8Chapter One: Apartment #23
Westbrook, Michigan
Three Months Later . . .
Jason Cantor chained his bike to a bare-branched tree in front of the brick apartment building. He zipped up the black jacket to his chin and retied his scarf, still shivering in the winter wind. The seventeen-year-old bent and fumbled to simultaneously open the door into warmth and pull his gloves off.
A bell jingled as he entered and it no time Mr. Layton was scowling at him over his wire-rimmed spectacles. "Jason Cantor, just the person I was looking for. I need you to tell that brother of yours that we need to talk about that apartment of his. It's a blemish to our premises."
"Of course, Mr. Layton." Jason said wearily. Privately, he thought that no matter how often Edward Layton insisted on talking to Aaron, nothing would ever change in number twenty-three. Jason thought Mr. Layton secretly knew it too, and that was why he had never allowed another assistant bookkeeper within five miles of his precious building since.
Jason galloped up the stairs, past the dirty looks of Mrs. Shannon, the cat lady; Miss Amelia, the retired opera singer; and Mr. Rutherford, the nasty-tempered bank teller. Two flights of stairs flew behind his sneakers. His breathing was in check, and he easily clambered up the last.
Old Miss Ingot who haunted the third floor accosted him outside his brother's door. He stopped to avoid crashing into her, and she glared at him. "Watch where you are going, young man. And tell that brother of yours –"
"To clean up his apartment?"
She sniffed haughtily. "I went there to deliver some fruit cake earlier today, and an entire stack of Encyclopedia Britannica almost fell on me. That apartment is a disgrace."
"Of course, ma'am."
"And give him this fruitcake; he refused to take it."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And tell him that I will not tolerate such rudeness in the future. Young people these days." She gave another sniff, and marched off, black heels tapping ominously on the wooden floor.
Jason nodded politely to her back as she tottered away, muttering under her breath. Then he shook his head, and half-smiled at his brother and the infamous apartment. The famed number twenty-three's door was a solid oak door, with a neat sign is a careful hand proclaiming DO NOT DISTURB THE BOOKS: ENTER AT OWN RISK. Jason supposed it was one way to deter salesman, and gave private kudos to his brother's creativity.
He balanced Mts. Ingot's inedible fruitcake in one hand, and fished his key from the other. He entered slowly and on tiptoe so he wouldn't bother the tower of John Grisham lurking just behind. He held his breath as he closed the door, but the column remained balanced. Books were everywhere in apartment twenty-three. They covered the peeling shelves and cascaded down to the floor and chairs, devouring every possible inch of available space. A rickety table held Roget's Thesaurus and stacks of classics form Oliver Twist to Of Mice and Men. The tiny, patched leather couch and faded armchair held still more books: piled one on top of each in precarious stacks that almost reached the low ceiling.
Over the fireplace hung, not a painting, but a quote. C.S. Lewis was scrawled in neat black letters "We read to know we are not alone." Next to it, and in much smaller frames, hung pictures of three fair-haired boys grinning into the camera, some serious, but far more of them laughing at life itself.
Jason's eyes were no longer drawn to the pictures after two months of living in apartment twenty-three, so he was able to smile as he wove through the towers into the kitchen. He deposited Mrs. Ingot's brick-like fruitcake into the garbage, and pushed all seven Harry Pottersfrom the kitchen table. He stood for a moment, looking around at the book-strewn cabinets for something edible.
"Hey Aaron, I'm starving, what's still good?"
His twenty-two year old brother's disembodied voice came from the closet that served as his office and classroom. "There's some cold pizza in the fridge, and I think there are some pickles behind Moby Dick. I'll restock as soon as I get these stupid orders right."
"Pizza's fine." Jason made his way to the fridge, pried open the stuck handle, cleared away Robinson Crusoe, – why the heck was that in the fridge anyway? – and pushed a Stephen King from a chair.
"What are we doing later, anyways?" He pulled chunks of frozen tomato and mushrooms from his pizza slice, and let them clink icily on the plate.
"The doctors say Andrew's having a good day." Jason's hand paused, holding a slice of tomato above the plate.
"He woke up?" Aaron left the closet, reading glasses askew, and peered around the corner at his brother.
"No, Jase, not yet. But he will."
"Yeah." The tomato dropped from Jason's fingers, and he took a bite of the cold pizza.
"He will, Jason."
"What do the doctors say?"
"Well, they're not sure yet."
"Of course."
"He's going to get better."
"Why, because you say so? You can't live off hope."
"And you can't live with not knowing. He's not dead yet."
"He might as well be."
Aaron crossed the room in long strides. "Don't you ever say that again."
"Because it's the truth?"
"It's not the truth. It will never be the truth."
The two brothers locked eyes, staring fiercely at each other. Jason looked away first.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
"It's just the stress. It's getting to all of us."
"Yeah." The pause stretched thin and brittle between them.
Aaron ran a hand through his untidy sandy hair, and fixed his glasses on his face. "Hey, see if you can help me."
"Shoot." Jason said, hoping words could fill the spaces between them.
"Something important is happening in three days, and I can't for the life of me think of what it is. I asked my boss and he can't think of anything. There isn't a big shipment of books or an author's signing, or anything. My professors didn't assign any projects last week. I just can't remember what's important. I 'm about ready to brave the parentals, but before I take that last desperate step I thought I'd ask you."
"Ez m vertay." Jason said through a mouth full of cheese, pepperoni, and tomato sauce.
"Sorry, I don't speak fluent Chef Caesar."
"It's my birthday."
"No your birthday isn't till . . .Oh, crap. That's right." Aaron pushed The Lord of the Rings from the armchair and sat down hard.
"It's okay. You can't even keep a goldfish alive; I didn't expect you to remember that there was something important till the day of."
"I did not kill that goldfish. It was sick before it got here."
"Denial, denial."
"Ungrateful brat."
"Anyway, you're doing better than last year."
"We do not talk about last year. It is an anathema."
"You forgot my present, and then gave me a random book off your sofa – Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm."
"It is a classic tale of – okay, a complete failure of a sixteenth-birthday gift. And we will never speak of again."
"Like I'm ever going to forget that blackmail. But, Aaron, seriously, you don't need to get me a present. Letting me live here with you was the best."
"Hey what are big brothers for? After the accident . . ." Aaron's jaw snapped shut abruptly as he tread on dangerous ground. "Well it was the least I could do after it happened."
"Just promise me one thing about this birthday." Jason broke the pause as it stretched again between them.
"Sure."
"Don't get me another book."
Aaron smiled winningly. "Didn't even cross my mind."
"Liar."
"You know it."