The Big One

Puzzled, Henry looked up from his spreadsheet to see what the noise was. It sounded like a big truck going by or a jet engine right overhead. But as soon as he noticed it, he felt a massive jolt, and another. The old bookstore shuddered and shook like a dog coming out of a pond. As he dove under the counter, bookshelves creaked and tipped, sending thousands of volumes to the floor, making another kind of roar. The power flickered and went out. Then, for a moment, everything was so quiet, Henry felt like his head was muffled in cotton. He could actually hear his heart pounding as he cautiously kicked a pile of books aside so he could emerge from his shelter. 

He was feeling great urgency, even panic, but he was so stunned it took him a moment to remember why. Then “Sarah!” he screamed, picking his way across the littered floor to where he had last seen her. The whole area was now completely covered with a waist-high pile of books and shattered bookshelves, some splintered and some leaning precariously on the metal rolling ladder she had just pulled into place so she could reach a shelf eight feet up.

Books shifted. The ceiling creaked, and when he looked up, Henry could see part of the roof was off kilter, exposing a hole where he could see the sky. The brownish gray dust rose slowly from the books that had crashed to the floor. Everything was monochrome, the color of dust, so it took Henry a moment to notice the hand sticking out from under the pile, coated in dust and unmoving. He suddenly realized he had been screaming “Sarah!” over and over again, and closed his mouth. As he did, the fingers moved, just a little. He slid his hand over hers, clasped it gently. There was a pulse. She was alive.

“Sarah! Are you okay?” She said something unintelligible and the pile shifted. “Don’t move! Are you okay?”

He could hear her take a deep breath. “Yes, I think I’m okay. I’m under the ladder.” He felt her pull her arm back and the hand disappeared.

“Did you hit your head?”

“I don’t think so.”

Judging the most direct line in, Henry carefully started moving books, first on the floor, and then, gingerly, he tackled the mound itself. Every time he moved a book, several other volumes slid, and he could hear books settling underneath as well. He kept asking her if she was okay, and her voice got a little stronger every minute.

“I don’t have any books on top of me,” said Sarah. I got under the ladder in time. But they’re all around me, I can’t really move.”

“Don’t try, please. I’ve got you. It’s just going to take a minute.” Moment by agonizing moment, forcing himself to move slowly and deliberately, Henry excavated one side of the ladder, and raked out the books still trapping Sarah. He gingerly pulled her out, and to her feet, and then they were in each others’ arms, somehow shaking in shock and basking in the embrace at the same time. It was their first kiss.

Three Months Earlier, Before the Earthquake

Henry locked the door behind him, leaving the “Closed” sign in place. He stood silent for a few minutes in the dim light, looking around at the old bookstore. “What a mess you’ve left me, Grandpa,” he said out loud. He was going to have to figure out what to do about this place, and all he knew was that he wanted it to happen quickly.

He’d loved working here summers when he was in college, but today he saw nothing but potential problems and dangerous liabilities. He couldn’t even begin to estimate the number of used books in the room, tens of thousands, he supposed. They filled the tightly spaced bookshelves and overflowed onto crates and piles on the floor. The sagging shelves on the sides were nine feet tall, accessible by tall metal rolling ladders. There was an alcove in the back marked “Poetry,” partially obscured by a grand but dusty drape. 

How do you sell the contents of a used bookstore, he wondered. Though he doubted it, maybe there was some kind of catalog or at least a list. He knew there were probably some valuable items mixed among the tons of dusty books here, but he didn’t have any idea where to start. Probably he should just pay someone else to do it. With a sigh, he flipped on the light switch, making the decrepit building and worn books seem even sadder.

Almost immediately, Henry heard a rap at the window. He turned to see a young woman whose face registered equal parts of friendliness and concern. He opened the door a crack and said, “I’m sorry, we’re closed…”

She interrupted. “Is Franklin okay? I was worried when I saw the store closed for so many days.”

“Oh,” said Henry. “Come in. I’m so sorry to have to tell you. Franklin died last Thursday. He was my grandfather.”

She seemed shocked. “Died? Franklin is dead? Oh, no, no, what happened?”

“He had a bad heart attack. Died at the hospital. He was 84.” Her face began to crumple. “Are you a friend of his? Come, sit. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

Her voice was tight as she answered. “Yes, we were friends. I’m Sarah.” And she began to sob. 

Later, she was able to explain that Franklin was her first friend in the neighborhood, that she’d moved here a few months back and had come into the shop looking for poetry, and “just stayed,” she said. She talked about how she and Franklin sometimes sat in the poetry alcove and took turns reading their favorite poems to each other, and how much that had meant to her. “I don’t have any family at all anymore,” she said through her tears. “And meeting Franklin was like finding a grandfather.”

They talked for an hour. She knew where to find the tea things, and made them a pot to share. It turned out that she’d been spending time in the store a couple days a week for months. As far as Henry could tell, she’d been doing a lot around the store and helping with the bookkeeping, all as a happily unpaid volunteer.

Gradually, it occurred to Henry that Sarah knew more about the store, and the inventory, and the finances, than anyone. He told her so. “Sarah, would you be willing to help me figure things out so I can sell the store? I’d pay you, of course.”

“Why sell the store?”

“Look around you. I don’t know what to do with all this, and I’m not a shopkeeper anyway. I don’t want to uproot my life to move here and run this place. And I wouldn’t know where to begin, anyway.”

“I’d know where to begin,” she said.

“I’m selling it.”

“Okay. I have some ideas about how to modernize the operation…”

“I’m selling it.”

“Okay. We’ll see. When can I start?”

Two Years Later, After The Earthquake

Henry and Sarah stood across the street from their rebuilt bookstore. A few details and one last inspection tomorrow, and they could move back and start selling books again from the store that they had renamed “Franklin’s Books.”

In the first days after the earthquake, they had been inseparable, and like all new lovers, consumed only with each other. But it didn’t take long for them to start to talk about a future together, and they realized they wanted the bookstore to be part of it. From that moment, they had become a team with a shared purpose. After hiring a crew to temporarily stabilize parts of the building and cover the broken roof with a tarp, they’d put on hard hats themselves, and gone in to stack, crate, and in some cases, rake the books out. They carried them in a rented van to a rented warehouse and spread them out to take stock. They filled three dumpsters with the most damaged of the books, and cleaned and crated the rest, ready for a future incarnation of the store.

They’d pooled their resources and borrowed from their families. They’d arranged for the old building to be demolished, and to be rebuilt with all the quirky charm of the old one, but all the conveniences of the new structure it was. They’d computerized the retail sales part of it, and now all they needed was real customers buying real books.

“What an adorable baby!” said a neighbor as she passed them on the sidewalk. Sarah and Henry turned to beam with pride at their sleeping son in the stroller. 

“He’ll grow up in a bookstore. What could be better?”