The Bookseller

I thought up the original story idea for this many years ago. It’s been a long time coming, and I’ve probably been putting it off. But I hope you enjoy this version of it. We’ll see if we come back to it another day, but for now… Read on.

                I had known Mr. Sanford all my life. Growing up, his bookstore was two blocks over and three buildings down – Cross Street Books. Every morning, as I waited for the school bus, I would wave as he biked by. Rain, snow or shine, he would make his way from his apartment, about a mile up the road, down to his bookstore. Sometimes, he’d walk beside his bike, a smile playing on his lips.

                Mr. Sanford was never what I would call a cheery person, but he was normally good humored. His smiles were distinct. At times, they were bright and effervescent. Sometimes, they were wistful, as if he was longing to be young again. Occasionally, they were forced. We did not stay in the shop long on those days.

                He was, however, a quiet man, who puttered around his shop, pricing and putting books on the shelf with nary a sound. He would say very little, and yet as you left, you would somehow leave with the perfect recommendation. Many times, he gave us books that helped us grapple with the complex emotions of growing up. It wasn’t until much later, during my college years, that I even registered what he had done.

                He heard a lot, whether standing just outside of a group or as one of us poured out our heart and soul to his trustworthy ears. But he said very little, with only the occasional nod or sound of affirmation to keep us going. His eyes, kind and comforting, reminded us that we were always welcome in his shop.

                No one knew where Mr. Sanford came from. Unlike other stores, he didn’t have a large celebratory opening. It just happened that one day, the vacant store between Johnson & Son’s law office and the grocer was lit, a quiet man tending to the books inside. Over the months and years to follow, his business and following grew, until he was the best known place for books in town, rivaled only by the public library.

                As far as my parents could recollect, he had no connection to the town, and whenever asked about his past, he would wave it off and say, “There are better stories in my books.”

                The more fanciful children, myself included, believed Mr. Sanford to be a wizard or fairy. Perhaps, one or two of us decided, he was Santa Claus himself, come to retire in our small town.

                Life, the inexorable force, moved and changed. The trees grew leaves and dropped them. Grades were passed. Mr. Sanford’s bike was replaced with one of a similar build, but different color. Friends came and went. The bus I took changed, as did the school it brought me to. I stopped waving while waiting. But nevertheless, Mr. Sanford would come riding by every morning.

                The years went, as did I. After high school, I moved to college, deciding I was done with my hometown forever. My hometown, however, was not finished with me.

                I had been out of college for four years, and married for nearly as long. Our first daughter was rapidly approaching three. I was settled, far away from the house I had grown up in. Then, out of the blue, I was offered a job in management at the factory my father worked at.

                The decision didn’t take long. For about two months, we played go-between moving everything out of our old house as I hunted for a new one and rented an apartment while managing my dad’s department. Finally, in November, we closed on a beautiful ranch a few streets over from my old house and moved in.

                Thanksgiving was hosted in our house on a foldout table. My mother played with her granddaughter while my dad and I worked around the kitchen. He complained about his boss, and I complained about my employee. Meanwhile, my wife said she was thankful for the break.

                As we ate, I happened to notice a familiar figure ride by on a bike. “Was that Mr. Sanford?” I asked. “I didn’t realize he was still around.”

                “Still around and still kicking,” my dad said. “He still rides by every morning, just like he did.”

                My wife asked who Mr. Sanford was, and between my parents and I, we explained about his bookstore and its place in our hearts. Then we returned to our meal, and all thoughts of the bookseller were left behind.

                As November turned to December, the weather turned to snow and sleet. Many times, driving home from work, I’d pass the bookstore and see the bike parked just inside of the building. One night, when the sky looked particularly bad, I passed right as Mr. Sanford was leaving for the night. I slowed, rolling down my window. “Evening, Mr. Sanford! Can I give you a lift home?”

                Mr. Sanford raised a hand in thanks, but shook his head. “I’m all right, son. I appreciate the offer.”

                I pulled away, watching in my rearview as he climbed on his bike and started home. The next morning, he was back in the shop again, disregarding the three inches that had dropped during the night.

                The intersection of our paths at his departure from the store grew more frequent. I didn’t always offer a ride, but when I did, he would always wave me off with one of his distinctive smiles – occasionally one of the forced variety, but never with a frown. Likewise, I would always watch in my rearview as he started his ride.

                Then, the next morning, he would be back to the shop, same as always, setting up a new Christmas decoration in the front window and boiling water for cocoa.

                It was the week of Christmas when I offered him a ride next. The snow was thick, and the temperature danced the freezing line just enough to create a thin layer of slush and ice throughout the town. But Mr. Sanford raised a hand and shook his head. “I’ll be okay, young man. Thank you, though.”

                This time, I pressed. “Please. I hardly feel comfortable letting someone drive in this weather, let alone ride a bike. It’s just a mile up the road, it’s no bother at all.”

                “I really would rather not,” the bookseller said, getting on his bike. He almost sounded like he was going to say more, but instead, he put his foot on the pedal.

                I opened my mouth, but there was no argument I could find as he began to bike up the sidewalk. The thick front tire flashed through the slush, spitting it to either side. I sighed, resignedly expectant that he would get home and be back in the shop with the morning light.

                As I pulled away from the curb, I could see around the corner of the block. I saw the car coming, and the exact moment it started fishtailing. Mr. Sanford must have seen it nearly the exact same time, and slammed on his brakes. In the mess of the weather, though, neither one stopped before they had hit each other.

