April was a 65-year-old woman who lived in a run-down 24-room Victorian mansion, complete with a once-glorious garden designed by the same man who drew up the plans for New York City’s Central Park, in what had been a most elite neighborhood in a small historic New England town. She shared this grand but faded beauty with a curious hermit by the name of Finn, who barely spoke more than a chapter’s worth of words to April since the day they met, some 40 years ago. Their relationship was based on mutual tolerance, nothing more. The only thing they shared an affinity for, and the sole reason they agreed to pool their resources and purchase the home, was books. It was unfortunate that after decades of cohabitation they couldn’t stand each other.

Finn had dealt in the business of books since he left his boyhood home in rural Pennsylvania after attending a few community college courses on Greek philosophy back in the ‘60s, heartened by the wisdom of Heraclitus, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, while effectively isolating himself from any of the issues rallying people his age outside the pages of his dusty texts. An irregular heartbeat diagnosed in early childhood prevented Finn from ever getting drafted and sent overseas to fight in Vietnam, a situation that seemed more implausible than the 135-pound tongue-tied misanthrope could imagine.

While working a tedious job managing inventory records from 11 at night to seven in the morning, five days a week, at a warehouse three blocks from his bachelor apartment, Finn found time during the day and on the weekends to operate a small but profitable mail order bookshop based out of his six-by-10-foot pantry. Using the spirit duplicator or “Ditto” machine at the warehouse, he ran off 100 catalogs on the last Friday of every month, engaging in the first subversive act he ever took to advance his station in life. After researching antiquarian bookstores, potentially interested academic bodies, and private collectors at the local library, Finn mailed out his Reason & Inquiry catalogs to the chosen addresses. Of the 100 parties he mailed, 23 responded with orders ranging from a few hand-printed broadsides to a rare collection of Sophist he had purchased at the estate sale of some well-off dandy. With a keen sense for buying low and selling at a reasonable price, Finn was on his way to establishing himself as an independent niche market rare book dealer.

Within five years he lessened his shifts at the warehouse, but retained enough part-time work hours to supplement his book sales while still maintaining access to the prized Ditto machine. Although Finn had never been attracted to alcohol (save the occasional glass of sherry after a particularly profitable mail order) or recreational drug use of any sort, the smell of freshly inked Ditto paper intrigued him in a way he couldn’t deny. The mixture of isopropanol and methanol, although toxic and highly flammable, was absolutely entrancing. After running off a handful of catalogs, he would remove his glasses and hang his pale, poorly shaven face over the newly printed sheets and gently draw in the provocative scent. As a basically self-resigned asexual being, this was the single most visceral sensation Finn enjoyed. Perhaps if a woman tattooed her body with this highly specialized ink and retained the odor for the time it took to do the deed, Finn might have had at least a chance at experiencing pleasures of the flesh. Given his reclusive nature and refusal to even step foot in such a disreputable place as a tattoo parlor, this vividly imagined yet nearly impossible scenario never passed. Years later, after the widespread introduction of the Xerox machine, this esoteric erotic encounter proved even less likely to occur. Besides, what kind of desperate woman would ever agree to scar her skin with this harmful brew? Even though interest in the subject at the time was negligible, it did not seem to deter Finn’s displaced and channeled passion for the ancient art of the tattoo, with books on the subject emerging as subsections in later copies of Reason & Inquiry, confounding regular buyers.

It was soon after he had overwhelmed his modest pantry with tattoo books and moved the Greek collection into both his bathroom and bedroom that he agreed to meet with April to discuss the purchase of a house she had seen while on a recent road trip to Vermont. Having picked up one of Finn’s catalogs from a bookseller specializing in historical studies, she wrote Finn a rambling letter tracing the origin of his name, alluding to the wordplay of Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake, and inquiring, as no one else had, as to why he was offering in addition to his Greek titles books about tattoos. Did it have anything to do with the ancient religious sects in the Mediterranean, and the outlawing of tattoos in Leviticus? Did he have books on the Picts and their celebrated yet somewhat unsubstantiated scarification? Did he, himself, have any dermal pigmentations to speak of?

