A Man with Great Taste

by Miles Efron

Bill Brasse is my father-in-law, and today he’s asked a favor of me. Emily and I leave early for the drive to her parents’ place in Burke County, up in the mountains. At the cul-de-sac we find a rental van blocking the Brasse’s driveway. So I park by the dogwoods and the rhododendrons.

Mrs. Brasse—Ginny—directs me downstairs to the finished basement. I find Bill down there, dressed in his Lee jeans and a plaid shirt and work boots. He’s on his hands and knees with a tape measure. Looking thinner than the last time I saw him, Bill Brasse stands and he coughs. He says, “The order of the day is getting these dusty old books out of here.”

For as long as I’ve known the Brasses, Bill has used this basement to store the full 3,000-copy run of his self-published book, Yes You Can!—a rampart of white printer’s boxes, neatly stacked along the wood-veneer paneling.

“You’re getting rid of them?” I ask.

“Not my idea!” Ginny shouts down the stairs. “Just for the record.”

Bill Brasse shrugs. He says, “Donating them, actually. I’ve got a buddy at the public library. He’ll get the books into this excellent sharing program. To libraries all over the country. I mean, who can argue with that? Someone may actually read them. Finally.”

A long time ago Emily told me how her dad had hoped to parlay Yes You Can! into a career pivot as a motivational speaker. For thirty years, Bill Brasse has toiled as the lone clinical psychologist in his tiny Blue Ridge hamlet. He oversees the court-ordered self-harmers. The drug-addicted school principals. The housewives drowning in ennui. Bill Brasse counsels them all. On numerous occasions, he’s confided to me how chafing, how limiting, he finds this work. Though at other times, to be fair, he’s described it as his life’s calling. Between the horns of this dilemma, Bill Brasse seemed never to find the right opening for Yes You Can!

“Where do I start?” I ask.

“Grab a box. Or better yet, grab two.”

#

When we’ve cleared out the basement, the rented van rests low on its springs, and the cargo bay is stacked wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, with boxes. Ginny and Emily admire our handiwork through the kitchen window as they sit at the white table, talking and sipping china cups of coffee.

Downstairs, during a final check, I note how the shag carpet is all matted and compressed where the books sat for so many years.

“Did we get them all?” Bill Brasse says. “We don’t want to go through this again.” Then he stomps upstairs and I follow him.

At the door, Bill Brasse kisses Mrs. Brasse and I kiss Emily.

Emily whispers in my ear, “You’re so sweet to my dad.”

“Don’t exert yourself,” Ginny tells Bill Brasse, and it occurs to me how worried she looks.

As the two of us walk out to the van, I hear Emily giving evasive answers to her mom’s questions about baby names.

#

It surprises me to find that Bill’s buddy is a woman, a 50-something librarian named Carol. She stands on the loading dock out behind the old WPA brick library building, directing Bill to park in the freight zone.

“What’s all this?” Carol says.

“These are the books I told you about,” Bill Brasse says. “For donation.”

“Jesus, Bill,” Carol says. “What were you thinking?”

“What do you mean?”

She whispers, “After everything we discussed?”

“I didn’t think you’d mind,” Bill Brasse says.

Quieter, but not so quiet I can’t hear, Carol whispers, “You are so fucking oblivious, Bill. That was then, this is now.”

I say, “Maybe I better just wait in the car.”

While Bill and Carol talk, I watch them in the van’s fisheye sideview mirror. Carol frowns. She gesticulates in her oversized cable-knit sweater. She shakes her head no a great deal. At one point, Bill Brasse touches Carol on her hip, which causes Carol to twist away from him. “For Christ’s sake,” I hear her say. Then Carol turns and marches back into the library.

I hear the heavy fire door slam shut behind her.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Bill Brasse walks around the van and sits down in the driver’s seat. He clicks his seatbelt on.

“Change of plan,” Bill Brasse says.

“What was all that about?”

“Carol? Oh, she’s just an old friend.”

#

The first time I ever saw a copy of Yes You Can!, I found it sitting on a shelf in Emily’s apartment in Asheville. Over the course of our first real weekend together I read the whole thing. Initially I took it as a joke. The cover shows an apple-cheeked Bill Brasse dressed in a tweed jacket with elbow patches, sporting blow-dried hair and whitened teeth. But once I read past the cringey setup, Bill Brasse’s point moved me. You don’t have to be authentic with everyone, he says. But to be happy, you need to be authentic with someone, someone worthy of your authenticity.  It wasn’t so much the message of Yes You Can! that I admired. It was the voice. Brimming with earnestness. Confidently unshy to state such a plain thesis.

