Chapter 24: What the Ledger Says

"Then what are you here for?" I said.

He didn't answer.

The last customer left at nine.

June went out with her coat half on, saying she had somewhere to be that did not exist.

The bell jingled shut behind her.

That left a lit store, a counter, and a man who had bought four screws.

"Wait there," I said.

I went to the back and came out with the ledger.

It was the old one, the small black notebook with the rubber band, and it was nearly full.

"You've read it," I said.

"Once. In the car. I should not have."

"You should not have."

"I am sorry."

"Good. Now read the last page."

I opened it on the counter and turned it toward him.

The last page was not dated like the others.

It had one line, in my round, fast hand, in pencil that had been rubbed over so many times it shone.

Month six. C.R. held the door in the rain and did not look at me. Felt something. Filed under: do not touch.

He read it twice.

I watched his throat move.

"Month six," he said.

"It was the Aldine. You held the door and didn't look at me."

"I thought you didn't look because you were afraid you'd stand there all night."

"I was."

"I know that now. I didn't then."

"And you wrote it down."

"I wrote it down and put a lid on it," I said.

I took the notebook back and held it against my chest.

"Because I know what wanting does."

"Tell me."

He had never said that to me before, and he said it very quietly.

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