The High Road

I found a couple of books during the bedroom remodel. Actually, I found a number of books in the towering piles that teetered on my nightstand. And a little table. And the top of my dresser. A few were relocated to my office. Some others found their way onto the bookshelves in the family room. A shorter stack of books I am intending to read in the near future remains on my nightstand. But there were these two volumes that a friend had lent to me over a year ago. One was a self-help book that by page three had lost me completely that I never picked up again. The other a paperback of a novel I liked so much I knew I would want to read it again at some point, so I bought it in hardcover when I discovered it on a bargain rack. I should explain that this friend was someone very close to me for three years. We supported each other through our divorces, we went on road trips and shopping trips together. I would probably say she was my best friend, although I don't like attaching ranks to friendships. But she was. I say was because I have seen her once in the last year. I still don't know what came between us, I'm still kind of surprised that we don't see each other or even talk anymore. I just know that at some point she stopped taking calls from me. So when I went through all the books that had accumulated in my bedroom over the last three years and sorted them out into piles for where they should go, there were these two left over. I thought about dropping them into the GoodWill-bound bag. But I just left them on the counter in the kitchen and walked past them for over a week. At work, I announced that I had found myself in a moral quandary and told the story of the books. Janet said, I'll tell you should do, but you're not going to like what I have to say. I said, okay, tell me. She continued. Give the books back to her, you know it's the right thing to do, if she's not home, put them in her car or hang them in a bag on her door. Take the high road, she said, and you'll always know you did the right thing. Damn. I knew she was right. So, this afternoon, I drove to her home and rang the doorbell. No answer even though her car was right there. I waited. And rang the bell again. Then I retrieved the plastic shopping bag from my car, placed the books inside, and hung the bag on the doorknob. I got back in my car and gazed at the book-laden bag, bumping gently against the door in the breeze. I half expected the door to swing open. But it remained closed. And that's just fine. Another will open. And a smiling face on the other side, maybe a face I haven't become familiar with as yet, will welcome me in. With any luck, there will be books inside, books that I've never read, but would like to.