This World Will Pass Away: One
Byers looked the other way when Standard approached.
Read the prologue here.
Baldwin Byers walked out of his bedroom and through his living room to an entryway near the back corner of the building. It led to a stairwell descending to a hallway on the first floor. At the end of the hallway was a thick oak door. He unlocked it, swung it open, and walked in.
Inside, to the left, was a light switch. Byers flicked the switch on with a crisp click, and dark fans hanging in an orderly pattern from the pressed tin ceiling slowly began to turn. Walking in a circuitous path around the store, Byers turned on lamps that glowed with a warm incandescence that dimly filled the interior. He stood reflectively for a moment and looked around. He was pleased each time he did.
He was wealthy—family money that he invested carefully, diligently, and with prescience. In this small town, he was a tycoon. His money bought him respect. He also owned a handful of profitable businesses and rental properties. Many deferred to him, hoping his wealth was a golden contagion. His precise mind— so effective and efficient—relaxed in the store. It was his beautiful toy, his mind, inside out.
He walked to one of the front doors, unlocked it, and propped it open. While passing the large plate glass window to open the second door, he watched people move down the sidewalk and saw slow-moving cars drive through the arc of sunshine painting the street. Then, he turned and walked toward the back of the store and the soft, artificial glow. He fiddled with a coffee grinder and expensive beans.
Byers knew almost everyone in town. He called most of them friends—even if they were not. But, he was respected, which meant more than friendship.
Soon, the heavy smell of coffee floated around him. Byers' back was to the window as he poured coffee into a delicate, white demitasse cup when he heard the creak of the smooth wooden floor. It was Nathan Wheeler. Byers had known Wheeler since he moved to the town to retire. He was interested in music, but Byers thought that, for someone in his 70s, he was abjectly ignorant.
“Hello, Nathan. Coffee?”
“No, no. I’ve had too much already, “Wheeler said.
Wheeler walked to a large bookcase on the back wall. Vinyl records took up much of the space, and he thumbed through them all.
Byers sipped his espresso and studied Wheeler as he pulled an album out and read the back. A car horn burped outside, and Byers looked. The sun flashed on the windshield of other cars as they passed by.
People wandered in like bees flitting around honeysuckle. Byers nodded hello and moved toward a corner where he could see the street and watch them look around. He drank his coffee and sat the cup and saucer on a small counter next to his heavy black and silver Italian espresso machine. Wheeler still looked at the cover of a Dave Brubeck album.
“Do you want to hear it?” Byers asked.
“I might,” Wheeler said. “Do you like it, Byers?“
“I like everything in here,“ he said with quiet confidence. “But it doesn’t mean you will.”
Then, Byers told Wheeler why he liked the record. He told him in terms he thought he would understand. Wheeler listened and smiled.
“I’ll try it anyway,” he said. “Can I still get that cup of coffee?” Byers made him an espresso and poured it into a white cup like he used, but Wheeler never noticed.
Since they were children, Will always made Byers self-conscious.
When Wheeler left, the store was quiet. The air was fragrant and dusty with pollen, but the heavy humidity had not settled on the river and crept into the town. There was a roaming happiness in the air.
Byers walked out the wide open door and looked to the left and right. He waved to a few people who passed on the other side of the street and said hello to those near enough to hear.
Walking up the street, looking alone even as people passed, was Will Standard. He was an antidote to Byers. They had known each other since they were boys. But time does not mean closeness. Standard was friendly, but Byers’ charm, taste, and position made no difference to him. When he looked at Baldwin Byers, it was deep, searching, and inscrutable. Byers began to turn and go back into the store, into the shadows but instead steeled himself to wait unperturbed and warming in the sun moving up the blue sky.
Byers looked the other way when Standard approached. He heard his footsteps scuff the sidewalk and stop. Will Standard tapped his arm and said, “Hello, Baldwin. How are you?”
Byers gave a start as if he hadn’t seen him approach.
“Morning, Will,” Byers said. “I haven’t seen you for a few weeks.“ Since it wasn’t a question, Will did not answer.
“I’m going down to Mary’s and get coffee. Want anything? I won’t be long, and I’ll stop back by.“
“If you want coffee, I’ve got it. You know mine is better than what’s in that dirty pot. I’ll even give you a real cup,” Byers said with a bite of exasperation.
“No, it’s fine. I can’t taste what you can, so your coffee is wasted on me. I think Mary could use the help, and I don’t mind. I’ll probably only drink half before I sit it down someplace and forget about it,” Standard said.
“Up to you,” Byers said and looked down the street. Will Standard looked at the side of his head, his jaw muscles tensing and relaxing like he was chewing words.
“OK. Have a good one, Baldwin,” he said and walked down the street toward the smell of frying grease.
Byers walked back inside and went to the counter near the back. He wiped a cup and saucer with a clean cotton bar towel and made another espresso. Since they were children, Will always made Byers self-conscious. It was the way he looked him in the eye, searching and attentive. He remembered words, jokes, and kindness. There was no room for hypocrisy or nuance. Will Standard never heard what anyone meant, only what they said.