THE NINETY-SEVENTH PAGE

Until the unpacking, sorting, and shelving of the books purchased on the road, I would not go to the post office and see what had arrived while I was gone. The temptation was immense because I had gone into a kind of autumnal harvesting frenzy before I hit the highways. I was keen to see what had arrived in my absence. I dared not face the post office until I had taken care of the work in hand.

As much of the heist was made for the Manhattan Project, I could but stack them as neatly as possible by theme and category on the floor of the bedrooms, containing fiction F (the Farrells, J.G. and James) through H (Huxley, Hynes). For a few bucks, the oil company delivery man helped me take the springs, mattress, and frame of the bed down to the basement. I was amazed at the number of dusty books that had been under the bed. That was not my way. There is a proper place for every book in my house, and someone had violated the rule. They remain unknown. And I immediately made an audible, galvanizing sigh of relief. One fewer bed, one set of sheets less to launder. And if I disposed of the unneeded spare sheets, I could open up that closet for additional book storage.

I suddenly realized that my values had been seriously screwed up. The linens could have taken the bleaching glare of sunlight; the books couldn’t.