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“Wait, is that your big plan that you’ve been so quiet about the last few months? Have you become a lady of the night? My, my, my, I didn’t think you had it in you!” she tells me with a smile and a nod. “Good for you. If I were fifty years younger, I’d be selling my goods on the street corner to the highest bidder. My goods were all the rage back in the day, and how I landed Mr. Potter, let me tell you. You might find this hard to believe what with my arthritis and all, but I was pretty bendy in my twenties.”
She gives me a wink, and I don’t know whether to laugh at the absurdity of what she’s telling me or throw up in my mouth a little bit.
Mrs. Potter is a seventy-eight-year-old widow who is like a grandmother to me. A grandmother with no filter. I should be used to the things that come out of her mouth by now, but sometimes, she still has the power to shock me. With just one son who moved away years ago when he started his own family, and after her husband of fifty years passed away from a heart attack, Mrs. Potter grew restless being home alone all day every day. She started working at the library a few months after her husband died, the same year I was hired here, nine years ago; as soon as I turned sixteen and my father let me get a part-time job.
Mrs. Potter became a fixture here who everyone in this town enjoys seeing and talking to when they come in. Thank God she didn’t need the money to work here and agreed to stay on as a volunteer. It was bad enough when I was forced with the task of letting the rest of my employees go, as well as using every penny of the small salary I make to purchase books and keep our special programs going. It’s these special programs that help spread the love of reading. Like arts and crafts and story time for children, or our monthly luncheon and book club for the local retirement center. There’s no way I would have been able to continue having hope for this place without Mrs. Potter.
Our small town library is fully funded by the county, and the money we get is based on the economy of the oil industry. We took a major hit last year when the price of oil plummeted, and our budget was cut by 40 percent. There are various state and federal grants we could get to help us, but so far, none I’ve applied for has been approved. They look at our numbers and our small town, and they see that there is a huge, brand-new, fancy branch in the next town over that already gets a lot of grant money, and they don’t see the point in giving anything to us. It’s not fair that they would overlook us just because we’re small and old. I have to get my butt in gear and fast. This library is Mrs. Potter’s entire world now that she’s alone, just like it’s been mine since I was a teenager, working my butt off year after year to make my way up to running this place after my predecessor retired. I refuse to let her down and have this taken from Mrs. Potter as well.
“I’m sorry to say I am not becoming a lady of the night, as you so nicely put it,” I tell her with a small laugh. “Mrs. Potter, have you heard of the Naughty Princess Club?”
Even though Mrs. Potter still uses the Dewey decimal system and refuses to touch the computers, she doesn’t need to know how to search the internet to find out about the home party stripping business we started. Word traveled fast in this small town when Cindy’s fellow PTA members found out what she had been doing on the side to make ends meet, and Mrs. Potter, while a lovely and sweet older woman, is one of the biggest gossips around.
Mrs. Potter’s eyes light up as soon as I mention the business name, and she leans across the counter and lowers her voice, even though the library has been empty for hours.
“Child, I heard about that thing weeks ago. It’s been all the talk at my Monday night knitting club. Half the old farts clutched their pearls and needed smelling salts when they found out about it, and the other half wanted to know if the club was hiring,” she says in a low voice, leaning closer to me. “I’m thinking about sending them my resume. Maybe even have my son take a video with his fancy phone. I can’t exactly swing on a pole, but I’ve been known to bust a few moves with my cane. My grandson even taught me the word yolo last week, even though I don’t have the foggiest idea what it means. But it sure is fun to say!” she whispers excitedly.
