the set until he found just the right one. Then he slid it home and turned the lock on that old knob.

“Bear in mind, Charlie, that each of these books tells the unique and wonderful story of one person. It’s the essence of the writer, really. Quite beautiful.”