Emergence: the Tale of Newton Nesbitt

By Frances E. Pope

Emergence is a natural wonder of butterflies. In this minimalist novel strands of life weave daily impressions, resurrection, and hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664123533

Frances E. Pope

Throughout public school education in Connellsville, Pa and Delaware, Ohio, author Fran Pope developed a passion for literature and writing from an early age. She graduated from The Ohio State University with a B.A. in English Literature and pursued further studies in Library Science and English at The University of Michigan, studying the works of James Joyce at both schools. She is a violinist with two community orchestras and founder/CEO of the non-profit Winn Academy of Music, www.winnmusic.org She makes her home with her husband, four cats, fish, a bird, and a confused Labrador retriever in the Pacific Northwest.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

His unfocused reflection looks like an old man. His brown corduroy trousers, green Irish cable vest over a neatly pressed cream shirt are frankly tired and worn. But then the bookstore windows are grimy as usual by the end of the day. That must be it. The oily slick from the diesel busses combined with the dust shuffled by hundreds of feet passing, form an opaque coating. This is accented here and there by the occasional fingerprint or nose smudge of some bibliophile scanning the contents of the window display before moving on.

Being the owner of a used bookshop in a university town is a coal to Newcastle problem for Newton Nesbitt. The students have more than enough reading material from standard new texts. Older literati have already read most of his stock of recycled Modern Library Classics. Avant garde philosophy has long since been overtaken by the latest spiritual fad. He rejects outright the pop psychology that appears at regular intervals in the donation bins by the door. Those he recycles. His is a respectable shop. Though quiet and reserved he wants to offer his customers quality. He treasures each volume as a friend, like someone he has conversed with years ago and who still lingers fondly in a few remembered phrases. He is not possessive like some book store owners- his last employer for instance. Silas Jones never met a book he didn’t covet. He was obsessed with them, setting prices at outrageous levels so either they wouldn’t sell or he could be well assured the tome was going to be well cared for in an upscale home. It never occurred to Silas that those paying top dollar were actually interior decorators with an expense account for whom a wall lined with apparently well read leather bound classics was merely décor to give their clients a savoir faire much cheaper than knock offs of hastily copied original paintings.

No, Newton Nesbitt loves sending books out on new voyages. Whenever a customer enters the store Newton comes to full alert. He approaches and asks solicitously but tastefully if he can be of assistance. Usually the answer is no or nah or once in a while a polite, No thank you. But left alone to browse the shelves most readers eventually pose a question or two. Does he have such and such a book? Newton is immediately in his prime for he knows his associates by heart and can immediately let a client know the exact location, edition and price of the copy.

The fading softness of the October sun dimly brushes the display windows. The weak rays highlight the floating dust particles etching grayish lines across the room striking here and there on fading gold titled leather spines.

Newton passes through the book stacks spray bottle in one hand, paper towels in the other. Outside, he mists the window swaying in praise like motions in the evening light to the rhythm of a curiously squeaky phos hileron. The ablutions culminate as he kneels there in the dirt to wash away the very last mote of dust.

They come upon him suddenly-one timid, the other brash. With a single blow they tip his shoulder and send him tumbling to the pavement. The first boy is hesitant, almost sorry, wanting to help. At some level the teen is appalled deep within some long ago place in time where his childhood hid. Confused, he remembers a phrase, How would you like it if… in his mother’s nagging voice.

Flashing forward to middle school he once again feels the slam of his body into the locker bay, hears his best shirt rip amid echoes of mocking laughter. He hears it again while he stands speechless beside his comrade.

Dude this is what it’s all about, man. Nerd tipping is part of the initiation. You want to be a Delt don’t ya? Look at him, man. He’s helpless as a baby down there aren’t ya? Huh!!!

He makes a fist and shoves it into Newton’s face, his beer breath steaming Newton’s glasses.

Ok. Let’s go before somebody calls the fuzz, the bully croaks in poor imitation of a Hollywood B movie tough guy.

As they swagger away the aggressive one turns on his heel and points a cocked finger back at Newton. The shyer, younger one turns and silently mouths, Sorry’.

An older gentleman carrying an oversized black umbrella uses it as a prop to help Newton to his feet.

Shocking! Utterly shocking! Are you all right? There was no need. No reason! he sputters.

