Paxton’s List

By Lincoln Reed

She waits for him in the parking lot.

It’s a Saturday—her day off—and Paxton is on time. The elderly man parks his ‘78 F-150 pickup and enters the library, returning a few minutes later with two tomes.

When he drives away, Greta’s car follows, but not too close. She’s wearing dark sunglasses with jeans and a coat—the only pieces of black clothing she could find in her closet. It’s not often a librarian has to perform secret surveillance on a patron. This may be the only time in her life she feels like the hero of a spy novel, and she’s going to do it dressed properly.

November winds howl as the Ford turns into a cemetery and parks beneath a sycamore. The old man—bundled in a parka and leather gloves—pulls out a wooden folding chair, sits, and starts reading a book. Nothing about the old man is literary. His clothes, truck, and aura are more blue collar than highbrow or academic.

Greta gets close enough to see Paxton’s lips moving. Since starting her new job at the library in this quaint country town, Paxton has visited her at the checkout desk every morning, reading at a pace quicker than any patron she has ever known.

“He’s a bibliophile,” Candice—her supervisor—had explained. “Been checking out books for the past fifty years. And if I’m not mistaken, he’s borrowed several books per day for the past five of them.”

“For sure.” Greta glanced at her pad of notes. “Yesterday he checked out fiction, nonfiction, a biography.” Her fingers spread to emphasize their thickness. “He actually reads them, too. Cover to cover. Not just skimming. I mean, when he returns each one, he quotes whole passages. I tested him. He’s not faking. The guy is a savant or something. A Good Will Hunting kind of man. Eccentric. Inexplicably gifted. Dresses like a retired lumberjack but has a brain like a computer.”

“So?”

Greta leaned forward. “I quiz him on characters and plot points. He never gets it wrong. He even offers commentary! Who can sustain that many pages a day? What’s this guy’s story?”

“Forget about Pax.” The veteran librarian flipped her wrist. “Who cares what or how much he reads as long as he’s got a library card? What people do when they walk out those doors is none of my concern. We only intervene if they don’t bring back what they take. Okay?”

As the last of the sun’s rays shrink into darkness, Greta checks the temperature on her phone and glances toward Paxton’s spot in the cemetery. It’ll get to below zero tonight.

She considers Candice’s words. Should I bother him?

No. Not my job.

When Greta leaves, Paxton remains underneath the sycamore tree, reading a novel in one hand, grasping a flashlight in the other.

The following morning, Greta stocks shelves and helps patrons, but one thing is different.

Paxton doesn’t show.

When he’s absent from the library for another three days, Greta starts to worry. She drives to the cemetery, but Paxton’s spot is empty.

“Seen Pax today?” she asks Candice. “Strange, is all. He never missed like this before.”

“Pax is a recluse.” The supervisor types away at her laptop, eyes locked with the screen. “Give him a break.”

The following morning at the library, a police officer delivers a copy of Martin Eden. “Had it down at the station,” says the officer. “Paxton forgot to return it. Any fines? We’ll pay it.”

“Is he okay?”

The officer shakes his head and tells Greta the bittersweet tale of Paxton’s final evening on Earth. Through tear-blurred eyes, she takes the copy of Jack London’s novel in her hands and discovers a bookmark—a page from Paxton’s notebook.

“My Jasmine loves books,” a family member reads from Paxton’s journal at his funeral. “Fifty years ago, we made a promise to each other. We’d read every book in the local library—together. And I aim to keep my promise.”

As the police officer had told it, they had found Paxton beneath the tree, sitting in the wooden folding chair, holding a book in his lap. From what the investigators could discern, he had read into the night as the temperature dropped, and by the time the sun rose, Paxton was dead.

Days after the funeral, Greta stands bundled with a coat and hat next to his grave. Martin Eden is in her hand along with a notebook full of titles Paxton had yet to complete. She finds Paxton Willoughby’s gravestone underneath the sycamore tree, next to one marked “Jasmine Willoughby.” They were born a year apart. Jasmine died five years ago.

Greta’s boots crunch snow as she returns to the car parked next to the sycamore. She retrieves a folding chair from the trunk and drags it toward the gravestones.

Settling in, Greta opens Martin Eden and begins reading aloud. And when her eyes moisten, she doesn’t know if it is because of the beautiful sentences or the frigid air that makes talking difficult. Winter’s fangs sink into her coat and tempt her toward the heat of her car, but she remains outside.

One page turns into two, and then three, and soon an hour has passed. The winter air is only a passing thought. Greta sits facing Paxton and Jasmine, reading a tale about a man and woman whose love of books draws their hearts close together. The day wanes. She pulls out a flashlight and continues. Pax would’ve liked this.

When she returns to the library the following day and restocks the novel in its proper slot on Jack London’s shelf, Greta crosses off another title in Paxton’s notebook. Hundreds more remain unread.

The next evening, Greta returns to the cemetery with a new novel in hand, a flashlight, and a thermos filled with hot chocolate. And as the winter sun fades, her narration echoes among the gravestones, carried by the wind.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a professor, writer, and freelance editor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than 30 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

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