I loaned Duke my first edition of Fitzgerald’s Collected Short Stories, but when – after what I thought was a generous amount of time having passed – he’d not returned it to me, drove over to his house and asked if he could.
“I’m sorry, Chris,” he said, giving me a look pitiful yet deceitful, “but I lost it. I took it with me to Queen’s Surf one day and left it there on the sand. I’d offer to pay you for it, but I have no money to spare at the moment, as you know.”
On the sand? He’d taken it to the beach? I’d bought the book many years ago, and I couldn’t quite remember how much it cost. But money wasn’t the object. Aside from his casual mishandling of something so valuable, this wasn’t the first time he’d borrowed a book from me and not returned it.
This was, however, the first time I’d brought myself to request he give one back. The other books I could live without. Why I’d loaned him a first edition, given his borrowing and non-return history, I don’t know.
Over the years, who knows how many books I’ve lent him? You would think that most people, after not having a few books returned by someone – say three, or four at most –, would refuse to loan them to him anymore.
I must admit that I’ve thought about this a time or two. Told myself that I would refuse to allow his borrowing any more books. But at the critical moment of making the request, I gave in. To my shame.
Now his telling me he’d lost my first edition at the beach, well, this was the last straw.
“Ah well, Duke,” I said, barely able to contain my contempt, “these things happen. Such is life.”
“If I ever can scrape the money together,” he said, “I’ll pay you for it. Honest.”
That smug look behind his attempt at appeasement galled me. It was as if he’d stabbed me with the initial lie, and now was twisting the knife.”
“Duke,” I said. “I’ve come all the way over here, and I’m thirsty could you spare a glass of water? Or better yet, might I have a glass of iced tea?”
He gave me a suspicious look. “Ah, iced tea? Sure. Please come in and have a seat. I’ll go get us some.”
Gesturing to his living room couch, he bowed me in. I took a seat as he disappeared into the kitchen.
I’ll say this for Duke. Possibly the main reason for his proclaimed impoverishment is his book collection. Looking around the room, I was again stunned, as I always am, by his library. Every bit of space around his living room walls is given over to bookcases. Each is different. Some are older than others. Antiques, even. The one thing they have in common is their massive size. All of them are very nearly floor-to-ceiling.
Scanning the room, I wondered how many of these books might be mine.
“Do you want some sugar?” Duke called from the kitchen.
“Yes, please,” I said. “A teaspoon of two. And,” I added, “if you have a lemon wedge handy, that would be very nice.”
I continued my survey of the books, and suddenly I stopped. The stunning spine of the book caught my attention. Getting up, I went to the bookcase to take a closer look. Sure enough, it was a gilded copy of Dickens’ Great Expectations.”
Opening it, I saw that it was a first edition. “Oh my God,” I whispered, fighting the urge to cry out loud.
At that moment, all I could think of was that I wanted to own this book. It would be a fair trade. This Dickens for all the books he’d stolen from me, including the Fitzgerald.
And I knew instantly that he had lied about losing it at the beach. Only a fool would take a first edition to the beach. More likely he had it hidden away someplace.
Glancing toward the kitchen, I made a command decision. Lifting my shirt, I jammed the Dickens into my shorts, then quickly arranged the books on the shelf to cover the empty space.
“What are you doing?”
I turned around. Duke stood with two glasses of iced tea in his hands.
“Doing?” I said. “Why, I’m admiring your collection.”
“No,” said Duke walking toward me, tea still in hand. “I mean what did you just shove down your pants?”
Well, the jig was up. I didn’t know what to say. Duke now stood a foot away with the glasses of tea. The shocked look on his face made me wonder if he was about to have a heart attack.
Lifting my shirt, I produced the Dickens.
“I’m sorry, Duke,” I said, not feeling sorry in the least, “something overcame me when I saw this Dickens.”
Duke still stared at me, his mouth hanging open. I waited for him to say something.
“Duke? Are you all right?” I asked, the silence growing awkward.
“I,” he stuttered, “I never thought you were that kind of person?”
“I’m not,” I said. “It was a moment of weakness. This is not me.”
He stared at me, his chin still on the floor.
And then I wasn’t me again. I thrust the book into his stomach. Duke doubled over and the two glasses of tea fell to the floor. They shattered and the tea went everywhere.
Duke sat on his knees sucking for air. Rearing back, I brought the Dickens down on his head with all the might I had in me. All those books. The thought that he could fool me with his beach tale. All the anger that I’d been suppressing caused me to slam Duke to the floor.
Panting, I looked at him lying there. I didn’t think I’d killed him, but I knocked him out cold. Of that I was certain.
And then an idea hit me. I kicked the broken glass aside and dragged Duke away from the spilled tea. Laying him under one of the bookcases, I reached up and pulled it over. The crash wasn’t as loud as I guessed it might be. But it was spectacular for the way all the books scattered.
I stooped and felt for Duke’s pulse. Luckily, there was none. What a beautifully staged accident. I shuttered to think that this gory scene would bring me some kind of pleasure. I was not me.
I took off my T-shirt and wiped the area where I’d grabbed the bookcase, then found a towel in the kitchen and wiped up the tea. Using a trash bag, I collected the broken glass and tossed the towel in as well. Picking up the Dickens and the bag, I left.
If I thought I could spend the time, I’d have looked for my Fitzgerald. It had to be in there somewhere. But it was compensation enough for me to have the Dickens.
Lanning Lee 