—There are few things more beautiful to an author’s eye, he confessed to Billy, than a well-read copy of one of his books.
Setting the book down, the professor took up his pen and opened to the title page.
—It was a gift, I see.
—From Miss Matthiessen, said Billy. She’s the librarian at the Morgen Public Library.
—A gift from a librarian, no less, the professor said with added satisfaction.
Having written in Billy’s book at some length, the professor applied his signature with a great big theatrical flourish—since when it comes to New York City, even the old guys who write compendiums perform for the back row. Before returning the book, the professor flitted once through the pages as if to make sure they were all there. Then letting out a little expression of surprise, he looked at Billy.
—I see that you haven’t filled in any of the You chapter. Now, why is that?
—Because I want to start in medias res, explained Billy. And I’m not sure yet where the middle is.
It sounded like a kooky answer to me, but it left the professor beaming.
—Billy Watson, he said, as a seasoned historian and professional teller of tales, I think I can say with confidence that you have already been through enough adventures to warrant the beginning of your chapter! However . . .
Here, the professor opened one of his desk drawers and took out a black ledger just like the one that he’d been working in when we arrived.
—Should the eight pages in your Compendium prove insufficient for recording your story in its entirety—as I am almost certain they will—you can continue in the pages of this journal. And should you run out of pages in it, drop me a line, and I shall happily send you another.
Then, after handing over the two books, the professor shook Billy’s hand and said what an honor it had been to meet him. And that, as they say, should have been that.
But after Billy had carefully put away his books, cinched the straps on his backpack, and taken the first few steps toward the exit, he suddenly stopped, turned, and faced the professor with a furrowed brow—which with Billy Watson could only mean one thing: more questions.
—I think we’ve taken up enough of the professor’s time, I said, laying a hand on Billy’s shoulder.
—That’s all right, said Abernathe. What is it, Billy?
Billy looked at the floor for a second, then up at the professor.
—Do you think heroes return?
—You mean like Napoleon returning to Paris, and Marco Polo returning to Venice . . . ?
—No, said Billy shaking his head. I don’t mean returning to a place. I mean returning in time.
The professor was quiet for a moment.
—Why do you ask that, Billy?
This go-round, the old scrivener definitely got more than he bargained for. Because without taking a seat, Billy launched into a story that was longer and wilder than the first one. While he was on the Sunset East, he explained, and Emmett had gone looking for food, a pastor who’d invited himself into Billy’s boxcar tried to take Billy’s collection of silver dollars with the intention of tossing Billy from the train. In the nick of time, a big black guy dropped through the hatch, and it ended up being the pastor who got the old heave-ho.
But apparently, the pastor, the silver dollars, and the last-minute rescue weren’t even the point of the story. The point was that the black guy, whose name was Ulysses, had left behind a wife and son when he crossed the Atlantic to fight in the war and had been wandering the country on freight trains ever since.
Now, when an eight-year-old boy is spinning a yarn like this one—with black men dropping through ceilings and pastors being thrown from trains—you might think it would test the limits of someone’s willingness to suspend his disbelief. Especially a professor’s. But it didn’t test Abernathe’s in the least.
As Billy told his story, the good professor resumed his seat in slow motion, carefully lowering himself into his chair, then gently leaning back, as if he didn’t want a sudden sound or movement to interrupt the boy’s story, or his own attention to it.
—He thought he was named Ulysses for Ulysses S. Grant, said Billy, but I explained to him that he must be named for the Great Ulysses. And that having already wandered for over eight years without his wife and son, he was sure to be reunited with them once his ten years of wandering were complete. But if heroes don’t return in time, Billy concluded with a touch of concern, then maybe I shouldn’t have said that to him.
When Billy stopped speaking, the professor closed his eyes for a moment. Not like Emmett does when he’s trying to hold in his exasperation, but like a lover of music who has just heard the ending of his favorite concerto. When he opened his eyes again, he looked from Billy to the books along his walls and back again.