Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [91]
Right now the absolute darkness of a rural night without moon or stars greets me, along with the feeling that something is amiss. Much of my professional life has seen me catching short, unsatisfying naps in foreign and uncomfortable places: in a Bedouin tent, or sharing a campfire with Cree tribesmen, or wedged between two large men in a Chevy El Camino while a surprise snowstorm blankets the Chechen Mountains. So it’s possible that my senses are a bit more focused than those of people used to the same bed in a familiar room. I lie still for a while but don’t hear anything beyond the noise of the wind running alongside the house. The clock on the nightstand shows 1:29 a.m. in large red numbers. I take a few deep breaths in an effort to slow my heart rate, which is engaged in a befuddled fight-or-flight response.
I consider trying to fall back to sleep, yet I know myself well enough to realize that, warranted or not, I’ve been startled from a dreamless slumber and will end up tossing and turning for some time. When insomnia strikes me back home, I spend an hour or two with a drink and a book until I feel my bed calling me back. I guess it’s fortunate, then, that Jim has both a well-stocked liquor cabinet and a library.
Jim’s library is larger than mine but small compared to those of many academics. It takes an exceptional book to wind up in his collection. His tastes mirror mine, and as I peruse the book titles, I find myself becoming jealous. My fingers pass over the leather bindings of valuable first editions from renowned poets and essayists, storytellers and historians.
His liquor cabinet is stocked with equal care, holding a mix of imported and domestic spirits. I select an aged bourbon with a Melbourne imprint. Filling a tumbler with the dark liquid, I take a sip and allow the burn to coast down my throat.
Another bookcase stands to the right of the liquor cabinet and I give the nestled tomes a once-over, looking to find something that will both earn my interest and propel me back to drowsiness. As I scan the shelves, I almost miss it. With a smile I pull the book from its shelf and turn it to see the front cover. Story as a Conveyance of Culture in Mezzo-America. I almost laugh, because I’m torn between competing thoughts. The first is that I’m honored that my favorite professor has included my work in his collection. The second is to recall that the book isn’t very good, nor does it deserve a place here among such prestigious company.
I flip the book over to see the back cover and the head shot. It’s not a flattering photo. I shake my head and slide it back into its slot on the shelf. Next, I select a book about the Industrial Revolution and then settle into a comfortable chair by the inactive fireplace. I’m three sips and two pages into the book when I hear a sound—a single thud, muffled by distance and the closed library door. I lower the book and listen; the house has settled again into silence. Had I not woken up edgy, I might let the mystery pass by without rising from my chair, but the feeling I had earlier has now returned.
I set the book and the drink down on the carpet, stand up and cross to the door. I’m about to open it when I decide to flip off the light, plunging the library into darkness. I crack the door enough so I can see out, through the living room and into the hall beyond. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but it’s not long before I can make out shapes, indistinct and gray. Beyond that, all I register is silence.
Then, before I can take another step, I hear sounds that seem to come