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Part 1
Doorways
The Quiet Death of Mr. Webber
In Kellner Books on the Upper East Side of New York City, a few minutes before his death, John Webber was readingThe Count of Monte Cristo.He was sitting at his usual table in the middle of the store with his overcoat folded neatly over the back of his chair and the novel on the table in front of him. He stopped for a moment to take a sip of his coffee, closing the book, and marking his place with a soft leather bookmark.
“How are you doing, Mr. Webber?” Cassie asked, as she made her way through the store with a stack of books under her arm. It was late in the day and Mr. Webber was the only customer.
“Oh, old and tired and falling apart,” he replied, as he always did when Cassie asked how he was. “But otherwise I can’t complain.”
Mr. Webber was a regular face in the bookstore and one of the customers Cassie always made an effort to speak to. He was a gentleman, softly spoken and always neatly dressed in what appeared to be expensive clothes. His age showed in the wrinkled skin of his hands and neck, but not in the smooth skin of his face or his full head of white hair. He was lonely, Cassie knew, but he carried it lightly, never imposing his loneliness on others.
“ReadingThe Count of Monte Cristo,”he confided, nodding at the book. The bookmark stuck out at Cassie like the tongue of a snake. “I’ve read it before, but as I get older, I find comfort in rereading favorites. It’slike spending time with old friends.” He coughed a self-deprecating laugh, signaling to Cassie that he knew he was being silly. “Have you read it?”
“I have,” Cassie said, hitching the pile of books up under her arm. “I read it when I was ten, I think.” She recalled long rainy days one autumn weekend whenThe Count of Monte Cristo,like so many other books, had taken her away.
“I don’t remember being ten,” Mr. Webber murmured with a smile. “I think I was born middle-aged and wearing a suit. What did you think of it when you read it?”
“It’s a classic, of course,” Cassie said. “But the bit in the middle, that whole section in Rome, that was too long. I always wanted to get to the revenge stuff at the end.”
Mr. Webber nodded. “He certainly makes you wait for the payoff.”
“Mmm,” Cassie agreed.
The moment expanded, the silence filled by the soft jazz music playing through the speakers on the wall.
“Have you ever been to Rome?” Mr. Webber asked, rubbing his hands together as if they were cold. Cassie knew that he had been a pianist and a composer before he had retired, and he had the sort of long, delicate fingers that would dance easily across a keyboard.
“Yeah, I’ve been to Rome,” Cassie said. “I don’t remember much about it.” She had spent a week in Rome years earlier when she had traveled around Europe and she remembered it well, but she wanted to let Mr. Webber speak. He was a man full of stories of a life well lived, a man with more tales than people to tell them to.
“I loved Rome,” he said, relaxing back into his chair. “Of all the places I traveled, and I traveled a lot, Rome was one of my favorites. You could walk around and just imagine what it was like five hundred years ago.”
“Mmm,” Cassie murmured again, watching as Mr. Webber’s attention drifted off into his memories. He seemed happy there.
“You know, I stayed in a small hotel near the Trevi Fountain,” he said, suddenly seized by a memory. “And they would bring me coffee in bed every morning, whether I wanted it or not. Sevena.m.sharp. A quick knock and then the old woman who ran the place would marchin, bang it down on the nightstand, and march out again. On my first morning I was standing naked in the middle of the room just contemplating getting dressed, and then she burst in, coffee in hand. She gave me one look, up and down, thoroughly unimpressed by what she saw, and walked back out again.” He laughed at his memory. “She saw me in my... entirety.”
“Oh my god,” Cassie said, laughing with him.
He studied her as she laughed, drawing a conclusion. “I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”
“No,” she lied. “I don’t think so.”
“You indulge me too much, Cassie. I’ve turned into one of those old people who bore youngsters with their stories.”
“A good story is just as good the second time around,” she said.
He shook his head, as if annoyed at himself.
“Do you still travel, Mr. Webber?” Cassie asked, pulling him away from his annoyance.
“Oh, I never go anywhere now,” he said. “Too old and too weak. I doubt I’d survive a long flight.” He clasped his hands over his stomach and stared at the table, lost in that thought.
“That’s a bit morbid,” Cassie said.
“Realistic,” he said, smiling. He looked at her seriously then. “It’s important to be realistic. Life is like a train that just keeps getting faster and faster and the sooner you realize that the better. I am hurtling toward the final stop, I know that. But I’ve lived my life and I’ve got no complaints. But young people like you, Cassie, you must get out and see the world while you can. There is so much to see beyond these four walls. Don’t let the world pass you by.”
“I’ve seen plenty, Mr. Webber, don’t worry about that,” Cassie said, uncomfortable with the conversation turning toward her. She nodded at the books under her arm. “Let me take these through the back before my arm falls off.”