                What exactly hit where I could be sure, but before I knew it, Mr. Sanford was lying in the snow and muck, his bike’s tire twisted and unusable. I slammed the car back into park, hitting my hazards as I jumped out. The driver of the other car was likewise out, reaching to help.

                I arrived as Mr. Sanford was helped up. He was shaken, wet and cold, blinking his eyes. His smile was gone, replaced with a terrifying scowl. “Who do you think you are, driving tonight?” he shouted at the driver.

                They apologized over and over, but Mr. Sanford would hear none of it. He lifted his bike, his dark expression turning to his broken wheel. “Merry Christmas, I guess,” he said angrily, throwing it away.

                “Mr. Sanford, are you okay?” I asked, not wanting to be cloistering, but needing to make sure.

                “I’m fine,” he said, brushing snow and dampness off his sleeves and out of his hair. He closed his eyes, making a face of disgust. “I guess I did hit my head on my way down.”

                “I think you should get check out,” I said, and surprisingly, he agreed.

                The other driver was already on the phone with the emergency responders, but I could see that Mr. Sanford was shivering. “Tell you what,” I said. “Let’s wait in your shop. It’ll be warmer, and I can have my wife bring a change of clothes so you can dry out.”

                Mr. Sanford nodded. His anger had faded, and now looked as miserable as I’m sure he felt. I called my wife and had her bring the warmest things she could find. I turned on the water to heat up and sat him down as I went and moved my car.

                The next hour was a blur as police reports were taken, and EMT’s checked him out. “It’s possible there’s a concussion,” the medical professional said. “But a very mild one. We can let you go home, but we’d prefer there’s someone else in the house. Can your son be there?”

                Mr. Sanford sighed weakly. “He’s not my son,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips sadly.

                “I can bring him home, though,” I said, looking at Mr. Sanford for his approval. “We have a guest bedroom, and you can stay there for the night, if you’d like.”

                He lifted a hand wearily, but didn’t protest. It was good enough for the EMT, who clearly had already had a long shift before us. With a tired smile, they explained my responsibility, and told Mr. Sanford to make sure to make an appointment with his primary doctor soon. “Falls might seem small, but can be precursors of something more serious,” the EMT explained. “Especially at your age.”

                “I didn’t fall,” Mr. Sanford said, his scowl returning. “I was hit.”

                Shortly thereafter, we were on our way back home. Mr. Sanford sat silent in my passenger seat, clutching the bundle of his wet clothes to his chest. After stopping at his apartment to pack a bag for the night, we arrived at our house. He was still shaking, but whether from the cold or his nerves, I couldn’t tell.

                I left him in the living room as I checked on my wife and daughter. They had finished dinner and were cleaning up, my daughter on her way to bed. My wife gave me a smile and told me to go back to our guest, so I made a plate and returned to the living room.

                “Thank you,” Mr. Sanford said, taking the plate and adjusting how he was sitting. The glow of the Christmas tree next to him lit him up in multi-hues. We sat in silence as we ate, the only noises the clinking of silverware against our plates and the sound of my wife singing to our daughter.

                “I didn’t think I could get in a car again,” Mr. Sanford said.

                I lifted my head, giving him a trustworthy look. There were tears in his eyes and a hitch in his breath. My expression changed. Without realizing it, I was looking at him with care and kindness. “It was 27 years ago. We were out a Christmas party, and things got out of hand.” He took a long breath, bordering on crying. “I shouldn’t have driven home. None of us should have. But I did. I woke up, but she didn’t.” Tears were running down his cheeks as he gripped the plate and fork, trying to squeeze the life out of their inanimate forms. “I couldn’t get in a car again. I walked. I rode my bike. Trains, buses if it were short distances. But never a car. For 27 years.” He held back a sob, but pressed through. “Thank you for helping me tonight. I never had the chance to have a son, but you’re the kind of man I’d like him to be.”

                I told him that I was happy to help, and that I was sure he would have raised a great son. But, in reality, even though I spoke, I said nothing. I merely was there to allow Mr. Sanford to finally tell his own story.  

                We became close after that. When springtime came again, I bought bikes for all my family and we would ride with Mr. Sanford through the city. Occasionally, he’d close up the shop on a weekend and we’d take a ride out of the city, down the old dirt trails.

                Mr. Sanford was never really comfortable with cars, though he would accept the occasional lift if necessary. As he got older, we helped install an apartment into the back of the store, so he didn’t have to leave.

                “My food on one side, my last will and testament on the other,” he would laugh.

                During those years, my wife and my daughter got part-time jobs at Cross Street Books. It became my wife’s pride and joy, and before long, we realized that both she and Mr. Sanford were hoping that she’d take it over.

                He got to see it, before he passed on. The bright new sign glistening, the fresh wood flooring and updated bookshelves filled with the perfect blend of classics and the current popular selections.

                Sanford’s Stories, it read. It’s kept the name for these past years. My wife runs it, mostly, but I help out occasionally. I guess you probably figured that out, though, what with me being here and all.

                The sign draws you in, doesn’t it? Makes you wonder what might be behind the doors?

                That’s the wrong question. The real question is what lies within pages? And more than that, what’s there, hidden in your mind, that needs to be shared with the world?

                Ah, well. I’ve prattled on long enough with my story about this old store. Here, take some tea and a seat, and tell me about yourself. Or feel free to browse. Just know that I’m here to listen, and that you’re always welcome here in Sanford’s Stories.