Exactly, Newton brushes himself. Probably some frat prank for hell week. I recognized the bigger one. Last year he was the one who was sorry. Next year it will be the timid one. They come here and they change. They’re all pathetic, really. I guess they are looking for acceptance, perhaps worth. I don’t know what. Sad to say they only think they can be accepted into their society by bullying any victim they come across. Where’s education in that? I ask myself.

The older gentleman escorts Newton back into his shop. Then he buys a small book of poetry and a bookmark as much to comfort the owner as for something to actually read, and departs.

Newton feels suddenly weary. His pleasant afternoon ritual has been desecrated; his ablutions violated. His shirt is now gritty from the street, his peace shattered with anger, shock and fear. His mind sorts through the scene. Was he hurt? Not really. Upset? Yes. Is it bad enough to call the police and give a report? No. But he will close up early. He is angry that the energy he usually reserves for just tidying up, closing the shop, is now filled with a re-run of the attack to put it in perspective. He closes the door harder than usual and locks it carefully. The shop is empty and dark except for what light the late afternoon sun provides on the nestled books. Bengal the ginger cat emerges from under the counter to take his place on the window sill and stretch out in the last rays of the sun.

Newton starts walking down University Avenue toward home, head bent and shoulders hunched against the sudden chill as the sun sets. It is not a long walk-five or six blocks-and he enjoys the transition from shop to home. The last seconds of the fading sun warms like a balm on his face bringing forth a contented sigh.

He passes tattoo parlors with their jumbled offerings of satanic art, coiling snakes, or delicate roses superimposed with Mom or Mary or Joe. Competing bars blast hard rock or heavy metal music from the hazy doorways. The shops reek of the sour smell of beer and the occasional whiff of pot.

Ethnic restaurants from Mongolian to Brazilian have a few early diners already enjoying their meal or chatting together as they wait to order.

Newton is tempted by these olfactory delights but it is too early to eat and he has left-over’s at home. Perhaps on Saturday he will treat himself to carry out.

At Ravenna the tacky University District shops end. Newton always takes a moment while waiting to cross the street to breathe the transition in. Away from the spiked orange hair, bullet-belted multi-pierced or just vacant looking people of The Ave, here children play joyfully on the playground, parents chat together or push a child on the swing. Squirrels scold and leap through the giant sycamore centurions of the park.

Down the path beneath the Romanesque bridge rumbling with heavy commuter traffic Newton descends into that evening’s damp coolness that daily bathes him with its gentleness washing away the petty aggravations so much a part of business.

His house is just on the other side of the park. Built in the 1940’s as an inexpensive home for small families, in today’s real estate market it would be euphemistically referred to as a cottage. Newton unlatches the aluminum gate with the initial H on it. He’s never seen a need to change it from the previous owners, the Howe’s, as he felt it could just as easily stand for here or home or his. The concrete sidewalk leads straight to the three cement steps not wandering as modern suburban entries do. The house, too is straight forward with its craftsman windows trimmed in red, gray cedar siding, a small front porch, aluminum storm door with the letter H protecting the red painted Douglas fir inner door. The house is square and efficient with a dark brown shingled roof. The brick chimney with its repeating diamond pattern is one of the few distinguishing features that are common to this neighborhood of working class homes. A single large dormer window is the only indication of a second story.

The house smells of damp as Newton enters so he edges the thermostat a degree or two from 58 F to take the chill off.

Raggs, his terrier, looks sheepishly at him from the recliner and slips to the floor before making a great show of greeting.

You don’t fool me for one minute you bad dog, says Newton tenderly.

Come on boy. You’ve had a hard day minding the house, haven’t you?

Grabbing a new plastic doo bag from the counter Newton puts Raggs on the leash and heads out the back door. Unlike the trim front yard, Newton’s back garden is an abundant delight of autumn color. Raised beds of cabbage, squash, late peas, tiny tomatoes and pole beans, roses, perennials, annuals and vines of every description fill the garden.

Jasmine perfumes the air during the warm summer nights. The passion vine startles the eye with its dramatic three dimensional symbol of crucifixion. Now chrysanthemums and the last of the lavender fill the air with tangy scent as Raggs brushes by.

