Against the Light of Day

By Ellis Scott

Jon Winslow was a bookseller. It was all he wanted to be, and it was all coming to a most pitiable end, when an opportunity arose. If he would just hold a book that would be dropped off now and then, keep it safe until it was picked up... The pay was phenomenal, the risk seemed negligible. What could go wrong? A droll tale of murder and mayhem tossed with middle-age melancholy, career collapse, and finished off with an abiding sense of impending doom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellis Scott
• Release date: Feb 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370259120

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jon Winslow dreamt anxious dreams of loss and despair. The morning, the lifetime of habit it commanded, brought him back, kept him in this here, for now. It wasn’t that the dreams of youth changed to more desperate dreams in later years; it was the desperation of later years that brought home the dreams and made them the more real.

Alone, he ordered aloud. It’s time to go. It’s late.

And words alone allowed a cessation in his negotiations with the espresso machine, a halt to consideration of the bananas still green, yet turning black.

He swept past the unopened distractions on his desk as he considered. The rotating billions leaving their homes at their allotted time – to forage, to plow, to make, and now to serve. We stand at the threshold; we grab our stuff. We share this act.

And so Jon Winslow stepped into a new day. And into a puddle of pee. A gesture by the dog next door. Dogs actually, as they were twins, or so to all appearances, and daily invaded his property. This most recent routine began on the side of his house. The urine worked its way, over time, counterclockwise around the carport perimeter to the front of the house. The creatures had settled on his front doorstep as their permanent pissoir.

He welcomed the smell of dog piss at his door. It offered a trifling anger, a tangible emotion. Emotion tempered by that truly awful fact that tinged Jon’s feelings towards all the dirty deeds of man and beast. The most terrible truth of all. That it's nothing personal.

Chapter 2

A deathbed vow made, Jon Winslow stopped and looked about himself, took in the day. Squirrels chittered, blue jays, woodpeckers, mockingbirds, all flitted and skittered and chatted. A troupe of Ibis foraged the neighbor’s yard.

The Ibis was one of those few big birds to adapt to urban life. The hawk had returned to the city – much to the distress of the pigeons. Of late, with all the dead, there were the vultures chronically circling overhead.

At fifty-six, Jon accepted his situation, his predicament, and it paled against the beauty of the morning light. The world ignited, the colours and tempests. As green and gray and blue battle for the gold, the glorious gold of breaking sun. He’d recently learned the term…what was it? He could almost feel the cogs of his brain slip, move, grind…

Contre-jour. Meaning against the day. Jon saw himself, his life, all that had been so relevant, now just an outline, a darkening shadow against the well-defined day. He’d chosen what he’d chosen. A bit late in the game to regret. A bit late in the game of checkers to declare it was chess all along you wanted to play.

He’d started painting. Jon wanted to capture that gold, suffused glow. He wanted to spend the rest of his life seeking those colours, making them show…how the gold made the greens so alive. How such brilliance beshadowed any one person’s existence.

He'd spent his life in this town, on this coast, this western coast of this eastern state. Watched it transgress from dirt roads and screen doors, to roads you could not walk across and windows that did not open. He'd watched the world more than he'd been in the world. He’d painted his picture. His bookshop had been his medium, his toil for the years. Yes a few more colours here and there, but it was done. He was done. No sunlight streaming on the canvas arena, but it was the best he could do, and maybe with the legacy of time, the light, the golden light would shine.

Jon stood in his front yard, thinking of his mother and how she would see the morning through her empty eyes. She would see the beauty. She would have nowhere to go, nobody to be. Just like Jon, for this untimed moment. Even now the light, the bright rising sunlight, left only slow dancing shadows of what had been.

He’d endured the collapse of his business as one might a slow-motion train crash. The ineluctable unfolding of one’s fate. When a new opportunity came his way he modified his business plan. That sounded like it was a plan made. To take the billiard-ball trajectory of our lives and declare order, a plan, a purpose.

There had been no plan. The sun rose. The light changed. It was time to go.

The mornings were best at the bookshop. Herding the errant books, sweeping the sidewalk. It made Jon feel he was a part of something… merchants, preparing for the day as merchants had for generations. Then ensuring all was ready, the unlocking of the door, flipping the sign from closed, to open.

There had been a time when people stood and waited; when Jon would open early for the gathered clientele. No more. The rest of the morning was paperwork, and thinking of dinner, this very night, with the beautiful Matilde.

They’d met on the beach. Jon was playing with a baby octopus he’d found in the seaweed and Matilde was travelling at unusually high pedestrian speed, talking on her phone. He heard her coming. He was standing in the gentle Gulf surf as it heaved and sighed about his ankles. Jon was out of the way of the walkers and runners, while looking at the eight-legged cephalopod sucking on his fingers. His mother loved seeing such. He would find creatures and put them in her hands and she would talk to them, and watch them, and tell them they were so beautiful…

Anyway, Matilde was in a volatile discussion. Her left hand held the phone. Her left arm blocked her view. She cut left to pass an elderly couple and made contact with Jon at – well to call it a high speed collision might be a bit much for a pedestrian encounter. She clipped him from behind, folding his knees, and down he went. Jon's major concern was the baby octopus, and he rolled about, octopus in hand, hand held high in the air. The phone flew in a lovely parabola, as Jon watched its return to earth, where it nestled into the damp sand. Matilde, from a prone position, tried speed-crawling to reach it before the next wave. The wave won the race. The octopus lived, the phone died. But she nobly and accurately took the blame. She was happy for the little creature and Jon let her release it in another pile of drift seaweed. He offered condolences on the death of the phone and he liked the fact she wasn't overly distraught.