Invigorated by her obvious curiosity and a $10 enclosed check for the only tattoo book he had sold to date, Finn shipped her the book the following day along with his updated catalog and a one-page letter explaining his fascination with tattooing as no more than a “respectful appreciation of a cultural art too often overlooked today due to unsanitary contemporary practices associated with rough and tumble sailors and additional persons of ill repute.” Although most people probably would have dismissed Finn as the isolated eccentric that he was and ended the correspondence there and then, April was not most people.

Impressed by the prompt delivery and succinct feedback to her queries, she wrote him again and placed another order for a second pricey book that covered the origins of string games in Western civilization. Describing in her accompanying letter the VW microbus she had bought for $50, she further explained how she was forced to spend an additional $50 installing seatbelts in order for it to pass inspection prior to her driver’s license certification test, which was a bit more than she expected seatbelts to cost. The instructor that rode shotgun during the ensuing test, clipboard and red pen in-hand, had generously given her a passing grade. Whenever he questioned one of her many driving errors, April correctly told him what she should have done every single time. Her mistakes were not due to nervousness, as the instructor wrongfully assumed, but were a result of her incredibly poor eyesight. April could barely distinguish much of anything more than 10 or 15 feet in front of her. The only reason she could rattle off the right answers following her gaffs was simply because she had memorized the driving manual.

Enlisting the help of the couple that lived in her building above a butcher shop, she decided to fulfill a desire that had been growing ever since she had really learned to sing and play guitar: she wanted to go find the blues. As a middleclass suburban white girl from Ohio, her attraction and saucy interpretations of “race music” by the likes of Bessie Smith, Muddy Waters, and even the intimidating Howlin’ Wolf had gotten her a few warmly received gigs at college beer parties and the occasional daring coffee house. Convincing her friends that the best blues were found below the Mason-Dixon Line somewhere in the Mississippi Delta, the three of them, all with shoulder length hair and idealized visions of what lay ahead on the great American roadways going south, piled into the VW microbus like something out of a made for television Baby Boomer flashback sequence.

Much like the ’60s, that first leg of their trip didn’t end particularly well. Even though the microbus held up for the duration of their travels, the three white hippie kids from the North weren’t received with open arms by much of anyone in the South, especially the elderly black men they randomly approached on street corners and front porches to ask if they knew how to sing the blues. It got so bad that they were actually run out of a fishing town off the coast of Alabama by a gang of locals sporting baseball bats and shotguns over some confusion as to whether or not they were voting registrars or government representatives, which was reason enough for them to make the long journey back home to Ohio. Even though the blues had alluded them at every turn, they felt lucky to escape with their lives. While driving through a gorgeous stretch of Tennessee highway, they decided to make a massive detour to Vermont, where the leaves were turning their vast array of colors, and the thought of immersing themselves in the company of Yankee farmers and their pumpkin pie-making wives sounded just groovy.

As they passed through a small town nestled in a lush valley on the Southwestern tip of the Green Mountain state, admiring the quaint neighborhood scenes laid out before them, the FOR SALE sign in front of the Victorian home flanked by sturdy maples and a few stout pines, caught April’s eye. She knew such a large place would fall well out of her price range, but she had saved up more than a respectable sum over the years tutoring the sons and daughters of wealthy socialites back in Ohio, so she called the realtor to have a peek inside. Her friends marveled at the garden space and the two-dozen rooms within, and wondered aloud just what anyone would do with a house that big. April knew exactly what she would do: fill it with books.

This notion of a huge New England home that he might also fill with his own books piqued Finn’s interest. He sent April the string book she requested, along with another page long letter explaining his situation and desire to meet with her to look over the Victorian together. This idea thrilled April, and she readily agreed. After a series of phone calls, during which April dominated the conversation with her impressions of New England and its remarkable foliage, pleasantly rugged terrain, tender mornings, and crazy bucolic fields dotted with grazing milk cows — not to mention the friendly, albeit reserved populace that had convinced her to the very marrow of her bones that this was a place meant for people like them — April agreed to pickup Finn in Pennsylvania on the first Saturday in November. They would then share driving duties until they reached Vermont. There was little doubt in April’s mind that the stars had aligned in their favor, and what was going down was truly a mind blowing testament to the power of positive vibrations between two bibliophiles searching for a place to call their own.

