Special Delivery

Dina

Air conditioning is a blissful invention. My must-have list wasn’t long when I was condo shopping, but air conditioning and walkability to the library were both non-negotiable. It may only be half a kilometre to the nearest branch, but in this August heat, ten metres is too far. Nacho is panting, and he didn’t even exert any effort. Minus assaulting Holden.

Desperate for a shower, I drop my book bag, place Nacho on the bed in front of a high-speed fan, and enter my bathroom, leaving articles of clothing in my wake. The water hits me in a refreshing surge and all I can think about is relaxing on the couch with one of my new books. I’ve been waiting to read Catalyst for so long, I’m going to save it as my reward for getting through my other titles. In my thesis-writing process, books I want to read have been few and far between.

By the time I’ve washed my hair, I’ve decided which of the other books I’m going to curl up on the couch with for the next few hours. Since it’s hot as Hades and I’m not going anywhere until Nacho needs to go out again, I don’t bother with pants. I pull on my oversized T-shirt and dig through my bookbag in search of The Cracked Curtain. I’ve never read anything by the author, Jenny Kempt, but we’ll see if the reviews have been accurate.

Where’s my book? I pick up the bag and dump the contents, rummaging through the selection of vibrant hardcovers and paperbacks, but my thriller is nowhere to be found. I pull the receipt-like printout from the inside of another book to see if I missed it in my checkout process. There it is, plain as day, second book from the bottom.

How could I have lost it?

Dickens. The slimy bugger stole my book.

After a few colourful words, I consider how I should go about getting it back.

I’ll call Julie. She seemed to have some rapport with him and knew him on a more personal level than most librarians in a downtown library would know a patron.

I dial the number from memory—since I’ve been calling every day recently to see if Catalyst had been returned—and a desk clerk answers. After I beg for thirty seconds, she puts me on hold to retrieve Julie.

“Hello?”

“Julie, hi. It’s Dina Blake.”

“Oh, Dina, dear. What can I do for you? Are you on the wait list for something else?”

“No, no. Not right now. I have a problem though. Earlier today, after I checked out my books the first time, I crashed into that young man you were speaking to, Holden?”

“Crashed into?”

“Nose in a book. You know how it is, I’m sure. We ran into each other outside. Anyway, in the commotion, it appears he picked up one of my books. I’m wondering if he returned it by accident with his other ones.”

“Oh, sure. Let me check. Which title was it?”

I give Julie the pertinent information, starting with the catalogue number listed on the printout.

“No, I’m afraid it wasn’t returned, Dina.”

Dickens. I’m going to throttle him with a hardcover book if I ever see him again. Not only does he return his books late and blame his literary choices on his pregnant sister, but he can’t keep track of which books belong to him or not? Unbelievable.

“Would you be able to give me his contact information so I can get in touch with him?”

Julie hums a few bars of a show tune before she replies. “I can’t share his personal information, dear. Surely you understand.”

That’s a bit of a relief, since I wouldn’t be thrilled if she gave my phone number to someone else. It doesn’t solve my problem, though. “Yes, I get it. What do I do about it? If he doesn’t return it, will I be on the hook for it? I could end up with late fees. What if he never brings it back?”

“Well, since it’s taken out under your name, you’d be responsible for any charges that accumulate.”

I’m digging my fingernails into my palms, trying to remain calm. I can’t afford extra expenses because of someone else’s negligence. Not if I want to keep Nacho fed and our lights on.

“Try not to worry, Dina. I can’t give you his information, but I’ll call him myself and see what he says. He may not even have it. Perhaps you set it down somewhere when you came back inside after your… collision.”

I’m certain I didn’t touch anything in my bag. That can’t be it. Holden has to have it. I tell Julie as much. She agrees to call him to get confirmation, then she’ll let me know after speaking to him.

The fifteen minutes between when I hang up with Julie and her calling back have me wearing out a path in my bold-patterned area rug situated at the end of my bed.

The library phone number displays on my phone, so I rush to answer.

“Hello?”

“Dina, hi. Julie, here. So I was able to get in touch with Holden, and he said he could return the book to you this Friday at 1pm on the reading terrace. He confirmed he has it.”

Serves me right for trusting a complete stranger to sort out our book chaos. “He can’t just return it the next time he’s there? I can just take it out again after he brings it back.”

“To be honest, dear, you should retrieve it yourself to make sure it’s returned before the due date.”

She has a point. Budget aside, I do not want to become a library criminal, having fines on my file. I’ve maintained a perfect record thus far, and I refuse to let that be tainted by anyone else.

“Fine. I guess I don’t have much choice. Thank you for sorting it out, Julie.”

“My pleasure. I’ll see you on Friday.”

I hang up the phone with a groan that startles Nacho from his perch on my bed. He starts barking like my condo is being invaded. He’s not concerned enough about a threat to get up, so I walk into the bedroom and flop on the bed beside him.

No one else will sympathize or understand if I call to complain about my predicament, so I groan again with my face buried in a pillow. Neither my sister, Angel, nor best friend, Hollis, will understand why I’m so annoyed about a book. So that leaves Nacho. Luckily for me, he lies beside me and lets me complain about Dickens for several minutes until he gets bored and falls asleep.

Friday morning, I glance out my window, and it’s pouring rain. The only thing worse for curly hair than humidity is rain. A genetic curse in times like these. I decide my best bet is a thin yoga hoodie and leggings, my rain jacket, and an umbrella. Multiple layers of defence.

I put Nacho in his yellow raincoat with a hood, tuck him in his purse carrier, and we set off. A few of the books I picked up on Tuesday have already run their course, so I’ve got a second bag of books to return. Nacho only weighs as much as a few hardcovers, so at least I’m balanced as I walk the distance to the library, struggling against the brief gusts of wind, attempting to shield myself, my dog, and my books from the onslaught of rain.

The entire walk makes me resent Holden more with each step. By the time I arrive, my face and pants are drenched from the sideways rain, and I’m furious. Nacho and I wear matching scowls as he peeks his head out of his carrier to take in our surroundings.

“Don’t worry, baby boy. Momma will tell him exactly how you feel,” I mutter as I trudge up the stairs to the reading terrace.

This day has already gone to the dickens.