We Are Inevitable by Gayle Forman (read aloud txt) 📕

They kept the name, though, because people know this place. But it’s really a Furniture Emporium now.”

“Oh,” Ira says. “I see.”

The clerk is friendly enough. After he unlocks the door and flips on the lights, he says, “You can come in early.” He opens the door. “Browse if you want.”

Set loose, Ira is adrift. He jogs up and down the aisles, swiveling left and right like a lost child in the grocery store.

“How about this one?” I ask, pointing to an oak shelf that looks vaguely like the one that broke, in that it is large, wooden, and reddish.

“Okay, okay, good, good,” Ira says, speaking in duplicate as he does when his anxiety spikes. “How much?”

I peer at the price sticker. “On sale for four hundred and forty-five dollars.”

I have no idea if that’s a lot for a shelf. Or if we can afford it. Though I technically own the bookstore, Ira still takes care of the business end of things.

“We’d like the red oak shelf,” Ira calls to the clerk. “Delivered.”

They start filling out the paperwork. When Ira gives our address, the clerk is not familiar with our town. I show him on my phone. “Oh, man, that’s far.”

“Linda always delivered for us. Steve used to drive the truck himself. Charged fifty dollars.”

“Delivery that far is gonna be . . .” He types into the computer. “One fifty.” He looks at Ira. “You’d be better off buying it online. Get free shipping.”

Online? You’re better off telling Ira to sell his kidney. Which he wouldn’t. Give it away? Yes, but not sell it.

“Ira,” I try. “He has a point.”

“I won’t buy online. From a chain.”

“But this is a chain.”

“But this is where I’ve always bought my furniture.” He nods to the clerk, who tallies up the total.

“Four forty-five, plus tax and delivery. That comes to six thirty-four.”

“Six thirty-four,” Ira repeats in a reedy voice.

“Maybe we should forget it,” I begin.

“No,” Ira says. “We need a shelf.” With a shaking hand, Ira counts the bills in his wallet. “I have two hundred in cash. Charge the rest,” he says, pulling out a credit card.

“Where’d you get that card?”

“Oh, I’ve had this one for years,” he replies.

Before I can point out that he must know I know this is bullshit, the card is declined. “Try this one,” Ira says, forking over another one.

“How are you getting all these cards?” When Ira and Mom transferred ownership of the store to me on my eighteenth birthday and then declared bankruptcy a few months later, it was supposed to wipe out the debt than had been sinking us. And it was also meant to wipe their credit clean. Ira’s not meant to be eligible for new cards.

“They’re in my name,” Ira replies, his breath growing ragged as he hands over yet another card. “They won’t hurt the store. They won’t hurt you.”

“They? How many cards do you have?”

“Just three.”

“Just three?”

“It’s not a big deal. Sometimes you have to borrow from Peter to pay Paul.”

When the third is declined, Ira bows his head. “Linda used to let me pay on installments,” he tells the clerk.

“Sure,” the clerk says. “We can do that.”

Ira looks up, a painful smile on his face. “Thank you. Is it okay if we pay two hundred now?”

“Yep,” the clerk replies. “The balance is due before we deliver. We’ll hold it for ninety days.”

Ira blinks. His mouth goes into an O shape, like a fish gasping for air.

“Ira, he means layaway. Not credit. You have to pay before you get the shelf.”

“O-oh,” Ira stutters. His breathing picks up and his eyes bulge. I know what’s coming next.

“Excuse us a moment.” I lead Ira to a bench outside and help him to take deep, slow breaths. “Let’s just forget the shelves.”

“No!” Ira’s voice is raspy, desperate. “We can’t.”

“Fine. Then let’s order online.”

“No!” Ira hands me his wallet. “Just go get something.”

“But Ira . . .” I begin, the frustration twisting in my stomach. Because sometimes I just want to shake him. Why can’t he see it? A shelf won’t magically transform us into a bookstore like the one in this shopping center. It’s over for us. Time to accept our extinction. Like Linda Coleman apparently has.

But then I look at him: this broken man, who has given me, all of us, all of him.

“Fine,” I say, closing my fist around the wallet. I go back inside and slap two hundred dollars out on the counter. “What will this get us?”

What it will get us is metal shelves.

This turns out to be important.

Too Loud a Solitude

The next morning, Ira drops a stack of books on the counter beside me and announces, “First of November. Time to begin a new unit.”

“Great,” I say, forcing a smile. “What do we have this month?”

“Central Europeans. Communism and kinky sex.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

In case it’s not been made abundantly clear, I was the nerdy book kid growing up, which in our town was like having leprosy. Luckily, there were a handful of other lepers in town, smart, brainy people who didn’t regard reading a book as a sign of sexual impotence. They’ve all left, obviously. Off to college, like I was meant to be. But senior year, we were in the middle of a messy bankruptcy and property transfer, which made applying for financial aid impossible. So I figured I’d take a year, apply again when things were settled.

A lot can change in a year, though. Just ask the dinosaurs. By the time college applications came due again, Sandy was gone. Mom was gone. And Ira, though still physically here, was also gone. Leaving was an impossibility. And besides, by then I owned a bookstore. Job security for life, Ira told me without a speck of irony.

Ira, who had been halfway through a PhD program when he fell in love with Mom and dropped out, insisted I continue my education, college or not. So I now attend the University of Ira. It’s an unaccredited school, and