Aside from curiosity, Libby had hope. Hope is, of course, the belief that if you are patient and trusting, terrible times will pass and the future will be bright. I am quite old, so I know that hope works, especially when combined with effort.
Although Libby didn’t go to school, she had managed to educate herself. From laying the patio bricks, she had learned to count, multiply, divide, and do geometry.
From copying words from food packages onto a shopping list for Mal, she had a clue about reading and writing. She also had a dim memory of Sal teaching her the alphabet and the sound each letter made.
There were no books allowed in the house, or so Libby was told. Even Sal thought Libby should be allowed a book or two, but Mal would say, “I don’t want a kid who’s smarter than me.”
When Libby was six, though, she had made a great discovery.
Like most people who are lazy, Sal watched TV. Her favorite show was Queen for Once. It was about women who went on diets and then got to buy new clothes, wear a little crown, and take a cruise. Each episode, a different woman received this makeover, after which she talked about how her life had changed, and cried.
Libby loved it when Sal watched Queen for Once, because she could do as she liked for an hour.
One cold, dark winter day, while Sal watched TV, Libby tried the basement door, hoping that Mal had, for once, forgotten to lock it. He never did.
Next, she tiptoed upstairs and snuck into her parents’ room. Their window had the best view of the street. Occasionally, she’d see kids walking by. Or she’d look at the yard across the street, at number 34, with its varied trees, flowers, and bushes.
That day, Libby pulled the curtains from the dirty window. But the snow was so heavy that no one was out. The street was as dull as her life. As she tiptoed out of the room, she tripped on the shaggy old rug and fell.
Libby lay there a moment, stunned. Then she noticed something. Just under the bed was a break in the wood floor. She peeled back the rest of the rug. A wide square was cut in the floor, with hinges on one side. What if it led to the basement? She yanked on the door. It opened with a creak. Dust flew into her face. It was just a storage area, a pit in the floor. It didn’t lead anywhere. But when the dust cleared, Libby saw that it was filled with books.
Some of the books were quite thick, with so many words they were like ants running across the page. Some were thin. She picked up a bright green one. The cover showed an old lady with glasses riding a giant bird. “Mot… her.” Libby tried to sound out the first word. The second word was easier. “Goose.” The white bird!
The first page of the goose book had an illustration of a skinny man like Mal and a fat woman like Sal. Slowly, Libby sounded out the words: Jack Sprat could eat no fat. His wife could eat no lean.
Someone, somewhere, shared her experience!
She opened another book. This one was about a silly-looking cat wearing a tall hat. She examined the bigger books, which had fewer pictures and more words.
Her mother had grown up in this house. These must have been her books. And all of them, it seemed, were for children!