Although not nearly as sure as April seemed to be, Finn had grown tired of moving the pile books off his toilet every time he had to use it, in addition to the many other inconveniences his mounting collection was causing him in such a small space. He had noticed the other day while sweeping up a pile of spilled peanut shells that the floor of his living room seemed to be sagging under the weight of the massive Greek anthologies, which could prove problematic in time for both him and his downstairs neighbors. Despite more than half a decade of dedicated service, he suspected it would take weeks before anyone would notice he had left his job at the warehouse. He couldn’t remember the last time he spoke with his supervisor, a loutish cigar smoking fellow who preferred to pick up the inventory listings whenever the mood struck, rarely dropping in during the graveyard shift if he wasn’t absolutely compelled to. Like most others that worked there, he had a wife and kids, enjoyed sporting events, drove a big car, and couldn’t understand why on God’s green earth anyone would want to work at night and sleep during the day. Finn never felt the need to explain himself. He just flat-out didn’t like the company of other people. What was so hard to understand about that?

When the day arrived, Finn had his bags packed with the necessary clothes, toiletries, foodstuffs, water, and reading materials. He had also thoughtfully brewed a thermos full of Maxwell House coffee to keep him alert behind the wheel. It had been awhile since he last drove a vehicle, so he was a tad anxious as to how he would perform. No matter, with April’s navigating assistance they would follow the rules of the road and be in Vermont by nightfall. Although his disposition didn’t allow for much excitement, it had been too long since Finn had left Pennsylvania, and the thought of driving through the Catskills, even though they were not technically mountains but rather a dissected plateau, did stir in him a not altogether unpleasant nervous tension. How he would get along with April caused a similar feeling, but the notion of such a vast amount of impending storage space offset most of his more negative leanings.

April pulled her VW microbus in front of Finn’s apartment house at a bit past eight in the morning, blaring a local rock station from a portable radio hanging next to a Mickey Mouse doll by the passenger side window. She hopped out of the microbus barefoot and ran up the stairs to Finn’s apartment door, proceeding to bang on it with the ball of her right foot. Startled, Finn walked to the door and opened it slowly.

“Hey, Finn!” a girl in a bright orange sweater, green slacks, and a pair of impossibly thick glasses yelled, taking Finn’s hand in hers and giving it a few hearty pumps as she frantically pushed the door and him out of her way, stumbling inside the living room over a pile of Socrates. “Wow, I’ve got to use your bathroom, man. You wouldn’t believe what it’s like trying to drive a bus with your legs crossed for over a hundred miles. I’m ready to burst.” Not knowing how to respond, Finn pointed to the bathroom adjoining the kitchen. April took a few hurried steps in the indicated direction, laughed loudly at the site of the books on the toilet, lowered her pants with one hand, picked up the entire stack of books with the other, kicked the toilet lid up with her foot, closed the door behind her and sat down all in one motion to pee. “Oh, Finn!” she yelled from behind the door. “I really thought I was going to burst. There wasn’t a single gas station open anywhere that would let me use their facilities, and ever since that one camping trip in the Rockies where I got an absolutely miserable case of poison oak in places a lady shouldn’t reveal, I just simply can’t bring myself to urinate outside. It’s a bit of a problem in situations like this, and I’ll probably have to stop at least a few times before we make it…Far out! What translation of Works and Days is this? I could never really get through the part on animal sacrifices, but the way Hesiod goes through the origin of human suffering made me reevaluate a number of false priorities that had taken hold of my life during a period in grammar school…”

Finn stood dumbfounded in the doorway, unsure if he was expected to respond to the girl using his toilet and holding his books. Regardless, even while talking through a bathroom door, April left little room for any kind of measured rejoinder. Falling back on his usual mode of comportment, Finn said nothing while he picked up the pile of spilled Socrates and restacked it neatly on the other side of the room. The realization that he had not only agreed to spend the next six hours traveling in a car with this very loud girl, but that he had also agreed to potentially purchase a house and live with this very same very loud girl hit him like a loaded punch to the gut. Finn sat down against the door and breathed heavily, rising to his feet when he heard the clicking of the bathroom door handle.