A few months later, the first time I met Mr. and Mrs. Brasse, Emily told her dad I was a fan of his book. Grinning and holding me by the arm, he brought me down to the basement and signed a copy for me. To Tom, a man with great taste. Your friend, Bill Brasse.

#

Now Bill drives us around town with an aimless air. He’s whistling through his teeth, reading the names of streets and businesses aloud. He looks tired, with ash-colored circles under his eyes.

Eventually we make a detour into an Arby’s drive-through for lunch, eating our meal in the van. It’s April, and the morning cold is fragile enough that by now, at noon, we can roll down the windows to feel the sun.

It’s plain that Bill Brasse is weighing his options. We eat in the van quietly. Just the sound of wrappers and straws squeaking in wax cups Until I work up the nerve to say, “If the library can’t take the books, why don’t we just bring them back to the house?”

“Won’t take the books,” Bill Brasse corrects me. “The library won’t take the books. I guess Carol changed her damn mind.”

“Well, whatever it is. Let’s just take them back home.”

Bill Brasse smiles, as if he feels sorry for me. Then he balls up his sandwich wrapper and tosses it into the back. He drops the van into gear. “Change of plans,” he says as he pulls the van into traffic.

#

The owner of Second Act Used Books is Bill Brasse’s poker buddy, Marc. Marc is a tall, stoop-shouldered man in a raglan sweater. His bald scalp is dotted with sun damage, giving the impression of a barnacle-encrusted boat’s hull. Marc pumps my hand militarily when I follow Bill into his musty store in Banner Elk.

“How many copies did you say?” Marc gasps.

“Five thousand,” Bill Brasse repeats.

Marc laughs until he sees that Bill Brasse is serious. Then he says, “I mean, Bill, I could take maybe a dozen. Tops. But honestly, even that would be pushing it. Just look around. We don’t have the space. Even if I wanted to.”

“Oh come off it, Marc. Do you mean to tell me… Do you mean to tell me—”

A fit of violent coughing seizes Bill Brasse. Gasping, he holds up a finger as if to say, Just wait a second—I’m not done. But the coughing gets worse, not better. He sounds like a barking dog, until finally, Bill Brasse sputters a small cobweb of blood into his palm.

The three of us, Marc and Bill and I, stare at the glowing snarl of red in his hand. For a furtive moment we all gape, until Bill wipes it away on the leg of his jeans.

“Bill?” Marc asks. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

“Marc, I’m fine.”

“How about a glass of water—”

“—Free!” Bill Brasse announces, veering back to his original ask. “You can have the books gratis. It won’t cost you one penny. Just…please.”

“Bill,” Marc says. “C’mon, man. I’m running a business.”

#

“Please don’t ask about my health,” Bill Brasse says. “It’s damn exhausting. What’s that thing people say? …It is what it is.”

I can’t think of a response, so I simply shrug.

It’s only a few miles along the town’s main thoroughfare—past the car dealerships and the big box stores—before we pull into the donation lane at the Goodwill.

In a grave tone of voice, Bill Brasse says, “I know this is not ideal. But—”

“It is what it is…” I say.

“The way I see it—here, at least there’s a chance someone will buy the books. A few copies anyway. It could happen. Really, it’s not so far off from the library idea.”

“Are you sure about this? We can still take them back home, no problem.”

Bill Brasse gives me a wan smile and puts the van into park in the sheltered donation pull-through. He says, “Let’s just get this over with.”

A fellow with Down syndrome and a name tag that says NATHAN opens the van’s cargo doors and asks what we’ll be donating today.

“Lots and lots of books,” says Bill Brasse, coughing politely into his fist.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Nathan says. He pulls a box into easy reach, slicing the tape open with a razor blade.

Suddenly a gout of wriggling silverfish swarms out of the box, spilling and slithering onto Nathan’s hands. He shrieks a raspy, “Infestation! Infestation!” And with that, Nathan shoves the box back into the van. He says, “No way, Jose.”

“What if you try one of the other boxes?” Bill Brasse asks meekly. His neck is flushed and his voice sounds thin. “Maybe the other boxes are clean.”

“Sorry, Charlie,” Nathan says. “No can do.”

“Please,” says Bill Brasse.

I touch Bill Brasse’s shoulder. “It’s Ok,” I say. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

#

The Saddle Room is a bar in the strip mall that also houses the shuttered Kroger market and a Subway, as well a check cashing service with neon $$$ signs in its windows. At the bar I pay for two boilermakers. Then I carry them to our table near the back of the room.

