There's this stuff in some trees called Lingin, which is a polymer made up of units closely related to vanillin. When it's made into paper and matures over the years, it breaks down, releasing that well loved scent. Which is how divine providence has arranged for secondhand bookstores to smell like comforting vanilla, subtly awakening a hunger for knowledge in all of us.
Well, that smell reminds me of the antique store I used to go to. It was a long time ago, when I was a lot younger and without crow's feet. As a teenager, I was somewhat of a bookworm. It's not as if I had no social life, because I did. It was just that most of the time, I preferred to curl up in my bed with a classic, and be taken away. It was a time in my life that I just needed that.
But, there was another reason that I went in to that store as often as I could. There was an old man who came there frequently, named John. He was ninety-four, and had Alzheimer's disease. His daughter brought him in, settling down in the front in one of the plastic chairs from an elementary school with her romance novel, and waited for him to tell her he was ready to go to the next store.
Every time I saw him, it was like meeting him for the first time. He never remembered who I was, but that was okay, because I was given the opportunity to make a first impression every time we crossed paths. It was strange, but nice.
The last time that I saw him, it was a rainy summer day. Some people say that the rain smells good but I personally feel like it smells like dog. I was riding my bike down the side walk to the store, enjoying the small wet droplets on my skin, my satchel swaying as I peddled along. As I reached my destination, I got off my bike, in hopes of finding a book that no one else had ever read, I went inside.
John's daughter, who was nicknamed Pigeon, was quietly absorbed in her story, and so I knew that he was there today. I greeted Leta, the owner who knew me well and continually offered me lemonade and cookies, and went through the aisles.
I heard his voice, quiet but steady, "Can't find it...can't find it," before I saw him. It was then that I realized, he was looking for something.
I came around the corner, smiling as brightly as I could.
"Hello there," I said softly, "how are you today, sir?"
He looked at me, and smiled kindly but lazily, his eyes meeting mine for only a second, then returning to his search. "This is the best day a'my life, ma'am. And how do you do?"
"Very well, thank you. Is there anything I can help you with?" I wanted him to tell me what he was looking for, but I didn't want to ask.
"Well, I reckon you can help," he said. "I'm looking for a book for my wife."
"What's it called?"
"It's called...it's called..." He got quiet and thought for a minute. "The Long Love."
"Who's it by?" I asked.
"Can't remember."
I'll have you know, that day, I searched high and low for that book with him that day. And as we searched, he told me the story. "Well," he began, "we'll have been married for twenty years this next week. One a'her bridge friends said it was a good story and so I thought I'd get it for her, and some a'her favorite flowers. Red daisies."
"That sounds nice," I said. So we looked and looked for this book, which he said had a picture of a man and a woman on the front, with bright colors, the woman in a pretty dress.
An hour later, Pigeon came back and told him it was time to head home, that they'd look for Mama's book tomorrow. He thanked me for helping him. I wished him and his wife a happy anniversary, told them to have a nice day, and then went back to looking for some obscure book.
As I found one I had never heard of, I went up to the counter to pay. Leta said she'd give it to me for two dollars instead of five, since she liked me, and then said, "He's been looking for that book in here for years."
I was puzzled and she saw it. "John's wife has been dead since 1989. Pigeon told me when I opened the place and he decided to come looking. He still thinks he's young, and that she's alive and that they'll have been married twenty years next week. The Long Love is by John Day. I looked it up and I always tell him but he forgets."
"Huh," I said, and thought maybe I'd order him a copy, then give it to Leta to let him find for his wife. I thought it was really sweet, and sad, that he was still looking for that book, even though his wife had been gone for some time. I wanted to help him.
I forgot about ordering the book until I finished mine, a well written but drab story about a woman who becomes a spinster because she refused to marry a man because he was a bigot. I was bright then, as I rode to the store on my bike, hoping to see him there, and hoping to help him look before going home to order his book to bring.
I got there, hurrying in, and Pigeon was there, but she wasn't reading. She just sat there, and Leta sat next to her, holding her hand.
"Where is John?" I asked, but from their faces, I already knew.
"He...he didn't wake up yesterday morning," Pigeon said, and smiled sadly but it was okay.
"I'm very sorry," I said after a moment of silence, but after all the time I had seen him, there was a small hole in my heart.
"I only had time to run up and look for a Neil Diamond record," I lied, and walked swiftly to the records, picking one out, then going to pay. I wanted to go home.
I had paid my money and respects when I left, getting on my bike, riding soundlessly to my neighborhood. At a house across the street and down a few from mine, there was a garage sale. And for some reason, I just had to go. I thought maybe there were some books I could find to read.
So I peddled over there, and was searching through the cardboard box of books when it struck me. There, in the very bottom, was a beat up old green book, missing it's dust jacket. I carefully picked it up, and smiled at the title on the spine.
The Long Love by John Day.
I started crying right there. And then I was compelled to open it. There, in the front cover, was a carefully, lovingly written inscription:
To Nadine-
Happy anniversary to my one and only. May our love be long.
John
And it occurred to me then, crying in my neighbor's yard, with this book open and middle aged women staring at me, that love that waited long after was the best kind to have. Theirs was indeed the long love.
