Rusmir Musić

There is a diner in the Tennessee mountains where a little girl showed me a book. She could not have been six. She held it the way grown men hold the deed to a house. A thin paperback. The cover soft and bent from love. A cartoon bear. I asked her, to be kind, if it was a good book. She said, "The Book Lady sent it. She sends me one every month. She knows my name." Then she went back to her pancakes, as if she had not just described something impossible. I could not let it go. All through breakfast I turned it over. A woman who knows the names of small children, sends them books, and asks for nothing. In my country she would have a shrine. Incense. One clean day a year when the town remembers her. I decided the Book Lady must be a gentle fiction. A story mothers invent, the way we tell children the old mountain is watching, so they behave. I was wrong. The Book Lady is real. She is the most famous woman in the state. Her name is Dolly. I made errors. In a hardware store I called her "your empress." The man thought about it honestly and said, "Close enough." I asked a waitress if Dolly was still living. She set down the coffee pot with great care. "Honey, Dolly will outlive us all, and then she will send flowers to the funerals." Then they told me the thing, all of them, in the flat voice this country keeps for facts too large to raise the voice for. Dolly grew up one of twelve children, in a one-room cabin, in these same mountains. Her father could not read a word his whole life. So she built the thing that sends the books. Not the clever children. Not the deserving ones. Every child who signs up, from birth until they start school, free, their own name on the cover, whether the family has money or nothing at all. The children do not know she is famous. They know only the Book Lady. Some will grow old and never learn it was her. Two hundred million books, a man told me at a gas pump. Then, seeing the number had defeated me, he made it smaller and heavier at once. "She did it for her daddy," he said. "He never got to read. So she made sure every child after him would." I would like to tell you what happened in my chest when he said that. I do not have the words, and I distrust any man who claims he does. I come from eight hundred years of men who wrote everything down. We cut our names into stone so the centuries could not misplace us. My father was the last of that line before me. A silent man. For forty years I believed his silence was the only thing he ever gave me. In that diner, I remembered something I had put away as nothing. When I was a boy, my father worked among machines loud enough to take a man's hearing, and in time they took most of his. He came home each night with nothing left to say. But there was one year, when I was learning to read and ashamed of how badly it went, that every night, however late he came in, he sat beside me while I read one page aloud. He never said a word. I thought he was only checking that I had done the work. It took me forty years and a stranger's diner to understand. He could not hear me. By then he could barely hear anything. He was not listening to the words. He could not have caught one of them. He was only sitting where a small boy could look up and see that his father had stayed. I carried that year my whole life as proof my father was cold. It was the warmest thing anyone has ever done for me. I just never had the book to prove it, so I let myself forget. There is a bookshop two doors from that diner. I have just bought a thin paperback with a soft-looking bear on the cover. I am mailing it tonight to my father in Japan. He is eighty-one. He still cannot hear. He will not need to. Inside the cover I wrote one line, large enough that he can read it without his glasses: "I finished the page. I always finished the page. Thank you for staying." The Book Lady learned it from her father, who could not read. I learned it from mine, who could not hear. And somewhere in the mountains between us, those two old men would have understood each other completely, and said nothing at all, which is the loudest thing men like them have ever known how to say.