Newton’s brick walkway is one of his delights. A house was razed one street over and he collected bricks until he had enough for his path. On week-ends, since the house was across the alleyway he just shuttled a wheel barrow back and forth. No one seemed to mind or miss them. He spent many hours making the herringbone patterned walk with a compass rose of smaller brick pieces of various colors in the center.

The years have filled the pores of the bricks with moss. That satisfies Newton. The bricks and the path now are living parts of the garden linked there amid the floral beds. His back fence is covered with rambling roses. Now in autumn only a few hardy buds linger among the single orange rose hips to remind him of the glorious cascades of summer that dazzled the eye by day and filled the warm nights of summer with sensuous perfume. He often left his bedroom window open or slept on the tiny second floor balcony he’d added to the rear dormer. He’d drift off to sleep while smelling those garden fragrances and watching the stars, hoping for a meteor or two.

Newton opens the back cedar gate letting Raggs entwine the leather lead around his ankle. Shaking free he asks Raggs to walk on and they turn left down the alley. Like most alleys in urban residential areas this one is filled with surprises. Free of pretenses so incumbent upon the more socially aware regarding their public facing impression of home ownership, the alleys give lively views of a quite different sort. In fact a cross section of neighborhood reveals the curious way pretenses often start at the traffic stop and gradually give way to utter loneliness and despair by the time they reach the trash bins at the back. Newton notices that the showier the front garden, the more unstable the back. In his case the respectable plain street entry view of his home is quiet and unassuming, but the back private garden gives way to a wildly creative impressionistic tribute to nature’s abundant, passionate fertility.

Newton understands no matter how many times he and Raggs walk the alley it is freshly changed. Small puddles here and there reflect the sky scene with upside down images of tree branches-gold in autumn, inky black in winter with brown-tinged clouds. Suddenly these are gone in the chaotic ripples of Ragg’s lapping tongue.

The evenings before trash day are the most revealing. The Wainwrights with their six children always overflow two or three large garbage cans. The recycle bins full of carefully rinsed baby food jars, soda cans and canary yellow school alerts nest nearby.

Next is Norman’s bin; A mini bin with cigarette cartons, coffee grounds, TV dinner wrappings and beer cans. Newton doesn’t know Norman well beyond the neighborly wave. He thinks Norman is divorced with a daughter on the Big Island who visits at Christmas. Norman was an engineer of some kind at Boeing for many years. Then after the divorce he had to downsize from his home on Mercer Island. Now he is seldom seen except for mowing the grass occasionally out front. The back yard has become filled with opportunistic weeds.

A fresh breeze off Puget Sound brings the presence of sea salt and kelp to the evening. Newton and Raggs pass Mrs. Bingham’s tidy gate. She is just putting out her tiny can filled with kitty litter and cat food tins, an empty bottle of Christian Brothers Cream Sherry and some lovingly discarded rental receipts kept these twenty five years. Her faded burgundy Daniel Green slippers are worn through from bunions and her chintz wrap gapes a bit as she bends over. Rising up too quickly she notices Newton’s approach and totters dizzily. Newton rushes to catch her arm to steady her. Flushed with embarrassment and annoyed at being caught outside in less than civil dress the widow Bingham scolds Newton.

You gave me such a fright creeping up on me like that. Dear me! Next you’ll be noticing the sherry bottle and think me tipsy. Young man I’ll have you know I’ve had that bottle nearly a year and only take a bit in the afternoons with my dear friend Millicent-that’s Millie-you know her-used to be a secretary for the photographer on 12th-can’t remember the name at the moment, but we do enjoy a glass to toast our late husbands-Anyway I can’t stand here in the night air. I’ll catch my death and mind you pick up after that animal.

As she turns toward her back gate Newton notices that her cotton wrap is stuck in her underwear, raising the hem half above her spider veined thighs bisected at the knee with roll-gartered baggy stockings.

Compassionately biting his lip to keep from laughing aloud he tugs at Ragg’s leash and strolls on to the corner where the Dead Head/Nirvana occupied student rental pulses its primitive drum beat behind the purple door enough to wave the backwards hung American flag covering the window.

Newton shakes his head at the scene. Beer cans fill the recycle bin. At least they’re doing that part, he thinks. A whiff of marijuana curls from the upper dormer window.

A lanky sleeveless T-shirt hangs over the railing by the back door. Its twin