Chapter Three

Dolores’s sensible, beige sedan was first in the employee parking lot.

“I think she sleeps here,” Libby mused.

Pulling in alongside her uber-punctual boss, Libby climbed out of the minivan and started toward the entrance. Maura Horton, Shannon’s soccer coach, was popping returns into the drive-up drop slot, and the women exchanged a wave.

“Did you see that?” Dolores pounced on Libby. “She thinks no one saw, but the joke’s on her! I got her this time!”

Arriving five minutes early each day to apprehend felonious lenders sliding overdue material into the slot, delinquency was Dolores’s number one crime on the Library List of Offenses. The quirky behavior amused Libby at first, but lately she began wondering if Dolores might benefit from anger management classes.

“And hello to you, too, Dolores. Are you on a stakeout?” Libby said between laughs.

Rushing to the slot’s catch bin, Dolores rejoiced. “Well, look here, three books and a DVD! Audiovisual loans are going to cost you extra, Miss Late Borrower. That’s another twenty-five cents in the penalty jar.”

Single and sixty-five, Dolores lived for books, organization, and the enforcement of late fees. Retirement was not an option. Her small frame was capped by a gray bob held away from her face by a pair of wire-rimmed glasses resting atop her head. Earth-tone sweater sets, single-strand pearls, and elastic-waist pants were her wardrobe staples. On celebrations, she mixed in a scarf.

After almost ten years at the library, Libby knew there was more to Dolores than what she allowed others to see. Hidden under the conservative facade was a lonely woman with an artistic passion and a guarded heart.

It cost Libby thumbscrews, but Dolores eventually confessed the unsigned paintings in the lobby were her creations. The beautiful landscapes of Rhyme and stunning portraits of families and lovers walking the shoreline were always from the perspective of the observer, never the participant—much the same as Dolores’s life.

Passing through the swinging half door of the circulation desk, Libby turned to Dolores. “Any sign of Dewey this morning?”

Dolores followed and turned on the main desk computer. “Not yet. Probably still sleeping in the stacks.”

Dewey, the black and white library cat, permitted the women a few minutes of his valuable time every day, but never hung around long enough to chat. Dolores found him napping in the donations bin a snowy, winter morning five years earlier and brought him in for some milk; he never left. By law, Rhyme prohibited animals in municipal buildings, but Mayor Burnette, a veterinarian, looked the other way in Dewey’s case.

Libby switched on the overhead lights. “I’ll head back to the office and refill his food bowl in case he decides to grace us with his presence.”

Her eyes glued to the computer screen, Dolores motioned Libby away with a sweep of her hand. “You go; I’ll check the database for overdues. Meet me out here when you finish, we’ll set up for book club.”

Per Dolores’s type A obsession with order, their shared office was neat as a pin. Each nook and cranny coded and crosschecked for effectiveness. Dewey’s food was in the top right drawer of the file cabinet marked “Cat, Dewey.” Even the pet was alphabetical.

Libby scooped food into the cat’s bowl and sat down to boot up her computer. The screen saver, a picture of her entire family gathered on the dock outside Mae and Bernie’s house was the last with her father before he died. The picture said it all. Charlie, vaulting the railing toward the water, at Shannon’s encouragement, as Libby and Bob struggled to restrain him; older brother Sean, scowling; Kevin, the youngest McGinn with an arm around his tube-top wearing girlfriend, now wife, Suzanne; and finally Mae and Bernie, front and center, hand-in-hand. This was Libby’s family, God help her.

The photograph reminded her to return Mae’s call. Noting the time, she picked up the phone and dialed, visualizing her mother rolling out the last pink foam curler and cementing her salt and pepper hair in place for senior yoga.

Mae picked up on the second ring. “Hello.”

“Hi Mom.” Libby knew her first Mae-pacifying step was an apology. “Sorry I didn’t call you back last night, I had a PTO meeting.”

“No worries dear,” Mae answered. “If it were an emergency I would have called Sean.” Sean—the perfect son—had yet to marry and produce grandchildren making Libby the reigning champion of the McGinn Offspring War.

Libby continued through clenched teeth. “Tell me why Dr. Cooper thinks you need to see the neurologist?”

“Dr. Cooper is an alarmist,” Mae scolded.

“Go on.”

“Part of my little checkup was this silly memory test, a demeaning experience for an adult, to say the least. It was similar to one of Charlie’s little card games. I kept waiting for the nurse to yell ‘go fish.’ Anyway, I did poorly, and Dr. Cooper wants me to have a follow up test.”

“Was that it, just the memory test thing?”

Mae hesitated.

Libby pushed, “Mom, what else?”

“He made a fuss about my eyesight and something or other about spatial issues, whatever that is. And to top it all off he had the audacity to suggest I shrunk! For the love of Mike, I am seventy years old, what does he expect, a super model with x-ray vision? I tell you, I gave that boy quite a talking to.”

The “boy” was sixty-three, and despite a degree from Harvard, he underestimated the Wrath of Mae—a common mistake. Her apple-cheeks and a purse full of butterscotch presented the image of adorable Granny, but underneath lurked the Dirty Harriet of the gin rummy world.

“I’m no doctor,” Libby said, “but eyesight and memory problems sound fairly normal for your age. Are you sure, there wasn’t something more? Maybe he wants to get a baseline on your crazy meter before you go too far around the bend.”

“Respect your elders, Elizabeth Margaret.” Mae had Mom-tone down to a science. “He wants me to see this ethnic woman doctor in Hartford, Dr. Rosh Hashanah or something like that.”

Libby winced. This was bad. First, Mae was from the archaic mindset that although competent, women physicians were inferior to men. Second, and the far bigger issue, Dr. Jewish Holiday was “ethnic,” implying foreign descent. Mae bought only Made in The USA items, even doctors. This did not bode well for the doctor-patient relationship.

“Did you make the appointment?” Libby asked.

Mae harrumphed. “Eager Dr. Cooper made it for me while I was in his office. I go next Thursday at four o’clock. If you can’t take me, Sean will close the office and make a special trip.”

“And walk on water all the way there,” Libby mumbled.

“What?”

“Nothing. That’s not a problem. I have Thursday off and the kids are covered with afterschool sports. I’ll grab you at three o’clock in case we hit traffic.” Before Mae could make an excuse, Libby firmed up. “Email me the doctor’s name and address so I can put it in the GPS.”

In Mae’s eyes, technology as a whole was the work of the devil. However, email, she quickly discovered, was a necessary evil besides being a foolproof way to communicate with her children.

“Well then, I guess I’m all set,” Mae said. “I’ll see you next week. Thank you for fitting me in dear, and call me between now and then if you have time.”

“Will do,” Libby checked in daily, but Mae never missed an opportunity to remind her to do so. “Love you. See you soon.”

“Love you, Lib.”

Conversations with Mae drained Libby. Her patience needed recharging. Opening the top desk drawer, she dug to the back and pulled out a contraband bag of chocolate-covered peanuts. Excluding book club, Dolores enforced a strict No Food or Drink policy. Libby bit the end of the bag and ripped. Some days call for rebellion.