KJ offered a gruff nod, making a low noise of affirmation in his throat. “Or every single thing’s so specialized you gotta use specialized parts to fix it.” He sighed. “But money’s fake. We made it up.” In truth, however, the Wake family had run an array of businesses on Northwood Lake throughout Pleasance’s long history. Whether or not money was ‘real’ or not, they, like most people, had still tried to get their little cut of it. Still, KJ liked to pretend he was above it all, and perhaps his heart was in the right place. In truth, he would not mind if small town life could really be so simple as neighbors and friends and favors.
“If you say so,” he replied shortly, raising his brow. Maybe other people were not like him, he thought. KJ, of course, kept things, he collected memories, scraps of paper, and trinkets in boxes, not to display them for others, but to always know where they were. It had begun with the death of his grandmother, and then of his grandfather. He hung onto their articles too closely, the gramophone itself proving the point. “I just…I don’t know. People form attachments to funny things. That’s all.” He shrugged, not unaware of his own hypocrisy.
As Kincade continued, though, their words seemed to catch KJ’s ear. He pursed up his lips. “You know, you’re actually not the first person to tell me something like that. Things just turnin’ up. I think it’s one of those Pleasance quirks. Well, maybe.” He furrowed up his brow, giving something of a nod. But in that moment, something else seemed to strike him. “Uh…as a matter of fact, I sorta just found one of my grandad’s old journals out of nowhere little while ago.” This was a lie, but he had been leaning on the falsehood to probe others for information on R.M.R. “You…uh, you get a lotta old books and stuff ‘round here, right? You ever seen one with a white cover and a black dot?”
KJ allowed the question to trail off. “Again. Not so sure it was luck. This place, it, well, it likes to dangle carrots. Do you know what I mean?” He took a long breath, the words almost earnest, even for how often he spun stories for the sole sake of being dramatic or troublesome. “Maybe you were meant to find it. That’s all. If you believe in that sort of thing.” He nodded his head and watched Kincade go before continuing to fiddle with the items atop the desk.
Things happened for a reason in Pleasance. They always did.
He looked up. “Uh, sure. Yeah. Let’s do it,” KJ replied at last, taking a few more moments of fiddling before accepting the record and going about getting it to play. He gingerly arranged the device’s cone and set the thing in place, and there, he gave it a small crank. It crackled hoarsely to life, finding its voice despite age and grime. KJ smiled, his pleasure evident enough, as the music began to trickle forth.
Catching himself, however, he allowed it to fade, but he looked up to meet Kincade’s eye. “You really don’t know much this means.”
Kincade listened and nodded along. It was true, people did form funny attachments, but that wasn’t really their own style. Things were plenty transient in their life, which suited Kincade just fine. They appreciated what they had while they had it, but had no great trouble letting it go later. That was true of almost everything and everyone, with a few specific exceptions.
“I think it depends on the person. I don’t have any funny attachments to most things, and not to these. They’re all yours to get attached to all you want, I don’t mind. I think it’s because I find so many things, you know? If I made little attachments like that, I’d- I’d be a hoarder!” Thankfully that danger had never been real. Kincade had learned very quickly to let go, even where most children tended to collect trinkets and treasures like crows and ravens.
The question about the book peached their interest and Kincade had to pause for a second as he put the record on the player. “White with a black dot, huh? I can’t say it sounds familiar, but I do have a ton of old books, so I might be mis-remembering. I can show you where I keep them if you want to have a look. I actually just finished shelving a big haul I found a couple weeks back.”
Carefully, KJ cranks up the record player and Kincade gently settles the stylus on the outer edge of the record. The sound that pours forth is a bit crackly with age, the sound almost tinny, but it still rings true. Haunting, distant voices belong to people they will never know call and repeat a work song about losing love on the rail line. He listens to all the records he gets, and this was a favorite.
The emotion KJ levels at them is earnest and true, even Kincade can tell that. Still, they accept it easily without any awkwardness or discomfort, only a warm, welcome smile. “Of course,” they respond, “it’s no big deal. Sounds like it works, which is good news! I don’t know if I believe all that carrot business, but if it’s true, I’m glad it dangled this for me. Seems like a good fit.”
After another pause, Kincade perks up. “Oh yeah, the books! Here, they’re just over on that shelf.” They pop around the counter and point to a neighboring bookshelf, one they’d restored themselves some years ago. It’s not packed with books, but there are quite a number, most of them cloth- or leather-bound without any dust jackets.
“Most of these are old occult tomes, but there are some old or rare prints of major literature here, too. Jane Eyre, Anna Karenina, War and Peace, Scarlet Letter, Sea Wolf, Ivanhoe, Scarlet Pimpernel... There’s more I’m sure, but those are the ones I remember from the last pile. Feel free to have a look, see if this place dangles you any carrots.”
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