“Hey, Finn, are you ready to make like a bakery truck and haul buns? Do you need to pick up anything or give your old lady a call or something? I’m not really in a huge hurry. I mean, we can get there when we get there, right? My bus, I call it Smokey for reasons you’ll soon understand, should be just dandy. We’ll see how it tackles those hills once we get further east. Oh, you’re not much of a talker, are you? Well, that’s never been my problem, that’s for certain. Shall we show the world the meaning of haste, kind sir?”

“Yes,” said Finn, picking up his duffle bag and thermos full of Maxwell House coffee from the bed, unwilling to back out at the last minute despite his overwhelming sense of doom. As they made their way down the stairs, Finn caught sight of Smokey idling and spewing black fumes from the exhaust.

“Behold your chariot, Finn!” yelled April, throwing her hands above her head like some deranged auto spokesperson. “Good morning,” she said to a couple of Finn’s neighbors puffing on their first cigarettes of the day at the bottom of the stairs, taking in a bit of the late autumn sun. The two guys greeted her warmly but didn’t say anything to Finn. As they approached Smokey, April asked if he got along well with his neighbors.

“It doesn’t pay to be too friendly,” he said, shocking April into a reflective 10-second silence before she countered with a couple Shakespearian quotes on the nature of man that Finn couldn’t make out over the sounds coming from the portable radio.

“I guess I can still drive for another couple hours or so,” said April, situating herself behind the wheel as Finn fumbled with his seatbelt. “We can switch off when you’re ready or I’m completely exhausted, which shouldn’t be too long from now. I’m not really a morning person, but the sheer excitement of showing you this lovely old Victorian has fueled my fire since I awoke. Gird your loins and hold onto your hat, we’re off!”

Finned nodded his head as April pulled a quick right, cutting off a milk truck that slammed on the brakes and veered into the curb. “Oops. Didn’t see that one,” said April, as Finn gripped tighter his thermos and tried to overcome all the voices in his head screaming at him to get out of Smokey before it was too late. He was rarely in a position requiring forcefulness of opinion or action, so he just sat there starring straight ahead, frozen with uncertainty and regret. It was then April explained to him how she had passed her drivers license certification test, elaborating on her incredibly poor eyesight as well as the gaping hole in the oil main causing the massive trail of black smoke to obscure the vision of any driver that pulled within 20 feet of the rear bumper. It was enough to frighten the bravest of copilots, let alone a man of Finn’s timid disposition. He endured the steering mishaps and generally frenetic pace of April’s helmsmanship for the next 100 miles, hearing about her multiple past lovers, books read, time spent in England where she saw a rock n’ roll outfit named the Rolling Stones and spent one drunken night with the acne scarred son of a legendary folk singer, Woodrow Guthrie. He was also informed of her admiration of the symbolism and sheer artistry behind Renaissance paintings, despite the fact she had renounced the Catholic church over a decade ago for its archaic stance on so many relevant and pressing social issues, including but not limited to the subjugation of women and sexuality as evidenced by it’s wrongheaded stance on the birth control pill, obvious racial divisions, and the entire repressive nature of its nearly 2000-year history. Finn viewed this all as an enforced honing of his dull tolerance skills. With a few affirmative grunts and nods of the head, he managed to avoid offering up any of his own opinions.

The two travelers switched off at a gas station a few miles outside of the border separating Pennsylvania and New York state, which gave Finn a moment to slug down a few gulps of his Maxwell House coffee without the splash of cream he normally took a reasonable amount of pleasure in adding to his cup, a practice he had recently undertook after drinking it black for so many years had started to affect his stomach. April casually filled the gas tank while smoking a cigarette, convincing Finn to retreat inside the nearby convenience store in search of a bathroom should the fiery unpleasantness occur. He emerged from the store to the sound of April leaning on Smokey’s horn. “To paraphrase Robert Frost, put some sass in your ass, Finn, my boy! We’ve got miles to go before we sleep.”

