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Jones like footballs. Ten-year-old twins Jake and Josh Richards sat in the corner, furtively drawing breasts on the women in the Illustrated History books.
Seven-year-old Jimmy Tipton, who had been repeatedly warned not to bring juice to the library, was tossing prechewed Gummy Bears through the puppet theater. His mother, who had been warned not to bring Jimmy to the library, was nowhere in sight. I was prepared to let it go. To walk away. It was someone else’s problem. And then I saw Jimmy rip his juice box open and start to pour juice on the carpet. The carpet I’d installed with my own two hands.
“Stop!” I thundered in a voice not my own. It resonated inside my skull, echoing out over the children in waves. I could see everything, every page in every book. Every drop of blood coursing through the children ’s veins. Every drop of Hawaiian Punch dripping onto the carpet. “Stop what you’re doing right now!”
The children froze. Their arms fell to their sides, and they awaited orders. To think of all the time and frustration this could have saved me during Story Hours.
“This is not how I taught you to behave in the library. This is not how I taught you to treat books. I want you to erase every mark. I want you to put everything away,” I intoned. “Everything. Even if you didn’t touch it, put it in its proper place.”
The kids scrambled to do my bidding. Even the kids who didn’t know the Dewey Decimal System, or their alphabet, were shelving books. I handed Jimmy a roll of paper towels from behind the counter.
“Blot,” I told him, and marched into the special collections room.
I was nose-deep in a rare edition of History of Hematology when Mrs. Stubblefield peeked around the corner. I caught her in my peripheral super-vision but deliberately ignored her until she was standing right in front of me. She jumped when I snapped the book shut and offered a sharp, sweet grin.
“Hi, Mrs. Stubblefield!” I chirped, cheerful to the point that it pained me.
She blanched, clearly expecting me to indulge in some sort of Texas Chainsaw Fired Employee Revenge Fantasy.
I stretched out to scan her mind. She put up no resistance, and I was overwhelmed with chaotic images. I saw whimsically tilted stacks of unshelved books left untouched for weeks. Mrs. Stubblefield finding my reminder (written in red Sharpie) on the calendar to call the exterminator for our annual spraying two months after the silverfish invaded. Posey sending out a Story Time flyer with the word “public” spelled without an “l.” Mrs. Stubblefield fruitlessly trying to reset the server when the online card catalog crashed.
“You asked to see me?” she asked as I enjoyed her memory of the library board standing around her desk, demanding to know how she had lost control of the place so quickly. Before I could speak, Mrs. Stubblefield blurted out, “We were hoping you might come back to your position as director of juvenile services. There would be a decrease in pay, of course, and you would have to take on more evening and weekend hours. I would hope that you would take these inconveniences in stride and recognize this offer for the gesture that it is.”
In other words, the library board was telling her to give me my job back, but she wanted my tail tucked between my legs when I returned.
I smirked nastily. “I guess that budget issue cleared itself up, hmm?”
I knew it was mean, but I was sure I’d get a free pass on that one. Mrs. Stubblefield made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
I looked across the hall to the children’s department, a room where I had spent the better part of six years. If you’d asked me as I walked into the library that night whether I wanted my old job back, I probably would have said I ’d jump at the chance.
But it’s true what they say about going home again. Everything about the library seemed so foreign to me now, almost cold. I loved the kids, the patrons, but I didn’t belong at the library anymore. There was nothing for me there. Plus, I didn ’t know whether I could handle rooms full of chattering children with my super hearing.
I smiled. “You know what? No, thanks. I’m doing pretty well. Good luck replacing me, though.”
“Jane, please be reasonable,” Mrs. Stubblefield begged.
“I am being reasonable. I’m not accepting your sad, hobbled excuse for a job offer. The only reason I came here tonight is that I need a signature here,” I said, pushing the form toward her.
Her eyes scanned the top of the form, with “Federal Bureau of Undead Affairs” in huge Arial font. Understanding flicked across her features, and she turned roughly the shade of wallpaper paste. The moth eyebrows shot to her hairline and fluttered there indefinitely. She stared at the canines I was allowing to edge over my bottom lip. My eyes traced the slightly varicose veins along her throat, her collarbone.
I slid a blood-red ink pen across the table for her. “Oh, wait, it says it has to be signed in black. Silly me, what was I thinking?” I gave her a wide smile. “Red just seems to be my favorite color lately.”
Now fidgeting with the gold cross she wore at her throat, Mrs. Stubblefield signed the paper. She carefully avoided touching any part of the paper where she’d seen my hands.
“Thank you.” I let a low, hungry note creep into my voice as I said, “It’s so good to see you, Mrs. Stubblefield. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. I think I may have to come by more often.”>“John, don’t!” she snapped, pushing his arm away. “Don’t take her side!”
“Stop! Please, just stop,” I told her, holding my hands up in my best “I’m not going to attack you” stance. “It’s OK, Daddy.
I’m leaving.”
Daddy shot a bewildered look my way and rose. “We’ll talk soon, honey.”
“’Bye, Daddy.” I stepped close to kiss his cheek and was grateful when he didn’t pull away.
He squeezed my hand and winked at me. “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
