Deepest Secret Nobody Knows

The next morning, he sat behind his counter at the shop, looking closely at the photograph of the old bar. It was enthralling and oddly familiar. He opened the browser on his laptop that was sitting beside him and typed in McSorely’s Ale House. Low and behold, there it was. It was still up and running in Manhattan. He got a feeling, deep in the pit of his stomach that made him uneasy. He knew that this photograph didn’t belong to him and it wasn’t taken by anyone that he knew; yet this photograph was placed inside his book like a marker for the poem that he had read last night. That he had read and reread, repeatedly he played the words over in his head. Someone had been in his apartment last night. Someone had come in and not stolen anything, hadn’t disturbed any of his possessions other than his copy of Leaves of Grass. Muddled the layers of dust that surrounded its spot on the bookcase.

Thinking about this fact put his mind in a funk for the rest of his work day. His mind clouded with endless thoughts of who would do such a thing. He could feel a stress headache begin to form behind his eyes.

“Kamala…” No response from the back room. He turned away from the counter and called again.

“Kamala!” He said a bit louder than before. His co-worker, Kamala popped out from behind a stack of boxes, containing new releases that had yet to be processed in. Steve gave her a sad smile.

“I’m gonna run across the street and grab some coffee, do you need anything?” He always asked, and Kamala always shook her head, no. She followed him out of the back room so that she could watch the store front while Steve was gone. He stepped out into the busy and wet afternoon.

The rain from the evening before was continuing to batter the pavement surrounding Steve in his day to day life. Dark clouds made the tall buildings around him appear ominous and imposing. He jogged across the street into the coffee shop; just being outside for a few minutes caused his hair to stick to his face, he tried to run his hands through it to remove some of the water, but it only made it worse. He wiped his hands dry on his jeans and waited for his turn to order.

The man in front of him was incredibly tall and broad. Steve felt glad that he knew exactly what he wanted to order or else he wouldn’t have been able to read the menu over the span of the man’s shoulders. He felt someone step up in line behind him, he looked through his peripheral vision and could tell that the man was pretending not to notice how small he was. Most of the time Steve didn’t mind being the smallest one around, it was what it was. As a teenager it used to bother him more but now, well into his twenties he had learned to live with it. There were still moments however, when his survival instincts would kick in and his heart rate would increase when he felt like he was being closed in on. Hearing his name being called pulled him out of his suffocating thoughts.

“Steve?” The barista called his name once more as Steve stepped up. He smiled shyly, running his hands through his still wet hair.

“Sorry, was in my head for a minute. Can I get a latte to go?” He said, heat rising up his neck. The girl behind the counter set about ringing him up for his drink.

“Slow over at the shop today?” She asked, he usually didn’t drink coffee this late in the day.

“That, and I didn’t get much sleep last night.” It wasn’t a lie. He spent most of his night on high alert, listening for any and every tiny sound that seemed out of place. Leaves of Grass on his bedside table after he left his love seat. He couldn’t settle his mind enough to focus on the act of falling asleep.

He picked up his coffee when it was called out and prepared himself to brave the rain once again. He ran across the street, dodging and waving aside cars. He looked towards his destination and noticed a man standing under the awning of the shop; looking through the small cart of sale paperbacks. Once Steve was completely underneath the awning, he straightened himself up to look at his potential customer. The man was tall, and his shoulders were broad from what Steve could tell, he wore a heavy navy coat; wool, collar pulled up against his neck. He wore a black beanie, but he could see long locks of hair hanging down from underneath. His gloved hands were running gently along the spines of some of the books.

“Hi there, how’re you doing today?” Steve asked in a kind, yet slightly tired tone of voice. He could see the man physically stiffen, his hand stopped its ministrations on the books. Steve paused before going into the shop, he wondered if he should say something else to the man; push him to speak. That wasn’t like him but usually people would at least give him the brush off, tell him that they were just looking. This man kept his silence and his back towards Steve.