Finn sat in the driver’s seat and placed his hands at the 10 and 2 o’clock positions, checked the mirrors, adjusted his seatbelt and performed the delicate ballet with the clutch and gas, lurching forward through the small dusty parking lot and onto the road ahead. The Catskills really did look marvelous. True, the leaves had fallen from the trees, but the remaining pines, exposed rock and barren branches covering the gentle slopes against a sky void of any water vapor or cloud covering was more pleasant than he envisioned. Sensing the gravity of the moment, April turned off the portable radio and kept quiet for as long as she could.

“I can do this,” thought Finn. “I can make this work and get Reason & Inquiry into the hands and minds of twice or maybe three times as many people in the span of a year. If what April says is true, and this Victorian really has even half the space she’s described at the price they’re offering, I’ll have my own personal warehouse and room enough to avoid this babbling answer to the question no one asked. Besides, I respect New Englanders. They don’t seem too interested in other people’s business, or so I’ve read.”

The two travelers arrived in Vermont as the sun set behind a particularly scenic patch of the fabled Green Mountains, casting a fine light over the roadway. As they drove over the crest of a hill, the town that held their potential home in its postcard shot valley grip looked glorious. From the tips of the white painted church steeples and the 300-foot obelisk-shaped war monument jutting from the curving hillside, down to the softly glowing headlights of the cars making their way back home from work, the place looked promising. Even though there was a definite nip in the air indicating the likelihood of an overnight frost, this didn’t stop April from rolling down her window to take in a bit of the evening breeze, enlivening their senses as they chugged ahead. They stopped at an unassuming boxcar diner across from a veteran’s retirement home and ate a supper of open-faced turkey sandwiches followed by Indian pudding with ice cream and hot cups of tea.

They found a nearby hotel easily distinguished from the road by a hulking catamount lawn statue lit by a row of flickering blue-hued spotlights firmly set into the turf surrounding the open-mouthed beast. The plump office attendant smelling of pipe tobacco refrained from asking any questions about their visit. There was no dickering over the price or a request for a late check out. Even April, worn out and ready to catch some serious shut-eye, kept her inquiries and comments to a minimum, but couldn’t resist volunteering a bit of revolutionary war trivia concerning Col. Seth Warner, Ethan Allen, and his Green Mountain Boys, factoids the Vermonter on the other side of the counter merely nodded at while filling out the necessary forms for their overnight stay. As soon as they settled into their separate rooms, something Finn insisted upon following their lengthy ride, both travelers found a bit of peace under the covers and within the pages of the books they had brought, and were soon asleep.

Following their complimentary continental breakfast of muffins, locally grown apples and murky mugs of coffee, April called the realtor and agreed to meet her in a half an hour at the house. Smokey continued to spew her signature black clouds as they made their way through the small town, slowing occasionally to admire the Colonial, Greek revival architecture of stately neighborhood homes, where the occasional neglected jack-o’-lanterns from the previous week’s Halloween festivities sat rotting on leaf-covered walkways and stoops. The outside temperature indicated winter was close, and thoughts of snow boots, mittens, rock salt and firewood were even closer.

When they pulled up to the enormous house, the realtor, Cathy, was waiting for them on the front stoop, waving her hands with great enthusiasm.

“Oh, Finn, isn’t it just spectacular,” said April. “This faded beauty is like something from a Henry James novel or I don’t know…I just think it’s heavenly. Wait till you see the inside!” With that, April jumped out of the van and vaulted over to where Cathy was standing while Finn methodically followed in her footsteps, mustering up the friendliest smile his bearded face would allow. Cathy lead them around the exterior of the house, pointing out the unique features of the American Queen Ann styled residence, much to the delight April and the silent attentiveness of Finn. Sensing her prospective buyers were catching a chill, Cathy cut her outside tour short and took them through an impressive alcove on the northern edge of the building that lead directly to the living room and adjoining dining area. The 12-foot ceilings coupled with hardwood floors throughout, in addition to the stained glass windows and period fixtures, were undeniably gorgeous. The sheer potential of the place filled April with an almost palpable sense of hope for what her future might hold.

