Goats bleated below in the nearest field, their inquisitive noses facing the morning breeze. Lily’s body was limp, her shoulders sagging against the back of the rocker. The night had dawdled impossibly into morning, leaving her eyes dry and scratchy.
She looked out the window, then noticed a book on the desk. When she found Katherine Mansfield’s Leves Amores in the anthology, she read to the jasmine.
Even the green vine upon the bed curtains wreathed itself into strange chaplets and garlands, twined round us in a leafy embrace, held us with a thousand clinging tendrils.
A thump startled her. “Who’s there?”
The door cracked open. “Only me, Aggie, with a pot of tea. I thought you’d be up. Or almost up. I have morning nourishment. Cumin seeds in tea give energy and peace.” Aggie poured steaming hot liquid into cups from Griffo’s cupboard.
Lily held her teacup to her breast. “Do you know the Chinese poet Lotung? ‘When I drink tea, the cool breath of Heaven rises in my sleeves, and blows my cares away.’”
“Lily, you talk like the books you carry around with you. And I have gypsy ancestors who might have talked like that, so even though I know no Chinese poets, we are more alike than you think.” Aggie’s form melted into a well-used bamboo chair. “I wait for the cup to warm my stiff hands. You wait for it to warm your heart.”
“Here we are. Two women inhaling the aroma of amber liquor,” mused Lily. “The color of pale ponds in foreign lands.”
“See there? You paint pictures and I tell you to sip the heat slowly to avoid a burnt tongue.”
Slowly, they brought their bodies into the morning.
For Lily, the minutes rolled over and under, the empty teacup resting warm against her body. “I’m taking a trip back to Groverly today to see some old books. To tie up a thread hanging over my heart. But I’ll be back by tonight.”
“And I’d stay longer to visit now, but there’s work to do. Like a sign to take down from the mailbox. We’ll talk over tea again later.” Aggie closed the door.
Lily put on her dark blue pants suit with matching pinstripe blouse and drove to Groverly. Along the way, she entertained herself watching seeds blow in fits and flurries through the crop rows, flying away on nature’s propellers, wings and parachutes. Hungry birds dipped down to snatch them up, then disappeared to colonize other ditches, fields and slopes. On the outskirts of the city, the wind wailed through the pines like a wounded animal, rattling the corners of houses, playing games on lawns, sending leaves and twigs tumbling across the street. And then she was near the library and the smell of the sea washed over her.
She parked the bookmobile and hurried up the flagstone steps, past the marquee that announced the new exhibit of antique books. Resting her hand on the polished bronze door handle, she centered herself before she entered her old haunt. A crowd of people milled around the lobby and she rushed past them into the hallway that led to her cubicle. The space once hers was empty, but the supplies still waited in place for someone to use them. She tucked a chewed pencil with the library logo into her tan leather handbag, then added a little pot of congealed library paste. She snapped the purse jaws shut on her souvenirs.
She paused before she threaded her way through the visitors waiting to reach the antique book display. Groups of people stared into the case at volumes locked safely behind glass, studying the condensed history of printing, illustrated with a variety of typesetting, bindings, and paper types. When she saw President Humphrey with his fancy cane and Director Trummel in her turquoise suit approaching, she slipped behind the marble column.
Mr. Humphrey gestured to the crowd, then turned to Ms. Trummel. “What a great exhibit. A literary coup for our library, I’d say.”
“Thank you.” She smoothed her upswept hairdo.
“Don’t know why, but I assumed it was Lily’s idea.”
“The show was my inspiration. I did order Lily to find it.”
“Then I commend you.” He made his way around the crowd, tapping with his cane.
Lily clenched her jaw. She watched the two drift down the hall toward the conference room for the monthly meeting of the board. She knew what she must do, but first, the beautiful, old books.
She took her turn inching forward as the visitors crowded around the display, commenting on ornately illustrated manuscripts, pointing at pages with unusual formatting. She noticed that all the books were open, except for one sealed book in the back row.
Suddenly her eyes widened. Her heart sailed. She almost shouted because the Book of Cures was there, in the case. When she’d arranged the tour, she’d read the list of scheduled titles chosen to travel. That book was not among them. Somehow, this extraordinary manuscript had found its way into the display. Entranced, she wedged herself forward to put her hand on the glass, to view the volume as closely as possible. The book radiated in the florescent light. If only she could touch it, even once, through thin, white gloves.
She felt an impatient nudge behind her and moved aside, then walked deliberately toward the boardroom. The outside wind intoned a cadence with each step.
She marched into the conference room, dragging the condensed aura of old pages and library paste with her, and took the open seat next to President Humphrey. She leaned over. “Since this is a meeting open to the public, I decided to attend. I hope to have some time to address the board.”
“I could give you a brief moment.”
She watched the board, a dozen well-dressed people, come in the private side door that led directly into the conference room. They entered without seeing any books at all, a privilege she didn’t understand, since the special entrance meant they missed the idea that formed the institution.
