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Home for the Haunting(21)

By:Juliet Blackwell


“Anyway,” I said to change the subject, “until we can get back in to finish up, I was going to offer to take down the plastic sheeting over your bookshelves.”

The entire living room was full of bookshelves, all loaded with two rows of books, one in front of the other. It made it hard to see all the titles, but I did the same in my room at home. Too many books, not enough time. I remembered when I first met Monty, he told me, “One of the great things about being at home is I get to do my reading. It’s hard to make the time when you’re working and all.” He made my heart break with how game he was being about his sad lot in life.

“I already took ’em down. I asked one of the volunteers to help me before they left.”

“Oh, good. Anything else you need before I go?” I asked, feeling awkward.

Monty really seemed like he wanted to chat. I had to admit I found him a little annoying, even grasping, but I could only imagine how I would be if I were alone all day, unable to leave my house without help. I was tired and grimy, and a bit off my game after what had just taken place in the shed. But my friends had informed me that three years out of my ugly divorce was plenty of time to heal, and that I no longer received a pass for being in a bad mood. I was trying to be a nicer person.

“You really do have an impressive collection of books,” I said. “Do you have a favorite author?”

“Too many to name. I read a lot of nonfiction, biographies and the like. Right now, I’m reading about the early industrialists, real jerks like Rockefeller and Carnegie. But then, you have to hand it to Carnegie—after making all that money off of exploiting workers and the like, he got afraid of what would happen after he died. He was afraid he’d go to hell.”

“Really?”

He nodded eagerly, rolling over to one section of the shelves and pulling out a thick tome. He handed me the book. “That’s why he started with his philanthropy.”

“I know he funded libraries all over the country,” I said. “You have to like that in a person.”

“Libraries and so much more. A lot of his philanthropic funds are still active today. Whether the money got there through guilt or fear or rivalry, it was still good for society.”

“Rivalry?”

“He and Rockefeller went after each other, each trying to outdo the other with the extent of their philanthropy, just as they’d tried to do in business.”

“I’m guessing the competitive drive was strong in them both. But at least this way they gave away a lot of money, right?”

“Right.”

As I put the book back on the shelf, I wondered how Monty accessed the volumes on the upper shelves. Then it occurred to me that someone with his physical challenges could benefit from recent technological advances. Stan loved using his e-book reader, since it was so lightweight and easy to slip in the pocket hanging from his chair. He never had to reach for a book.

“Monty, have you ever tried electronic books?”

“Nah. I’m old-school. I like to see them on my shelves,” he answered. “Sitting there like old friends. I only keep the ones I love, give the rest away to Friends of the Library.”

For some reason, Monty’s love of books—a passion which I shared—made me feel even worse for entertaining, even momentarily, the horrid thought that he might have been hiding bodies in his crawl space. I really did have to stop watching TV with my dad. I had plenty of murder and mayhem to keep my imagination stoked in real life; no need to add in the greater culture’s obsession with crime.

“I’m really sorry about the work delay, Monty. I know the officer in charge; I’ll call tomorrow and try to get a definite date we can come back and at least finish up the ramp.”

“Don’t sweat it. What I’d really love is the rest of the interior painting and if we could finish putting up those extra bookshelves.”

“I’m sure we can manage that much, at least. I don’t think there would be any harm if I come by for a couple of evenings and finish up the interior stuff—I’ll make a phone call, okay?”

“That would be great.”

I escaped to my car, where Dog whapped his tail maniacally and crooned at me as if to let me know he thought I’d never come back. He did his best to crawl into my lap, which is something I usually discourage—Dog is not a lap-sized canine. But today, I wrapped my arms around the wiggling, hairy brown dog, reveling in one of the simple, normal pleasures in life.

But I couldn’t stop wondering . . . what the heck just happened in that shed?





Chapter Seven




I lay in bed the next morning, hardly believing it was Monday.