They kept talking. She was charming. He was…whatever he was, still thinking about his mother, his bookshop, his life.

Soo Shon Winslow. You are not married?

I am not married.

But you must be seeing some woman yes?

Uh, no, I think I can say no.

Do you like women?

I like some women.

But, I mean, when it comes to… Matilde was phrasing things carefully in response to Jon's jocular reply.

I know what you mean. In that way, yes, I like women very much. Jon saved her from further struggle.

You would have me for dinner? She looked very earnest.

I would very much like to have you for dinner. But perhaps you mean 'Would I have dinner with you?' or something to that effect.

Ye-es? she said, with an expectant look, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly opened.

Yes. Jon said.

You have a card? She said.

Jon thought this an odd question for the beach. No, no card.

Tell me. Tell me your number. I remember. He told her and she closed her eyes for a moment.

Not. Not call today. Tomorrow night? Yes, no?

Tomorrow night yes. Jon didn’t know if she meant to call or for dinner. But no matter. He looked at her anew. While she was wearing a ragged t-shirt and baggy sweats and her hair was…sort of maybe she got up and didn’t brush or comb it. All this, and she was stunning.

I look forward to it, Matilde.

Yes. Pleasure. Bye. And she strode off, staring at her phone, hoping for resurrection perhaps.

Jon tended to do his best thinking, and sometimes he felt his only thinking, in retrospect. In retrospect, Matilde was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

But Jon Winslow was an established and a practiced bachelor, and one of his cardinal rules was to never get excited about a date. Do not ever anticipate a date. There will be plenty of time for disappointment later. Yet Matilde was… exquisite. Jon lifted his head and libido up and looked about the store. More things to do.

He unpacked some boxes of books from an estate purchase. Mostly southern authors. Jon had bought the lot because of all the Faulkner. Kate was a big Faulkner fan. Nothing rare, but a good general collection. It was a buyer's market, as long as you weren't concerned with selling them at a profit. Kate would drool. Her thesis was Faulkner’s Women/Faulkner’s Men, or some such.

Jon had to stay busy, otherwise he thought about the future, the past, and life. That is exactly what happened when he finished unpacking the books, breaking down the boxes and surveying the shop – his realm, and his universe for most of his adult life.

You're in year three. Jon announced loudly to the empty bookshop.

Lance gave this thing maybe five years. So. Two more. Then what? He'd have enough money…about…to live. Maybe. But not enough to keep pouring money into the bookstore black hole.

A bubble. He lived in an imminently poppable, definitely terminal, bubble. Jon looked at himself as watching a bad disaster movie. Starring him wandering about, tidying hither, straightening thither, placing a book in a more strategic spot. The store on fire about him, flames screeching unheard as he dithered. He could not help but be amused. His inability to run from the burning building, his casual take on becoming a casualty– it perturbed him, but not enough to change course, not enough to flee, as the flames spread.

Jon was startled by the words of a man he hadn't seen enter.

I'd like to sell this book. I was told to ask for a Mr. Winross?

The man was practically as tall as he was around, and the hair on his head was limited to eyebrows and a most amazing mustache.

How much were you thinking it’s worth? Jon turned to the computer and started up a little program, entered a code. A moment passed; his cell phone gurgled up a text message.

I was thinking, it’s a ratty old book, and if I received ten bucks for it we could both consider this a serendipitous event.

Jon's text read– ratty…serendipitous. The screen blinked and then seven is my final offer.

Jon examined the volume, a pale blue Book Club Edition of Poe.

Would you take six for it?

How about we settle on eight dollars even?

Seven is my final offer. He waited. The rotundity of the man mixed well with the pregnant pause. He wore those funny glasses, reading his lines.

Okay. That's in cash I hope? The man finally said.

Cash it is. Jon pushed the key on the register that said NO SALE, and handed the man his money.

And thank you very much.

The floor safe had taken days to drill out; the concrete was almost a hundred years old, and over four feet thick. Once the book was secure, Jon went back to things and forgot all about the rotund man and the blue book of Poe.

Chapter 3

Your Gypsy is here.

Kate was referring to the young woman who came into the shop some nights, as it suited her, and read Tarot cards for tips. She used one of the small tables, by the railing, on the second floor. Jon could see her from where he stood. She had a customer. She seemed to have a steady flow of them.