Anticipating my remonstrations, Bill Brasse holds his hand up to forestall my pleading. He says, “I’m ready to be rid of those damned books today. Yesterday, in fact. So please don’t tell me to take them back home.”

“Ok,” I say. “I won’t.”

Someone is playing Quarterflash on the jukebox. The singer lady, blowing her doleful saxophone, sounds incredibly sad as we sit there sipping our daytime alcohol.

“You know, I’m really glad Emily married you,” Bill Brasse tells me. He has his arm up, resting on the back of the booth. He lifts a toast. “To Tom, a man with great taste.”

As we drink, Bill Brasse looks at me, and he appears pale. He swallows and says, “You know? You always think things in life will be hard. And then they’re much, much harder. Pretty soon, you just run out of time.”

“Hey,” I say. “Maybe you shouldn’t have any more to drink.”

#

It’s late afternoon by now. We’re driving out in the county, where the road is winding and narrow and the speed limit is 55. I can see the Blue Ridge off in the distance through the bare, wintering trees. In another couple weeks the branches will bud out, and the spring blossoms will follow soon after that. I have the passenger window cracked, and cool air is whipping against my sleeve.

At the landfill entrance, Bill Brasse shows his driver’s license to the attendant, a wizened lady with a face like a coil of rope. She directs us down a makeshift road to the active sector of the dump.

As Bill Brasse eases the van over the rutted dirt outlet, I say, “You’re really sure about this?”

Bill Brasse smiles at me. Whatever morose feeling overcame him at the Saddle Room has passed. He seems at peace with the moment. He says, “It’s fine, Tom. But thanks for asking.”

Bill sets the parking brake. We open the cargo doors and we begin pulling out the boxes, one by one—hurling each box off into the field of garbage. It only takes a few silent minutes of work to throw them all away.

When it’s done, Bill Brasse gazes into the van’s empty cargo bay. Then he latches the rear doors and slaps the van in the universal signal for Ready to roll.

It’s a long drive back to town. We don’t say much until we’re about a block from home, when Bill Brasse says, “Please don’t tell Ginny about this. Or Emily, either? Maybe this could just stay between just us.”

“Sure,” I say. “Of course.”

#

Now it’s late. Emily and I lie in the Brasse’s upstairs guest bed. Tomorrow we’ll drive back home to Cary.

I have my head resting against Emily’s stomach. Sometimes we lie like this and I pretend Emily’s normal stomach sounds are messages from the future, which only I can translate.

“Apparently our daughter will found a successful religious cult,” I say. Emily laughs. I say, “Oh, and we will enjoy great riches thanks to our part in a class-action lawsuit against an unscrupulous office supply retailer.” She lets her fingers work their way through my hair.

Emily asks, “Where did you guys go for so long today?”

Her stomach radiates warmth against my cheek. I hear the blood moving inside her.

“What do you mean?” I say.

“You and Dad were gone for hours. I thought you were just donating those books.” Her fingers pause their exploration of my hair. Emily asks, “Did Dad seem weird to you, like, after you guys got back?”

“Did you know your dad plays poker?” I say. “He introduced me to his poker friends.”

“So you visited his poker friends and donated his self-help books to the public library? That was your big day?”

“Pretty much,” I say. “Yes, that’s pretty much it.”

Eventually Emily falls asleep. I listen as her breathing gets slower and slower. I lean across and click off her reading light.

I try to sleep, but I feel restless. Outside, the moon is full, and the room is too bright. So I lie in the blue half-light, with my head turned toward the window, where I can see the yard’s naked dogwood branches blowing in the wind.

After some time, compelled by a sense that something is wrong—I left the gas on, or a door is unlocked, or the forgotten iron will burn the house down—I venture downstairs. As quietly as I can, I descend all the way into the Brasse’s basement.

There, I find it. Behind the sofa. One last box of books we missed in our haste during the morning load-out. In the dark of the basement the white cardboard glows like bone. The sight of it annoys me.

Silently I open up the basement closet, full of coats and family knick-knacks. I push the last, forgotten box of books inside, all the way to the back. I arrange things so the box is hidden behind the board games and Afghans for covering up on cold nights. I make sure nobody will find it for many years.

BIO

Miles Efron is a writer from Charlottesville, Virginia. His fiction has appeared in Blood+Honey, 100-Foot Crow, and Porcupine Literary, among other places. His website is milesefron.com.