“I’ll be inside if you need help with anything.” He spoke quietly before pulling the shop door open and walking inside. He waved at Kamala, signaling her to go back into the stock room to catalog their newest releases. Steve took his spot back at the counter and chanced a glance back towards the store front. The man was now gone, Steve found it odd but told himself not to dwell on it too much. People came and went from the shop all the time – their eye catching something that was in the sale bin but moving on quickly. He shrugged and turned his attention back to the comforting warmth of his coffee.

It was five minutes to closing so Steve stood from his spot and began his closing duties. He turned off half of the lamps in the shop, casting everything in the large room in a shimmering, gold light. Steve would find it a romantic setting if he had anyone to share it with. He went out the front door to pull in the rolling cart of sale books. He maneuvered the cart through the door and locked it behind him. He flipped the open sign to say closed and was fully encased in the quiet of the store. Seeing it like this was his favorite, just him in a room with his books. Well, not his truly but he cared about this shop as if it was his own. Maybe someday it would be. Even still, he loved being in the store with no customers around to ask him questions, exactly how he liked to live his life. Quietly.

He looked through the paperback books to clean and organize them for tomorrow and found that one of them, right in the center of the stack, was wrapped. He pulled it out from between the other books, the stiffness of the brown construction paper crinkled beneath his fingers. There was nothing written on the paper, no indication of where the book had come from. It hadn’t come from the shop, they didn’t do any wrapping of any kind; someone had left it there. Had someone left it for him to find? He double checked the lock on the door and turned out the rest of the lights; only leaving the display lights on in the front windows. He walked back to the counter and leaned against it before deciding to pull apart the paper wrappings. Starting at the back where the paper had been sealed shut by a piece of scotch tape, he opened it without tearing the paper. It was a book of the collected works of E. E. Cummings, another one of his favorite poets. His manipulation of the English language had always fascinated him. It was all so curious, these books. Resting inside the cover was another photograph.

It looked old, like the photograph from the night before. Tom’s Restaurant, it was a place he had been to before; right on the outskirts of Prospect Park. He had never been there as it looked in the photograph, which was black and white and looked like it had been taken in the thirties or forties. He flipped the photograph over and once again, saw the same messy scrawl from the night before. All lower case it said, “somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond.” He knew the poem but hadn’t read it in years. He opened the collection of poems that he was holding and saw that the poem in question was on page 144. So, he flipped through the old, delicate pages and found it. An excitement thrummed through his veins as he read each line.

“(I do not know what it is about you that closes
And opens; only something in me understands the voice
Of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
Nobody, not even the rain, (has such small hands)”

He knew it was oddly superficial, but he chanced a glance at his own hands, slight but strong. Were all these things being left behind for him to find? Was there a message that he was missing? He traced his steps back and thought about the sale cart. He was absolutely sure that the wrapped book hadn’t been there in the morning when he opened the shop and pulled the cart outside. People had stopped to look at it throughout the day, but nothing stood out as particularly strange. His mind searched and stopped when he thought of the man that had been standing there when he was coming back from the coffee shop. He hadn’t been able to see the man’s face because he hadn’t turned to look at him and when Steve looked back to check on him he was gone. He took the book and photograph with him as he finished his closing duties and left the shop out the back door.

He walked around the block, the light tapping of rain on his jacket. He was back on the main road, looking for a sign of anyone suspicious, checking to see if anyone was watching him. There was no one, just people rushing through the streets to get out of the rain. He thought he must look like an idiot, he didn’t even know what he was looking for.

Up above, out of his peripheral vision, he saw it again. If he wasn’t so excited he would have started to get irrationally upset. A flash of light reflecting off metal. He looked up and saw what his mind registered as hair blowing in the wind; then it was gone. Like someone had been looking over the edge of the roof and turned away just as he looked. Rain water splashed against his cheeks, so he looked away and turned to make his way towards the bus stop. The book of poetry tucked inside his jacket to protect from the rain.

“This is getting ridiculous, don’t you think?” Natasha tried to keep her tone as non-confrontational as possible. She had fought the Soldier before and it was terrifying. He turned away from the edge of the building’s roof, still in his tactical gear; his metal arm free from any kind of jacket or glove.

