“You sure?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer. He just leans across the passenger seat and opens the door. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”
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At sixteen years old, Beecher had no problem darting up the aisles, past the overstuffed shelves that were packed with old paperbacks. The only thing that slowed him down was when he saw who was waiting for him at the register.
He knew her from behind-from just the sight of her long black hair.
He’d know her anywhere.
Clementine.
Ducking underneath the drawbridge counter and sliding to a stop behind the register, Beecher worked hard to keep it cool. “Clementine… Hey.”
“I didn’t know you worked here,” she offered.
“Yeah. I’m Beecher,” he said, pointing to himself.
“I know your name, Beecher.”
“Yeah… no… that’s great,” he replied, praying better words would come. “So you got stuff for us?” he added, motioning to the blue milk crate that she had lugged inside and that now sat by her feet.
“I heard you guys pay fifty cents for old records and CDs.”
“Fifty cents for records. Fifty cents for paperbacks. And a full dollar if it’s a new hardcover-though he’ll pay a lot if you’ve got the ’69 Bee Gees
“I don’t have the Bee Gees,” she said. “I just have these…”
From the milk crate, she pulled out half a dozen copies of the CD with her mom’s photo on it:
Beecher knew the rules. He could buy back anything he wanted-as long as the store didn’t already have too many copies.
Two hours ago, Clementine’s mom came in and told Mr. Farris that her family was moving to Detroit for her singing career and could they please buy back a few dozen of her CDs to raise some much-needed cash. Of course, Mr. Farris obliged. Farris always obliged, which was why the store’s front window still had a crack in it and the air conditioning would never be fixed. So as Beecher looked across the counter at Clementine’s exact same offerings…
“We can definitely use a few extra copies,” he finally said.
“Really? You sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ve listened to them. Your mom’s got a real voice. Like early Dinah Washington, but softer and with better range-and of course without the horrendous drug overdose.”
Clementine couldn’t help but grin. “I know you already bought my mom’s copies-and you’re stuck with those.”
“And we have thirty copies of
Cocking her head, Clementine took a long silent look across the counter. It was the kind of look that came with its own internal calculation. “You’re not a jackass like everyone else.”
“Not true,” Beecher said, motioning to the milk crate. “I’m just buttering you up so I can lowball you on that
Lifting the crate, Clementine dumped and filled the counter with at least twenty other paperbacks, a few hardbacks, and a pile of used CDs including Boyz II Men, Wilson Phillips, and Color Me Badd.
“I also got this…” Clementine said, pulling out a frayed blue leather book with a heavily worn spine, torn soiled pages, and a shredded silk ribbon bookmark. “It’s not in good shape, but… it’s for sure old-1970.”
Tilting his head, Beecher read the gold lettering on the spine.
“My mom hates to read. I think it’s my grandmother’s. Oh, and there’s one other problem… the cover is…” She flipped the leather book over, revealing that it was missing its front cover.
“Y’know the pages still stay together,” Beecher pointed out.
“Huh?”
“The pages…
“That some sorta used bookstore trick?”
“Actually, it’s from my mom. When my dad… when he passed… Reverend Lurie told her that even when one cover gets torn away from a book, as long as the other cover’s there, it’ll still hold the pages together. For me and my sisters… he said my mom was the other cover. And we were the pages.”
Clementine stood there silently, staring down at the old blue leather book.
“He was trying to make an analogy about life,” Beecher pointed out.
“I get it,” Clementine said, still studying the old volume. She was quiet for nearly a minute, resting her left elbow on the counter. Within a decade, that elbow would be covered with deep white scars from an incident she’d never tell the truth about.
“You think this copy could’ve belonged to my dad?” she finally asked.
Beecher shrugged. “Or it can just be a book.”
Clementine looked up and offered another grin at Beecher. Her widest one yet. “Y’know, my mom and I are moving to Detroit.”
“I heard.”
“Still… we should really stay in touch.”
“Yeah. Great. I’d like that,” Beecher said, feeling the excitement tighten his chest-especially as he saw Clementine reach out and slide the leather copy of Marquez’s masterpiece back into her milk crate. “Let me give you my email address,” he said.
“Email?”
“It’s this thing… it’s new and-Actually, it’s stupid. No one’ll use it.” Grabbing one of the small squares of paper that Mr. Farris would make by cutting up used, discarded sheets, Beecher quickly scribbled his mailing address and phone number. Clementine did the same.
As they exchanged sheets, Beecher did a quick tallying of her buybacks and paid out a grand total of thirty- two dollars (rounding up the last fifty cents).
“Make sure you look me up if you ever get to Michigan,” Clementine called out as she headed for the door.
“You do the same when you come back here and visit,” he called back.
And with twin genuine smiles on their faces, Beecher and Clementine waved goodbye, knowing full well they’d never see each other again.
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