Not politically correct Kate. If you’d any idea what the Gypsy, the Romani tribes, have in the past, and still endure as a persecuted people–

Kate put a forefinger toward his lips. Observation had shown over the years this was a kindness. Otherwise she used coarse words to interrupt. Kate had the raised eyebrow, the refined sneer. Jon changed course.

Why don't you like her? Jon said.

You want a list? Kate moved forward. Jon felt like taking a step back.

Partly visceral distaste for manipulating the weak and those in need of such cheap emotional support provided by her readings. Mainly because she detracts from what should be a place of knowledge and reflection, giving it a cheap, carnival feel. I like the sanctity of a church, the dignity of a library, to envelope this bookstore. Pleasant music, calm people, calmly browsing the aisles. And then there she is, hustling the marks.

Kate had a tendency to be very black and white about things. Jon had a tendency to be ambivalent. He liked the fortune teller. What was her name?

Jon wondered if Kate disliked her, and inversely Jon liked her, simply because she was pretty. Then, no. Jon had a bias against pretty women, on face value, because they tended to rely on their… face value. This young lady, there was something to her. He thought she was good for business as well. But…he did want to keep Kate happy.

Let me go chat with her. I told her from the get-go we would take it a day at a time.

You do that Mr. Winslow.

Kate called him Mr. Winslow when she was irritated. A not infrequent occurrence.

The cynicism in your voice. Not the most becoming quality in a young lady.

Jon called Kate 'young lady', whenever she called him Mr. Winslow. She'd challenged him on it… during their first meeting.

They were upstairs, his desk setting them apart. Her words reached across to slap him.

The term connotes a sexist diminution. Of me. Implying because I am young, and a woman I am by both terms, lessened somehow. Kate, even then, on their first meeting, before he'd hired her, she’d a thorny side.

Do you feel lessened because you’re young…or a woman? This held Kate at bay a moment, but Jon felt he’d been rude and changed course to a more deferential tack.

If you were male I'd call you ‘young man’. I could call you Ma'am. I can call you Ms. Hansen, now that I look at your name on your resumé, but frankly I use terms because I forget people's names. Jon stopped, considered.

What if I was old? Kate wasn't ready to give up.

Actually it’s a term I would use even more readily, Ms. Hansen."

Jon was not going to hire this girl. She was a child, and an obstreperous one at that. That was what? Two years ago? She was still obstreperous.

You don't think I'd ask her not to come back if I thought it the best thing for the store? Jon tried to make decisions in those terms. Not that it was always clear, what was right for the store. But it made making decisions a matter of theoretical objectivity.

Jimmy Wehorvnick. Kate blurted.

Jimmy! I'd forgotten about him. Yes, he was a thief, and a liar. But likeable otherwise. He was before Zeke–

No, there was that Gustav something… Iverson I think. And Pete, and Rudy. Kate remembered these things. Jon did not.

I liked those guys! What happened to them?

I fired them. They were thieves, stole money and/or books, and…oh it is a list. You were oblivious. Of course Pete was a clever thief. And Rudy was plucking your cream books and selling them online if you'll recall.

I'd forgotten.

Of course you did Jon. That's why you gave me the power to hire and fire. Go check on your gypsy. I can't fire her because you haven't hired her…yet.

I shall sally forth and investigate. If it goes really badly, I’ll hire her. Jon was hoping for a smile.

Go. Maybe I can get back to reading my book.

Jon found Kate charming when she was irritated. He turned and surveyed the shop, his world, as if it was strange and new. Lately he looked upon his life as you recall your childhood – a distant and foreign time of vague and disjointed memory.

Kate’s Gypsy – Jon would remember her name – she’d taken a scarf and draped it across the overhead light, giving a reddish cast to the area, her table, and herself. She was reading a book. Her most recent customer walking slowly down the stairs. As Jon plonked across the wood floor she slowly marked and closed the book. Even Jon’s steps seemed to slow, as she began passing her hands casually and idly over the deck of cards in the center of the small round table. She never looked at Jon.

So you've come for your reading.

Jon was searching for her name. Jon wondered which part of the brain stored names. His anatomical knowledge of such matters was meager. He discounted the amygdala – maybe the parietal? Temporal? Was temporal even a brain region?

No, I just wanted to…say hi. See how things are going.

Your manager, Kate. Kate sent you. With the hope you might put a stop to this. But you can't remember my name. So sit down. She commanded, but pleasantly, and so Jon sat. This absolution, it felt better than trying to remember her name. Jon had contemplated over the years why people's names were so hard for him, and why some names stayed and other names, names of people he knew for years, he just could not store and retrieve.

It's because, Jon, it's just not that important to you. His shrink-friend-lover Danielle told him once when they were lying in post-coital contemplation. He confessed more things to her while they were lovers than while he'd been a patient.

But I like people. I feel bad when I don't remember names.

But you don't take the time, invest the energy. You don't front-load the relationship, learning the name, putting it to memory, practicing saying the name after you've been told.

Have you noticed you tend to start a reply with the exact word of the statement to which you’re responding?

"Have you noticed you tend to jump ship on conversations that no longer interest you, even when you’re the one who brought up the