“We’re not on mission anymore, I would appreciate it if you didn’t spy on me in your free time.” He said, the gruff in his voice would intimidate anyone else but Natasha knew how to stay on his good side; even if she had been following him.

“I would love to, I mean, we literally just finished the job. A Simple recon mission that should I remind you that you, you were late for this morning? Too busy standing outside that bookstore down there to remember your job?” Natasha walked over to him, she knew he towered over her, but she was 85% sure in this moment that he wouldn’t hurt her, they were partners. She thought she knew him well but lately she wasn’t so sure. Ever since he first saw the man who worked at the shop he had been different. She couldn’t put her finger right on it, but he seemed to shut down. He would disappear immediately after a mission and wouldn’t explain himself if she questioned him.

“Someone is going to find out where you keep going. Someone bad, you have plenty of people out there who would love to take you down a peg. They will mow through this kid to get to you if you keep going on like this.” She looked up at him, inches away from him; hoping that her words would start to get through his thick skull. He turned away from her quickly, eye contact would only give him away. He knew she was right, but he couldn’t just stop; couldn’t walk away.

“Who is this guy?” She asked, like she hadn’t asked him a thousand times already. He picked up a damp, navy coat up from the ground by his feet. The Soldier began walking away from her, he had to get away. “James! Who is he?” She called out to him. He stopped in silence for a moment, she thought that she would get a true and real answer from him. He shrugged, a gesture that she had never seen him do. Everything that the Winter Soldier did was exact and precise, and a shrug was the opposite of that.

“I don’t know.” He mumbled, and she could hear the hint of a smile in his voice. He opened the roof access door and walked out, once again leaving Natasha in his wake.

The rain had decided to let up, much to Steve’s relief. It had left his concrete jungle with a grey, wet sheen. Dreary for some people but this was his favorite way to see the city. It was a welcome invitation to walk home instead of waiting for the bus. His new book of collected poems burning a hole in the pocket of his jacket, he ventured towards home. His music travelling through his ear buds, transforming everything around him into a scene from a movie. A transitional scene, perfectly centered between two points in his life. He wondered what the next scene would be, could anything happen that would change the course of his life?

He was only a few blocks away from his apartment when someone stepped out of the darkness of an alleyway that Steve was walking past. He hadn’t heard anything through the languid music that came through his phone. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, something felt off.

“If you just give me your money, there’s no reason for anyone to get hurt.” He had barely heard the man through his headphones, but the intent was evident from his body language. This man was attempting to mug him. He almost wanted to laugh, he had lived in Brooklyn his entire life and had to listen to people complain all the time, about how the borough was changing, and crime was getting worse. All these years and he had never once been mugged or attacked, yet, here he was. He could hear the man shouting at him against his music because he was just standing there, frozen. It was taking him too long to do what the man wanted, why couldn’t he move? He couldn’t even speak; his throat was closed, and his chest burned as his lungs struggled to draw breath. The man began to approach, gathering the front of his jacket in his fist. Just before the man’s closed fist met his nose, he mentally made not that rain drops had sporadically started to fall again; he could them hit his flushed cheeks.

The punch hurt, it hurt a lot. He stumbled backwards and hit the ground once the mugger let go of him. Air rushed out of his lungs and a metallic taste began to flood his mouth, His nose didn’t feel broken, but he was bleeding profusely. He tried to make it stop by lifting his hands to his nose but that only made it worse. His hands became covered in his own blood, it only spread farther along his lips and cheeks. The mugger stepped up to him and tried to riffle through his pockets for his wallet, but Steve resisted, trying to push the man away. Kicking at him with him long legs but his body was tired, his lungs were having a hard time inhaling a full breath and Steve could feel himself starting to panic. He closed his eyes as the man pulled Steve’s arms out of the way, pain shooting through his stretched tendons as he continued to resist. Just as the pain arrived, it disappeared. Suddenly, the man wasn’t looming over him anymore, he had been wrenched off him by force. He opened his eyes and saw that the man had been shoved up against the jagged brick wall of the alley.

