Unread Books

Judi didn’t see herself the way the others saw her. The lens from which she looked solely captured the broad brushstrokes. The paint was matted and clumpy on the canvas. Her rare friends, and even her myriad acquaintances, perceived the fine details, the labored nuances. There was an understanding that she was worldly, educated, a beauty who had livened up dance halls, the decks of cruise ships, dive bars, and many quiet libraries. In these waning years, filled with less human interaction, she would be found tucked in a corner, hidden by rows of forgotten books, the ones yearning to be touched and opened. Some days, she would relent, running her fingers along the rigid spines, the musty odor heavy with its intruding. She read for endless hours, soaking up knowledge of Victorian calamities, sci-fi amusements, modern-day misadventures, and horror stories like the original Prometheus monster.

When she tired of flipping the physical pages of the worn and tattered novels, she found a trove of short stories online that captured her attention, tided her spirit over in the hours between dawn and dusk. The days of the calendar fell away with haste, the vibrance of spring giving way to the desultory boredom of summer. She lost herself in images carefully crafted with words, voraciously consuming tales of all genres, lingering in the misspoken truths and half-dilemmas.

One morning that was brisker than June was known to favor, she caught a hurried glimpse of her profile in the stately mirror that hung ostentatiously in the foyer of the grand library. She winced at the sight of the person she no longer knew. It was a blur of grey, and wrinkles and a body softening that caused her to recoil at the reflection. Time had been unkind in its brevity. She wanted to recapture something lost, or at least make peace with the here and now.

Finding her dark corner of the library, she sat stiffly, thinking of the preceding images that had vanished, youthful decades lost to memory. As she started to read, she took note of the odd synchronicities, the shared experiences that are binding. She lost and found her courage in the collective understanding. There is a need to document the repetitive cycles of life – new love, familial betrayal, fears that lurk in darkness, stories of mirth, awakenings, unfair deaths and discovery. She toyed with the last idea, wondering if she would be afforded time and circumstance for a continual unearthing of living.

“What is that you’re reading?”

Startled, she looked upward, eyebrows raised, to find a younger gentleman leaning in to read the title of the book.

“Oh, it’s Dostoyevsky. Crime and Punishment. Surely, you’ve read it.” Her voice halted in the statement of fact.

“Trying to remember” he replied as he settled into the open space next to her, cajoling her to share the plausible details. “Tell me about it.”

She liked the looks of him, a freshness reserved in its guardedness and abandon, his eyes full of wonder and reproof. She felt like she knew him or had known him. There was an eagerness in the acceptance.

Tapping her fingers lightly on the table, she let the awkwardness give way to comfort. It was a gentleness that she eased into, a calculated bartering. She might have something to offer and to receive in return.

“To be honest, it’s about this misled bloke who thinks it’s somehow justified and warranted to knock off a miserly old lady because she’s a tad cruel and impatient, along the lines of doing something for the greater good.”

“Ahhh,” he twisted the thought around in his mind, letting it form and take hold.

‘But of course, it’s a spiral to nowhere. He ends up killing the old woman and a girl who he wasn’t anticipating being present. It’s a sordid mess that leads to paranoia, second-guessing, a self-induced illness. It rots him from the inside, swallows him up wholly until he’s resigned to ask for forgiveness.”

She looked at him direct, the silence sitting between them. She thought of her unattended betrayals when her bluntness was all-consuming. It wasn’t intended; she needed someone to understand.

“It doesn’t sound like a light read,” he attempted to laugh it off, but his footing got caught in the curiosity. Taking off his ball cap, he ran his fingers through his dark hair; studying her in the moment. “Do you think he was remiss?”

She in kind laughed a retort, “It’s never recommended, taking people for granted. Actions will themselves out. Individuals have to live with stored consequences, the cumulative hurt. Most people aren’t willing to see past it.”

“I can see it clearly. He was tirelessly wrong. In betraying her, he betrayed himself, and there could never be any peace in that equation. Was he forgiven?” he asked it with a searching, seeking to know if things could be righted.

She looked askance and then back at him. She felt the need to be meticulous with her words, to ensure the weightiness of the outcome was borne and recognized.

“He suffered. He was punished, but in the end he found redemption. It was love – that transient of all emotions that delivered him from his own vices,” her gaze fell on his countenance. She watched him, sensing a kindred connection.

In that moment, she represented and projected everything that she was and still had the potential of being – intelligent, charming, beautiful, glib, open, strong, giving, funny, and kind. Her sum of wisdom was more than the mirror out front could hold. It was even more than the books could portend. There was a candor unspoken between them that they both clung to, that moment you meet the person you’ve been waiting to find again.

“I didn’t catch your name,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Gary. It’s nice to meet you,” he said it with deference and meaning, reaching for her touch.

She proffered, “I’m Judi,” hesitating she continued, “Let’s go grab a coffee across the street.” 

They both looked at their watches, noticing it was past the normal coffee-drinking hours.

“Oh what the hell, come have a whiskey with me,” her face broke into a smile that she had held in reserve, waiting for the perfect opportunity to render it useful.

“There’s no arguing that one,” he smiled with a warmth and understanding, knowing that there were greater things than fiction. 

He let the words escape his lips, “Life is meant to be lived now. Let’s hope Raskolnikov figured that out.”

She gave him a look with an abrupt turn of her head, only to be met with a wink.