7
Barbara woke early the next morning for her interview at the library. She’d had her hair styled the day before, had bought a new outfit at the JCPenney in Cartersburg, and had purchased a teeth-whitening kit at the Rexall, but had fallen asleep with the whitening strips on. When she smiled, she looked like a car with its brights on. She made a mental note not to smile.
She was counting on this job. Sam was losing interest in his ministry at Harmony. She could tell. The first ten years, he’d been excited, full of ideas, gabbing about his job. Now he just complained. They needed a plan B, something to fall back on, and her getting a job was probably it. She wished Miss Rudy were still the librarian. She’d be sure to get the job. But Miss Rudy had retired that summer after sixty years at the helm, navigating the library through the choppy waters of budget cuts from town board members who hadn’t read a book since high school. Then the library board voted to bring in DVDs, and that had been the final straw. Movies in the library! All manner of sex and violence and foul language. The first box of movies had arrived on a Monday morning and by noon that same day Miss Rudy had written her letter of resignation and put her house up for sale. Two weeks later she moved to the city to live with her cousin.
The new librarian, a Ms. Woodrum, was fresh out of college and referred to herself as a media specialist. She’d removed Miss Rudy’s NO TALKING PERMITTED sign, and brought in bean bag chairs for the children to flop down on like fat slugs. For the first time in living memory, a child could enter the library and be reasonably confident he would leave alive. Then Ms. Woodrum had opened the library on Sundays, in direct defiance of Scripture, or so said Pastor Jimmy of the Harmony Worship Center, who wasn’t quite sure where the verse was, but knew it was in there somewhere. Then, without consulting anyone, she had ordered a book on sex education, causing much wailing and gnashing of teeth, all of which she ignored.
Barbara arrived an hour early for the interview and read National Geographic, which Miss Rudy hadn’t carried on account of the pictures of naked African women. A few minutes before the interview, the new librarian walked past the periodicals, saw Barbara, introduced herself, shook her hand, and ushered her into her office.
“Thank you for this interview, Ms. Woodrum,” Barbara said. “I’m very grateful for this opportunity.”
“Drop the Ms. Woodrum. I’m Janet,” she said. And though they had never met, Barbara felt immediately at ease. After a wide-ranging conversation in which they discussed books and college and teeth whiteners, Janet offered her the job, then asked, “Oh, one more thing. I know your husband is a minister, but can you work the occasional Sunday?”
Barbara thought about Dale Hinshaw discussing the seven-headed beast of Revelation in Sunday school, realized she’d finally found a way to escape, and said she would be happy to work on Sunday, or any other day.
“Great! When can you start?”
“Right now,” said Barbara.
“Let’s get going then. I’d like you to shadow me this first week, learn the ropes, then we’ll turn you loose on the place.”
It was a splendid day for Barbara. Working in a library, surrounded by books, discussing important ideas with intelligent people. The library closed at 8 p.m., but she and Janet stayed over, shelving the last of the books that had been returned that day. She walked home, tired but happy, pleased to be doing something other than housework.
Sam and Addison were watching television and eating bacon, wiping their greasy fingers on their pants.
“Bacon? Is that all you’re having?” Barbara asked.
“It wasn’t just bacon,” Sam said. “It was bacon-wrapped bacon.”
“Yeah, it was my idea,” said Addison. “We deep-fried it.”
The stove was splattered with bacon grease, which Barbara ignored, though not without difficulty. What was it with men? She prepared herself a salad. Sam wandered into the kitchen.
He leaned against the counter. “So how was your day?”
She smiled. “You are now looking at the assistant librarian of the Harmony Public Library.”
Sam laughed. “Well, look at you.” He hugged her, then arched his eyebrows. “Did I ever tell you I have a thing for librarians?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“Hey, now you’ll know who’s checking out the sex education book,” Sam said.
“First thing I looked up,” she said. “And you would be amazed. Wish I could tell you their names, but I can’t.”
“I can’t.”
“Just the first letter of their first name,” he pleaded. “And if I guess, just nod your head.”
“Can’t do it. It’s privileged information.”
“Do I know him?” Sam asked.
“How do you know it’s a him?”
“ ’Cause hers don’t check out sex education books.”
“Oh, you have a lot to learn, Sam Gardner.”
“Just tell me who it was.”
“Nope, can’t say. But I will tell you this: You would be shocked. You wouldn’t guess who in a million years.”
“Are they members of the meeting?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I can’t say.”
“If they’re members of the meeting, I really should know,” Sam said.
“Why is that any of your business?”
“Just tell me,” Sam begged.
No one loved a secret more than Sam Gardner. He became a pastor to learn people’s secrets. He knew things about people in Harmony that would curl the hair. And he always told Barbara. Always. Not that she’d ever asked, but once he knew a secret he had to tell someone. Secrets leaked out of him, like air from a punctured tire, like pus from a wound. If he had been a spy and had ever been captured, he would have spilled the beans in five minutes for a glass of water.
It had been a long day and Barbara was tired. She went to bed early, not giving Sam the opportunity to prove his attraction to librarians in the manner he desired. Instead, he cleaned the kitchen, picked up the downstairs, and folded the laundry, there being a myriad of ways to show affection and appreciation.