It hadn’t quite worked out that way. Gretchen, to my surprise, proved a conscientious worker and a quick study. Her only failing thus far was her nearly fanatical adherence to every letter of the rules (which I interpreted as I damn well pleased) and an occasional criticism of me, always couched in the most diplomatic and helpful language.
The library’s not so big. With one glance Gretchen took in Old Man Renfro with an empty coffee cup at the periodicals, Bradley Foradory looking at a freshly cracked book, and me having a tete-a-tete with Davis instead of devising an improvement over the Library of Congress system. I could see her whole body frost in about one second.
She stuck her head in my doorway. “Need any help?” she asked. I wondered if she’d left the front door open; seemed a little chillier in here all of a sudden.
“No thanks, Gretchen,” I said.
Davis stood, saying he had to go, but manners made him pause and inquire about my mother. I answered his questions briefly and politely; I know folks don’t like to talk about Alzheimer’s. They act like it’s catching. The niceties completed, he retrieved his son.
“All right, Bradley. Dad’s wasted enough time here. Time to go home.”
And I saw it. For a moment nakedly sharp fear crossed Bradley Foradory’s face. He flinched as his father reached for him. The expression vanished in an instant, replaced by the amiable, empty look Bradley usually wore. He let his father guide him to the counter. Bradley gave me the picture book.
“Thanks, Jordy. That’s a pretty book.” Bradley’s manners are far better than most people’s. “Pretty book.”
Gretchen snatched the book from me as soon as Bradley handed it over. Like I said, his manners are better than most.
“Well, if you want to check it out, you come back by later and we’ll have it all ready,” I offered. He gave me one of his purely happy smiles. He seemed okay. But I felt uneasy as I watched Davis steer Bradley out of the library. Was that boy afraid of his father? A vague apprehension tugged at me as they left.
Gretchen permitted me five blissful seconds of silence before starting. “This book hasn’t been processed, Jordy. You’re not supposed to let anyone have it until it’s processed.” Gretchen would’ve made a great librarian in the Dark Ages, when they chained tomes to shelves to keep them from being stolen. God only knows what vengeance she would have exacted as Bradley’s late fee. Probably she would’ve lopped off his arm and mounted it, book still in hand, above the return desk as a dire warning to all others.
“Gretchen, I’m not in the mood for this. I thought you came in to help, not to lecture me.”
“Well, pardon me, Mr. Lose-the-Taxpayers’-Money,” she huffed. She clutched the book to her blue argyle sweater vest and glared with her steely-gray eyes. “These books don’t grow on trees, you know. That little retard could have wandered off with it or-worse-drooled all over it.”
I glared at her. “I don’t like that word, Gretchen, not one bit. Please don’t use it again in this library.”
She surprised me by looking ashamed. She ran her nail-polished fingers through her short permed gray hair. “I’m sorry. You’re right; Bradley can’t help the way he is. I don’t know the fancy words for his condition, so I call ’em like I see ’em.”
I was still amazed she wasn’t quarreling with me. I softened my tone. “You can say he has a disability without hurting his feelings.” She nodded as though it took an effort. I’d suspected Bob Don had pleaded with her plenty as well. I knew she loved my father, that she wanted to make her marriage work, and that she’d make peace with me for that end. She’d already sobered up-and stayed that way.
I gestured toward the new books. “Since you reminded me-correctly-that the books need processing, go ahead and do the paperwork.”
“Okay, I will,” she said, back to her usual stridency.
“Fine.” I pushed the restock cart toward the shelves. Suddenly, fraught with worries about Junebug wooing Sister, Candace making a go of the cafe, my friend Ed losing his shirt to his female Elvis, having an ill staff, feeling unease over Bradley, and dealing with my favorite volunteer, I had a hell of a headache. If Darwin ended up in the religious section today, I wouldn’t be surprised.
I’d hoped to escape the library for lunch right before noon, but to my eternal regret, I didn’t. Friday at noon is a terror so complete, so utter, and so deep that no adult should have to withstand it.
Friday is Story Day.
The kids start arriving about eleven-thirty. And once they’re inside, their volume controls never seem to get adjusted. Games of tag in the stacks are extremely popular, as are attempts to smuggle in crayons, either for vandalism or for a delicious prelunch snack. The periodical section, usually habituated by the elderly, clears out faster than an after-hours beer joint when the sirens approach. Whoever said old folks crave the company of children needs to come into this library on a Friday and see how spryly these eldsters get away from the little tykes.
Don’t get me wrong. I love children. Well-behaved children. In the “Look What’s New” bin I’m always displaying books on child discipline and the virtues of celibacy. But they just don’t seem to move. I might try personally recommending selected titles to folks who should reconsider adding to their brood in the future.
To my never-ending astonishment, Gretchen lives for Story Day. She wanders among the future embezzlers and spouse cheaters, sweetly cautioning them to “put that down” or “don’t put that in your mouth.” She insists on the little darlings calling her “Aunt Gretchen” and me (shudder) “Uncle Jordan.” It might be easier if a lot of the mothers stayed for Story Day (and several of the sainted ones do), but too many moms see it as the Friday babysitting service and duck out to shop or have lunch or meet some trucker out at the Highway 71 motel (also known as the Mirabeau Mattress) for a little midday epic of their own.
Either Gretchen reads stories to the assembly, or Miss Ludey Murchison does. Miss Ludey’s certifiably insane, in my opinion, but she likes children. And they love her. She’s around eighty and has a wonderful reading voice that is frequently broken by coughing or gasps for air. I’ve tried to break her of her occasional habit of chomping pears while she recites, but she says she needs her vitamins. Fortunately I know both Heimlich and CPR, so our bases are covered.
A huddle of pint-sized literati swarmed around my knees as I worked my way across the room. I’m convinced the large number of children in Mirabeau is a direct result of the town’s limited entertainment options. People really should read more.
“I did a doodie,” a diaper-clad individual of undetermined gender informed me. The speaker straddled my shoe while making this announcement.
I moved my foot back. “How nice.” I smiled encouragingly. “Go tell Aunt Gretchen. I’m sure she’ll be interested.”
The child tottered off, its balance suddenly at risk. Lord give me strength. I honestly didn’t expect the day could go further south. Until, that is, Trey Slocum wheeled himself into my library and I felt the cold hardness of hate enter my heart.
2
When I was a senior at rice university, I went to a friend’s Halloween party. His family was a large, rambunctious Louisiana clan and they’d gone all out, festooning the house with goblins and ghouls and sticky, fake cobwebs. They provided an open bar and a couple of fortune-tellers. My friend’s great-aunt was one of the holiday seers, a drunken old woman who in hindsight was pathetic but at the time seemed terribly amusing. We all must’ve been drunk not to pity her. She was laying out ta-rot cards between generous gulps of red wine, and as she tossed a card toward me it spun flat across the table, whirling a hanged man’s picture. I flicked at the card’s corner, snickering, and made it twirl back across the smooth cherrywood tabletop. The old lady’s hand had lashed out, catching my wrist in a death grip.