The president’s gavel knocked on the table for attention. “Time to begin.” He stood and glanced at Lily. “You all remember Ms. McFae. She’s assisted several of our library directors for longer than I recall.” He leaned on his cane. “In years past, Ms. McFae has exemplified the very word “librarian.” Helpful. Knowledgeable. Quiet and prompt. She’s here to give us her proper goodbye.” He sat down.
She rose. Releasing her fingers from her bulky purse, she gazed into the faces of the assembled members she knew. She cleared her throat to chase away her fear of public speaking, but her voice still evoked the soft timbre of a broken bird.
“Mr. President. Members of the Board. We are fortunate to be in this great place. It was Alexander Smith who said, ‘I go into my library, and all history unrolls before me.’ A library is an institution that connects our civilization, tied together in its own way by Melvil Dewey’s system. Bringing order from chaos, where the world’s offering of knowledge and imagination is numbered, put into place and made available to all. Life is rarely so well organized. Particularly my own.”
Mr. Humphrey touched her elbow.
Her voice picked up speed and volume. “Before I leave, I want to say how grateful I am that through the years, I was given the opportunity to offer thousands of books to our community.” She raced on, looking at Ms. Trummel. “I’ll miss the arrival of new volumes overlapping old, the sense of literary decades passing. Miss it all more than I can express. As Jorge Luis Borges said, “I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.’”
The president interrupted, “Thank you, Ms. McFae.”
But she would not be stopped. “Truth be told, I didn’t want to go. I was asked to leave my books, my irreplaceable friends. In the end, I was fired. I’ll miss the people who work here. And those who come into this building to learn. Or find escape from reality. Even those who enter to get away from the cold.” Her voice cracked. Her eyes welled. “It’s been … uh ….” She tried to compose her face. “It’s been enough. But it is true, change happens.”
President Humphrey cut short her faltering. “We wish you well, in spite of everything.” He rose and shook her hand. “Now, we need to discuss next year’s computer bids. Let me show you out by way of the private exit, so you can conveniently be on your way.” Taking her arm, he escorted her to the door that led directly outside. “Good luck and goodbye, Ms. McFae.”
Lily paused. The pearl of a tear rolled down. “Sometimes, life sucks. I believe that would be attributed to ‘anonymous.’”
The pearls on her cheek multiplied into strands and the door latch sealed her exile.
She stood outside the closed door and continued the speech she’d intended to give. “No librarian is a stereotype. And I’m not the boring person you think I am. I’m not only pale and prompt and forgettable, but a woman with my own secrets of nonconformity. Beneath my dark suit, you would be surprised at the extraordinary tattoos. They would simply amaze you.”
The heavy wooden panels of the door stood mute. The full force of the wind dried the regret that coursed down her cheeks.
In the cool, antiseptic setting of a Groverly clinic, Piper waited for the doctor’s touch. She dreaded medical appointments and set her teeth together when he approached, looming over her, reaching for her exposed breast. His hand encircled her flesh. His words were soft and comforting, but she didn’t listen as his cool hand gently kneaded, then increased the pressure. She stopped thinking. His fingers probed her vulnerability as she stayed frozen through his examination.
When the doctor was finished, he said. “Yes, you were right. There seems to be a lump.”
She bowed her head. “Okay. And now?”
“Next step, a mammogram. Call the office to schedule it. Your birth control prescription is waiting at the desk, but I suggest you wait with the pills until we get this sorted out.”
She bit her lip. She wanted to ask another question, but the door was closing. As she stepped down from the exam table, she put a hand down to steady herself.
Late in the day, the man slipped into the library, lost in a crowd of nursing home elderly who’d come to see the special display of old books. He separated himself from the group using walkers to wander near a far stack dedicated to engineering. Browsing away the time, he moved casually among the back shelves. If someone came near, he’d place his hand on a volume and withdraw it, then return it, once he was alone again.
When the man’s watch indicated closing time, he moved down the hall with the dwindling number of visitors. After the corridor was empty, he slipped inside the utility closet, wedging his body against a cart filled with brooms and mops that smelled of pine oil. Once he sensed the library was empty, he crept to the bottom of the basement stairs near the furnace. Above him, he heard the noise of squealing wheels and clanging pail that signaled a janitor’s cart roving the corridors. He listened to the workman’s soft humming and imagined the wide dust mop sweeping up and down the terra cotta tile halls. When footsteps approached the top of the stairs, the intruder barely breathed. Silently, he stepped back further into the darkness. Finally, the janitor and his sounds faded away and the place was silent. The man inhaled deeply and climbed the stairs to settle on the floor of nearby stacks.
As Lily drove back to Nolan, she replayed her library farewell. She was glad she’d mentioned Melvil Dewey, the man who published the Dewey Decimal System in the United States in the late1800’s. She marveled at its invention, a four-page pamphlet that expanded into multiple volumes as the years went by. She gave a big sigh over the new ways of categorizing books now discussed, debated, and utilized.
As she lay in bed that night, her face softened with thoughts of Argentinian Jorge Luis Borges, famed poet, essayist and short story author. She was partial to him because he’d worked as a librarian, so he deserved mentioning.
As she nodded off, she thought of the Scottish poet Alexander Smith, who’d written, “To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.”