The library was a long, simple one-story building at the edge of town made of aluminum siding and cheap glass and an equally cheap glass door. When I went inside, I saw about half of the metal bookshelves were empty.
A very attractive woman about my age with blond hair and pink cheeks that matched a pink and full-lipped mouth lifted her head when I came in. She was sitting behind a desk and had a book stamp in her hand and a book open in front of her to use it on.
She wore a simple-looking green dress that wasn’t all that simple really. She had on glasses with green frames. She took them off and placed them carefully beside the book she was stamping and came around the edge of the desk toward me. I could see the dress accentuated the fact that she had won the genetic lottery not only in facial appearance but in physical construction. She was short, under five feet was my guess, and that was counting the sensible heels on her green open-toed shoes. I should note that her blond shoulder-length hair might have been due to hair dye instead of genetics. Whatever the source, I liked it.
“Why, hello,” she said, seeming happy to see me. Bored, most likely.
“Hello. I was going to ask about some research I’d like to do. Maybe you can point me in the right direction?”
“Tell me what you want, and if we have it, I’ll give you a personal escort. I handle everything here, me and a few volunteers who come in to help occasionally.”
She was close now and she had a sweet musky aroma about her. I didn’t know if that was a hint of fine perfume or a lot of her natural hormones, but it was plenty all right either way.
I told her the kind of records I wanted. She paused and thought about it. She said she probably had what I needed and her name was Estelle. As she led me to the back of the library, I told her my name and where I was from. I said I was doing research on the original town and the building of the lake.
“Oh, heavens, why? Our town and the old one are hardly interesting.”
“I think they might be.”
“What’s this research for?”
“A book I’m writing.”
“Is it your first?”
“I’ve had a book published, a few articles, and a short story. I was a journalist until recently.”
“A real-life author. Are you self-published?”
“No.”
“A real publisher?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s the name of your novel?”
I told her.
“I’ll order it.”
“Why, thank you. I was wondering if I could check books out as well.”
“Are you a resident of New Long Lincoln?”
“As of the other day, yes.”
“And writing another book.”
“That’s my plan.”
“On New Long Lincoln?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She took a few seconds to let the idea of that sink in. “Sure. We can arrange a card.”
As we passed a lot of the empty shelves, she said, “We’re expanding. More books coming in. Lots of classics, but new stuff as well. We’ve got plans to put all the files on computer.”
“That’s nice. My father was a librarian for a time. Do you have a lot of readers in this town?”
“No. But don’t tell anyone. I might lose my job.”
In the back, past the empty shelves, there were full ones with lots of big volumes that favored black spines.
Estelle led me through the stacks, pulled a few books out just enough so that they were still on the shelves, but I could pick them out when ready. She put one in my hands.
My eye was drawn to one by someone listed on the cover as Natural Wilson. The book was titled Moon Lake and Long Lincoln. I thumbed it open, flipped through a few pages.
It was about the construction of the lake, about plots of land, deeds and such. It had foldout maps inside. They appeared to have originally been drawn by hand.
“I’ll start with this one,” I said, tucking it under my arm.
“It’s not thought of too highly. A crank supposedly wrote it. I’ve even considered removing it. There’s a table back there under a window, and it’s cool in that corner. Might want to make camp there.”
“Sounds good.”
She paused, worked her smile on me. She knew there was power in it. “Decide you want to see our town, or maybe get some coffee, I’ll be glad to give you my number.”
“I’ll be glad to take it.”
“Of course you will.”
* * *
Time flies when you’re reading through books. What I was reading wasn’t quite as exciting as paperback thrillers, but I still found it fascinating.
I pulled all the books Estelle had selected and read sections from them. Eventually, I borrowed a pen and a pad from Estelle for notes.
The residents of Long Lincoln drowning during the break of the dam was not mentioned in any of the books except for the one by Natural Wilson, which was large and full of facts but not particularly well written. It was only a little better than a monkey could do, but the information trumped the somewhat difficult composition, and the maps, though hand drawn, were good. Estelle hadn’t thought highly of it, and I could understand her concerns, but it had a kind of heartfelt authenticity. It described the flood in detail based on the accounts of survivors, black and white. Black people were referred to as “colored” in the book. The cemetery was mentioned, and the sawmill, and how its importance declined after the demise of the original Long Lincoln. It said the land around the lake was sold to someone named Jack Manley Sr.
Manley was quite the real estate baron. Seems he was one of the big dogs behind the town of New Long Lincoln and had significance in the old town. He and some of the others had been the ones who had worked out the deal for the existence of New Long Lincoln.
Two of the others involved were names I had seen in the pages of the Natural Wilson book: Judea Parker and Kate Conroy. Other names of prominence popped up in the books, but Manley, Parker, and Conroy were always mentioned. One book had photos. I realized they were the three people in the office photo with Chief Dudley. In a few of the photos, going back to the time of the original Long Lincoln, they were young. The men were handsome and the woman was pretty. Later photos showed the natural progression of age.
Jack Manley Sr. and the others seemed like people I should know more about. Did Manley still own that land? I got the impression from Chief Dudley they were all still alive. Did they matter somehow?
In the back of the book there was a little section on the author. The book had been written in the early sixties, and it said the author lived in New Long Lincoln. When you thought about it, the author’s information really didn’t say anything. You knew no more about Natural Wilson from it than if you hadn’t read it.
I eventually came out of my trance and sat there trying to decide if I had learned anything of importance. I could hear Estelle on the phone from time to time, and I heard her library stamp striking books now and again.
The window above the table where I was reading lost its light, and there were only the electric lights then, and they were comparatively weak. I couldn’t believe how long I had spent there.
Estelle came back to the table, said, “Sorry, we’re closing.”
“No problem.”
She handed me a library card. “You’re set. I just need to put your address and phone number on record.”
At the desk, I filled in my address and phone number on a form to make my library card “legal,” and checked out three books. Estelle stamped them.
“Natural Wilson. Author of that fat book. Says he’s from New Long Lincoln. Still live here?”
“No one knows of anyone named Natural Wilson, as far as I can tell. Name is most likely made up. The book isn’t held in high esteem, since mixing hearsay and legend with real events doesn’t exactly make it a history book. If New Long Lincoln is the author’s home, and he was an adult at the time of the flood, he might have passed on by now. Self-published that, you know.”
“Thanks.”
As I was heading out, Estelle said, “You have my number.”
I had the books under one arm, but with my free hand I tapped my shirt pocket. “Right here. Close to my heart.”
“Sure,” she said and laughed in a way that sounded like a box of dishes tumbling downstairs.