It took Steve a few panicked seconds for his mind to catch up to what he was seeing. There was another man, holding the mugger against the wall by his neck. He looked like the man who had been standing at the sale bin earlier in the day; Steve’s heart skipped a beat. He could still feel the blood pouring from his nose, but he didn’t dare make a move. The man, his savior, was still wearing the same rain-soaked coat from earlier in the day but the rest of his clothing looked different. No more beanie, his shoulder length brunette hair hung free in a cascade of wet tangles; shielding most of his face from view but Steve could still make out soft lips and the hint of stubble on his chin. The most curious part was the hand that was currently around the throat of his mugger, it was silver. At first, Steve thought he was wearing gloves but when his eyes focused directly on his hand he could see that it was actually metal. His savior had a metal hand.

He watched as the mugger tried to struggle out of his grip, but the more he wriggled, the tighter the new man’s grip seemed to get. He drew closer, holding the criminal close to him so that he could whisper something that Steve couldn’t hear. It must have been menacing if the mugger’s reaction was any indication. His eyes drew large and his breathing became frantic, trying to pull himself out of the man’s iron grip. There was a whirring sound that echoed from the man throughout the alley and his metal hand released the mugger, who was terrifying earlier but now ran as quickly as he could out of the alley and out of sight.

There wasn’t much light from the street that reached this far into the alley, Steve couldn’t see much of the man who saved him. There was near silence surrounding them, aside from the pitter-patter of the rain falling; they were suspended together in their own private alleyway. No one walked past, it was just the two of them in the noiselessness of their city. The man didn’t turn to look at Steve, didn’t stop to ask him if he was okay. Steve watched him, trying to memorize every detail of what he could see. Rain water rolling off the thick wool of his coat, boots covered his feet; he watched the metal hand like a ticking clock.

The man turned and started walking away, towards the mouth of the alley. Steve struggled to get to his feet, he had to do what he could to stop this man. What kind of person saves the life of another and then just starts to walk away? It took him a moment to find his balance but when he did he called out with all the air he could muster from his weak lungs.

“Wait…” Steve’s voice was wrecked, like someone was shoveling gravel down his throat and he was trying to talk around it. The man stopped. Steve wanted him to turn around, to look at him. He wondered what color his eyes were. Mostly, he just wanted this man to understand how grateful he was that he had been there for him. Steve took two steps closer to him but then stopped. The metal hand that he had been watching with fascination had curled into a fist. The man in front of him hadn’t spoken but this small gesture was enough for him to comprehend.

“Why did you help me?” Steve asked, his voice still gravel beaten but with a little more confidence. He lifted a hand up to his nose and whipped some of the blood away, leaving it behind on his sleeve but he didn’t care. Silence surrounded them both again, Steve still battled with his lungs, willing them to just get by on their own for a bit longer. The man didn’t look back at him, didn’t speak – he didn’t even seem to breath during their shared time; eventually he started to walk away again, and Steve didn’t try to stop him this time. He watched him turn the corner out of the alley way; lamp light reflecting off his metal hand. The reflection awoke sleeping memories within Steve.

He rushed through the last few blocks towards his apartment complex; getting inside and feeling safe was the most important thing to him after what he had just been through. He rushed through the door and up the stairs, his movements bordering on frantic. Once inside the warmth of his apartment he rushed through to get to his bedroom, to his dresser, to his inhaler. His lungs had been burning for far too long, he could feel the stress of it all behind his skin. Inhaling the medicine triggered relief throughout his entire small frame. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed and stay under his protective comforter forever. He walked into the living room and looked around, everything looked the same as when he left this morning. The book of Whitman still in its usual spot on the bookcase.

He walked towards his windows, his usual routine of double checking their locks before bed was ingrained inside him. He looked out the clouded windows, looking at a city shrouded in rain and darkness; the only hint of light was from the street lamps that cast everything in a yellow glow. He looked down at the lock and decided to leave the latch open tonight. Making sure every light and lamp was shut off inside his studio, he stripped himself of his rain-soaked clothing and climbed into bed. He could feel every single ache inside his lithe frame, his elbows and his back felt absolutely destroyed. The last thing he remembered before drifting off to sleep was the reflection of lamp light bouncing off a metal hand.