Even Finn had to admit that it certainly was a fine looking house, well constructed, and plenty spacious enough to separate April’s voice from his ears whenever necessary. He wandered upstairs away from the two clucking hens, and, after inspecting the former servant’s quarters as well as the three separate bathrooms, what he found in the master bedroom brought him to his knees. If he was looking for a sign to affirm that this enormous house was exactly where he should be, his search was done. As he gently turned the slick glass doorknob of the thick Maplewood door, Finn’s delicate heart beat a tick quicker when he took in the unmistakable perfume. Opening the door further, what met his eyes was nothing short of miraculous. There, not more than five steps away, sat a huge Ditto machine surrounded by giant tubs of its heavenly ink. Finn dropped to the uncarpeted floor with a powerful thud, raising his fingertips to his brow in disbelief. There had to be a lifetime supply of the stuff sitting there right in front of him. The previous owners probably didn’t know what to do with it all and just left it there for the next person to deal with. To make absolutely certain the ink was the real deal, Finn removed the cap of the closest tub and, eyes closed, inhaled the deliciously familiar tang like a wine enthusiast uncorking a choice barrel of Bordeaux. He shuddered in delight, overjoyed by the discovery. His decision was made.

Finn and April pored over the paperwork later that night after contacting their respective banks and exchanging the necessary fiduciary information. It may have been a rushed decision (it was), but Cathy agreed to lower the selling price substantially if they signed within the next few days. Her realty company didn’t want that white elephant on their hands any longer than necessary and were willing to give up a percentage of the fee to bulk up their regional sales record before the quarter came to a close. Soon thereafter, the uncanny couple settled into their new digs and began loading the place with books, raiding every advertised church and library sale within a hundred mile radius. The two of them amassed impressive individual collections and filled nearly half the house with both Greek and Irish studies in addition to their other amassments of hardcovers, paperbacks, monographs and the like. Tensions rose, arguments followed, threats were made, but life continued as April found a part time teaching position at a local college and Finn greatly expanded his business while allowing himself an almost weekly fix of freshly printed ink.

As the years passed, the house, much like their once civil relationship, deteriorated. Neither of them were practical, and lived too much in their studies to worry about the death of the aged water heater or the collapse of the furnace. Parts of the roof wore thin and the foundation developed worrisome cracks. There was talk of generating some additional money by renting out the former servant’s quarters to a college student or one of the many tourist types that visited the area during the fall to snap photos of the leaves, but Finn refused to have any outsiders encroach on his space. He would gladly go down with the ship before he’d invite anyone else aboard, an admittedly stubborn stance that did nothing to ameliorate the relationship or the condition of the house.

General cleaning became little more than an afterthought as the interior of house developed a sour, musty odor not unlike that of ripened cheese, exacerbated by the emptied whiskey and beer boxes overstuffed with moldy neglected tomes. Books found their homes atop broken radiators, under Salvation Army purchased couches and chairs, stacked alongside doorways and standing two and three volumes deep on severely drooping shelves. Finn said nothing about the situation and did even less. Thick cobwebs and layers of dust accumulated on the showpiece windows. Staircase banisters became wobbly and unsafe to grab onto. Dishes, plates, pots, pans, cups, and tubs of flatware went unwashed for months on end, stacked like so many leaning towers throughout the kitchen. A motivated neighbor appalled by the unsanitary conditions took it upon herself when both April and Finn were at a book sale across state lines to haul every last fork, mug and saucer out onto the back lawn and spray the massive collection with the garden hose before soaking and cleansing it all in a series of garbage pails. The gallant neighbor had little choice, as April openly forbid any visitors from entering her “sinful scullery” while she was there, plagued by the imparted guilt of her tidy Irish mother who scolded her entropy for years on end, reminding her at every opportunity that she would never marry a respectable man with such disagreeable habits. April proved her mother wrong, marrying an insurance lawyer, Murray, who gave her a child of her own, a baby girl they named Aoife (pronounced “Eva”), after the legendary “Red Aoife,” the daughter of a ruler of Connacht whose marriage was arranged by good ol’ St. Patrick himself. April and Murray’s Blessed Event was held in the shadow of the Victorian on a lovely Saturday in June, attended by a diverse crew of aging Flower Children, geeky lawyer types, awkward academics, and perplexed but well-meaning town folk.

