Masters of Midnight

Ben Hodge laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed since arriving in Downing the day before, or perhaps even since deciding to leave New York in February. Maybe, he thought, even since the night before Trey’s death.

“We’ve got a computer, and we’re linked to the big library in Cedar Creek, of course, but you probably won’t get many requests for inter-library loans. Mostly people come in for the new Stephen King and Jackie Collins titles.”

Martha Abraham spoke with the still, soft voice of a woman who had been a librarian for most of her 72 years. With quick, intelligent eyes peering out from behind thick bifocals and a body that appeared to be nothing more than twigs held together by sheer force of will, she reminded Ben of a hummingbird.

“And that’s about it,” Martha said as they returned to the front desk from their tour of the library. It hadn’t taken long. The Downing Public Library was comprised of just three rooms: the central stacks holding the collection of fiction and nonfiction, a smaller children’s room, and the librarian’s tiny office. The latter was tucked behind the library’s long wooden counter, under which the tools of the librarian’s trade— checkout slips, rubber stamps, pencils, reference materials, and assorted candies for the infrequent young patron—were housed.

“Then here you go,” Martha said, taking a ring of three keys out of her dress pocket and handing them to Ben. “Big one’s for the front door, medium one’s for the office, and no one remembers what the small one is for but it’s always been on that ring and I’m not about to break that particular chain.”

“And now I am officially retired,” said Martha. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s a garden waiting for me to attend to it. If you need me for anything, my number’s on your desk.”

With a simple wave of her hand, Martha left the library without another glance. When the door had shut behind her, Ben took another look around. He sighed. It was all his now. He held the keys up, watching them swing from his finger, the light from the library’s many windows glinting off the well-worn metal. What was it about keys that seemed so magical?

They open doors, he told himself. They open doors to new adventures. Unexpectedly, he saw an image of himself standing in front of a door, holding a similar set of keys. They were the keys to the apartment he and Trey had moved into a year after meeting at a book signing, both of them standing in the rain for an hour to get Drayton Leister’s signature on his new novel. A casual conversation had turned into coffee, which had turned into dinner, which had turned into a night of lovemaking, which had turned into three years together.

He forced himself to stop thinking about it. He’d left New York to escape those memories, to leave them behind in the congested streets that smelled more and more like death to him and the crowds of people that filled the city like shades, the life drained from them by the demands of living in such a place. It was a city that ate its residents, and he’d been lucky to escape.

He walked through the stacks, investigating the library’s holdings more carefully. The contents of a library’s shelves were in many ways a reflection of its patrons’ lives. A good librarian picked and chose based on what he or she knew of the people who walked through the doors. He’d done as much in his job as the director of one of the New York Public Library’s many smaller offspring. He was curious to see what Martha Abraham’s choices could tell him about his new home.

As Martha had promised, there were the usual suspects, including King, Collins, Grisham, Straub, and pretty much every novel ever selected by Oprah for her book club. But he also found some surprises: a complete collection, in hardcover, of every book ever written by Shirley Jackson; Angela Carter’s The Burning Boat; Tarcher Debitt’s wonderful first novel, Under the Rabbit Moon. These were unexpected discoveries, books he might expect to find in a library (such as his old place of employment) with resources to spend on titles considered less than necessary to a collection, not in a place like Downing.

Then again, he was still surprised that Downing itself existed. When he’d first discovered the ad for a librarian in the employment section at the back of Library Journal, he’d had to go to an atlas to find out exactly where Downing, Arkansas, was. Even then he’d had difficulty. Tucked into the mountains like a dollar bill hidden in the pocket of a winter coat, Downing was easily missed. He’d scanned three maps before locating it in the northwest corner of the state, a tiny dot surrounded by the Ozarks National Forest and a group of lakes.

Now, looking at the books whose spines stared out at him with long, thin faces, he still wasn’t quite convinced that Downing was real, or that he himself was actually there. But he was. His belongings, still in their cardboard boxes, were sitting in the little house he’d rented in town. His apartment on New York’s Upper West Side was probably already inhabited by new tenants. His job was, he knew, already filled. His former assistant, an ambitious Columbia graduate with big plans and family connections, had been only too happy to move into his office and begin putting her stamp on the library’s collection.

In short, there was nothing for him to go back to, even if he’d wanted to. He knew people thought he was mad. His friends had tried to talk him out of the move, as had his boss at the library. Even his dry cleaner, when told that Ben was relocating to Arkansas, had looked at him strangely and said, “Is that in America?”

It was that very aspect of the place—its ability to be overlooked by the rest of the world—that appealed to him. He could get lost there, become forgotten. Or at least forget, he thought. That would be enough.

He was interrupted in his browsing of the shelves by the sound of the front door opening. Thinking it was Martha returning to give him some piece of information she’d neglected to pass along, he waited for her to appear. Instead, he was surprised to see a man walk into the room. Tall, with a stocky build, he appeared to be in his mid-30s. His dark hair was cut short and he was clean-shaven. He wore faded khaki work pants and a blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms.

The man’s voice was soft and pleasant, a rich tenor holding the faint traces of the accent that Ben had already come to recognize as being unique to the area. It was, he thought, much less harsh than the strangled New Jersey and New York speech that had filled his ears for so long.

“I’m afraid Martha has retired,” Ben said, walking forward and holding out his hand. “I’m Ben Hodge, the new librarian.”

The man looked at Ben’s outstretched hand for a moment, as if unsure whether to believe him or not. Then he looked up at Ben and said, “Titus Durham.”

Titus shook his head. Walking past Ben, he went directly to one of the shelves. After only a moment’s search, he removed one of the books and returned to the front desk, where Ben still stood. He handed the book he’d selected to Ben.

“Cottington’s Beekeeper’s Handbook,” Ben said, looking at the cover. He looked at Titus. “You raise bees?” he asked.

Ben waited for an elaboration. When none came, he took the book with him as he went behind the desk. Opening the back cover, he removed the checkout slip that was tucked into the pocket and looked at it. Nearly every line was filled, each one with Titus Durham’s name.

“Looks like this is one of your favorites,” Ben remarked as he stamped the new due date on the slip and on the pocket. Putting the slip into the file beneath the desk, he handed the book to Titus. “You’re my first customer,” he said cheerfully.

Titus answered him with a nod, then turned and walked out of the room. Ben watched him go, listening for the sound of the door closing.