Despite the size of the home, which was originally built to accommodate a full-sized family and enough servants to keep them satisfied, April, Murray, Finn, and an all-too-precocious Aoife made the place feel more like a tinderbox as the days dragged on. The marriage eventually dissolved after “Murray beat me mercilessly!” — an impassioned claim April made to anyone who would listen, and one Murray vehemently denied, citing the incident in question as no more than self-defense waged against years of listening to “pie hole that wouldn’t stay shut.” Besides, where were the bruises, the scars, and the unsightly disfigurements to back such a groundless claim? Citing Murray’s background in law and her financial helplessness in the face of what were sure to be substantial legal fees, April resigned herself to accepting a “pittance” of an alimony settlement, which she spent primarily on booze. Isolation and depression left her once brilliant mind to stew in its own juices, day after day, without much in the way of outside stimulation. Former friends lacked the tolerance skills necessary to spend more than a few moments in her company, repelled by her viciousness and wild personal accusations. Even if someone could overlook April’s shortcomings, she set such stringent rules as to when exactly and under what circumstances an invitee could enter her house, it became near impossible to do so. Paper plates were taped to the front door with quotes drawn in magic marker for anyone that cared to read them:

Time is the school in which we learn, time is the fire in which we burn.
– Delmore Schwartz

Since heroes exist only in the mind, we therefore have to create them.
– Jean Genet

One can acquire everything in solitude except character.
– Stendhal

It mattered little if such quotes were interpreted as small windows into her state of mind or strange attempts to enlighten the mail carrier’s day as he dropped letters and bills through the slot in the door. April’s madness had blossomed beyond the scope of eccentric book lover. She partly blamed her undoing on extensive tooth decay that caused her tremendous pain. Her dentist recommended extensive procedures that April simply couldn’t afford, resulting in a nervous breakdown right there in his office. He told her off the record that if she was so uncomfortable with her current condition, she could always employ whiskey to numb the gums and troublesome teeth. This well-meaning homeopathic suggestion gave her license to put back jigger after jigger of “tooth whiskey” from the time she got up to the time she passed out among her stacks of books, papers and manila envelopes littered about the house. Aoife went to live with her father when she was old enough to choose between her mother’s remarkable alcoholism and Murray’s stable indifference, eliminating April from her life for good.

Finn took great pains to avoid April during this period, leasing a modest building located by an old corset factory downtown. It was here he ran a small retail shop stocked with Robert Frost collections and overpriced coffee table books illuminated by glossy scenic photos of faded red barns, colorful mountain scenes, and valleys full of cows for the rich tourist crowd to buy. It was a lonely life, but Finn wanted for nothing beyond
quietude and books. April’s frequent outbursts had left his nerves completely rattled and his stomach overcome with ulcers. She somehow continued to make her regular payments on the house, as did he, so their tenuous arrangement remained intact. His prized Ditto ink became less appealing when he discovered the joys of smoking illegally imported Cuban cigars following an exchange with a curious Philadelphia traveler that traded him a generous supply for a rare signed copy of In the Clearing, and returned every year since for additional dealings. Besides, the ink was toxic and couldn’t be good for his long-term health. What began as an infatuation became a near addiction and cold turkey seemed the only way to beat that nasty devil-ink.

First off, Finn sold his tattoo books at a much lower price than what they were worth to a pair of excited Japanese professionals who had responded to a catalog sometime ago. It was an arduous process packing all those thick titles into the enormous wooden crates to be shipped overseas, but Finn eventually rid himself of the collection once and for all after receiving a Western Union check and cleared up much needed space for his burgeoning Vermont-related books. The few tattoo books that remained he burned in a pile of leaves behind the house.

Swiftly November’s evening light gathered itself together as Finn stoked the pile with a rusted garden hoe. Calm, quiet moments like this made Finn feel New England was a good place to be. The chattering squirrels talked over the day’s events as the ravens cawed across the treetops to themselves. The smell of wood-smoke from his neighbor’s chimneys mixed with the scent from the last of the ashes glowing brightly at his feet. Finn’s eyes caught the final bit of sun fall behind the mountains to the west as he let out a sustained sigh. Doing away with those damn tattoo books gave him a sense of peace unlike anything he had felt in too long a time. What he had to do next was dispose of the ink, the source of his shame. His screaming hag of a housemate was the only other thing standing between him and complete contentment with world.

“Finn! Finn! Can you even hear me?” came April’s voice from the bathroom window behind him. Finn acknowledged her with a wave of the hoe above his head. “You better snuff those coals out completely! It would destroy what little faith I have left in mankind if you were to burn this neighborhood down with your pyrotechnics! Remember Prometheus!”

“Remember Prometheus, indeed,” muttered Finn as she slammed the window shut. “She uses my appreciation for the wisdom of the Ancients just to goad me.” Finn pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and lit it with the end of a stick he placed in the coals. He peered back at the house, taking in its impressive size against the darkened sky. He counted its many cracked windows and missing wooden tiles, languidly puffing away on his stogie, going over in his mind the countless offenses April had stacked against him since the day they met. Explosions from nearby road construction had greatly damaged the once sturdy garden walls and no doubt furthered the sizable splits in the foundation. She never once left him a drop of coffee from that pot she brewed after her wildly irresponsible whiskey binges, selfishly guarding it like it were the last vessel of caffeine known to man. He often drove her to the post office and grocery store after she didn’t renew her license and refused to ever sit behind the wheel of a car again. Did he ever get so much as a thank you? Did her bloated sense of entitlement know no bounds? The third floor was scattered with buckets, pots and garbage pails placed beneath the ever-multiplying leaks in the roof. Did she care that he had to empty them every other day during the long stretches of inclement weather? He sure wasn’t going to get up on those steep pitches to patch the holes, and there was no way he was going to pay for repairs on his own. It was always a battle obtaining checks for their shared monthly bills to begin with! Why couldn’t she just slip them under his door on the first of the month? Even though he spent the majority of his waking hours at the shop, he still agreed to split all expenses down the middle just to make things easier. Didn’t she see that? If she dirties another dish and just sets it on the pile or dares to eat a spoonful of the ice cream…

His thoughts wandered back through the years spent in the house and got caught in scenes of April’s failed marriage to that lawyer in his tight khaki pants and the child that could never cease her bawling. The sound of their family fights echoed through his brain while he rubbed his temples with his thumbs, cupping his face in his hands. He never wanted them there. But what could he have done? They were married after all, and that was the natural way of things for most people. Why couldn’t they have decided to live elsewhere? It was best not to dwell in the past. Let bygones be bygones and all that claptrap. Finn had to look to the future, eyes straight ahead, focused on the task at hand.

A neighbor first noticed the fire when she got up from bed to adjust her thermostat. She ran outside to make certain she wasn’t still dreaming, or so she said. By the time the fire trucks arrived some twenty minutes later, the house filled with books was overcome with flames that stretched 20 feet in the air. The curious townsfolk assembled across the street in their nightgowns and overcoats, passing out hot coffee, sugar cookies, and tea as the blaze was dutifully contained over a period of hours before it spread to any other buildings or jumped to nearby trees. The fire chief told Finn that it probably started as a result of faulty wiring. Old houses like that one could have had their systems installed 70 or even 80 years ago, long before proper safety codes were adhered to. The many books coupled with what must have been some kind of accelerant in the master bedroom probably caused the fire to burn faster than what would be normally expected. It was too bad about his lady friend. He was lucky to have been at his shop.