Chapter Four
WHICH BIRD SPECIES HAS THE BIGGEST ECOLOGICAL IMPACT ON EARTH? I’D LIKE TO KNOW WHICH SPECIES, ABOVE ALL OTHER BIRDS, WOULD HAVE THE MOST SUBSTANTIAL EFFECT ON OUR PLANET IF THEY ALL SUDDENLY DISAPPEARED.
THANK YOU,
SAMMY
When we get recurrent requests from one patron, we’re supposed to be mindful of ensuring that person doesn’t view us as a de facto personal assistant.
People often expect more than is reasonable from library staff.
We have to set boundaries. Personally, I always try to help.
I give myself up to thirty minutes per question, as long as there are no other patrons waiting, and provided I don’t have something else critical to do.
After scanning through several sources, I learn that eastern barn owls are often named as being very valuable; however, that’s mostly due to economic reasons.
They help keep rodents and other predators that impact crops and spread diseases at bay.
I’m not sure there’s a definitive answer to this question.
It seems you could make a good argument for several species.
Honey buzzards control insect populations. Crows are critical in dispersing seeds.
In cases like this, when the answer isn’t well-defined, I usually recommend resources rather than provide a direct answer.
“Excuse me.” A woman approaches my desk. “I’m looking for a purple book.”
I smile at her. “Of course. Is it a particular purple book you’re after? Or are we looking for any old purple book today?”
“It’s a particular one,” she says. She’s an older woman with a short gray perm.
“All right. I’m happy to help. Can you describe it any further, please?”
I minimize the bird content, pull up the catalog, and turn my monitor toward her.
“It was a romance.” She folds her hands.
“A romance, okay. Do you remember anything else about the cover, or what the story was about?”
“Yes. It was about a young, widowed astronaut who falls in love with an older woman living in an old, dilapidated Tudor house.”
“Sounds interesting,” I say as I use the advanced search to narrow down the results.
“Is it this?” I ask.
There’s a purple book titled Celestial Love on the screen.
“No, I’m afraid not,” she says.
“What about this one?” I point at another, titled Orbiting Ethel.
“That’s it!” She grins. “Is it available?”
I check, then say, “No, I’m sorry, but I can put it on hold for you.”
WE’RE IN THE NEWS.
Brenda emailed me. That’s the subject line of her message. The body says, HEADS UP. WE HAVE THIS ON OUR PLATES NOW. YOU’VE HANDLED THIS WELL SO FAR. THANK YOU. PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF THIS COMES UP AGAIN.
The link isn’t from Declan Turner or Liberty Lately. It’s from a mainstream local newspaper from the closest city to our town. The Pert City Times. I guess they caught wind of the incident. I click it and read:
PORNOGRAPHY IN THE LIbrARY SPARKS OUTRAGE
HICKORY LIbrARY, A SMALL brANCH NORTH OF PERT CITY, HAS COME UNDER FIRE AFTER A MAN WAS SPOTTED WATCHING EXPLICIT PORNOGRAPHY IN PLAIN VIEW ON THE LIbrARY COMPUTERS.
PATRICIA FELLOWS, A CONCERNED LOCAL LIbrARY CUSTOMER, REPORTED THE INCIDENT ON MONDAY, STATING: “I WENT TO THE LIbrARY TO FIND THE NEWEST E. E. FAIRVIEW NOVEL AND WAS SHOCKED AND DISMAYED TO WITNESS A MAN SURFING PORNOGRAPHY. WHAT IF I’D brOUGHT MY GRANDCHILDREN WITH ME?”
FELLOWS WAS DISTURBED TO LEARN THE LIbrARY POLICY ON PORNOGRAPHY ACTUALLY PERMITS THIS BEHAVIOR. RHONDA WHEELER, LIbrARY CEO, SAID, “WE RESPECT OUR PATRONS’ INTELLECTUAL FREEDOM. WE DO NOT CENSOR LEGAL CONTENT AT THE LIbrARY.” WHEELER ALSO NOTED, “THERE ARE PRIVACY SCREENS ON ALL OF OUR COMPUTERS.”
I minimize the news and exhale.
People regularly abandon their children in this library as if this were a day care.
Why isn’t that in the news? I frequently get questions about where the local shelters are, and we’re currently planning programs like “How to Eat on a Budget” to combat the cost-of-living crisis. Where are the headlines about that?
My coworker Patty is roaming the shelves with a preteen girl, collecting books about Greek and Norse mythology.
Mordecai is in our workshop room, working with a crowd of new immigrants on their résumés.
Randall, a regular who comes here almost every day, who I know does not have stable housing, is sitting in a comfortable chair contentedly reading a magazine about woodworking.
Jill went to a senior center this morning to lead a yoga and wellness program that we’ve been told has been “life-changing” for the residents, and our teen volunteer program is so active, we’ve had other branches book meetings with us to copy our approach. Why isn’t any of that newsworthy?
I find it grating when attention is focused on seedy, unconstructive things, while so little focus is put on all that’s good.
“Ben got up early on the days I had eight a.m. classes to put on a pot of coffee for me while I showered,” I tell Dr. Jeong.
“When I was sick, he made me chicken noodle soup, and this drink his mom made him when he was a kid. I don’t know what was in it, but it was neon yellow, and it did seem to help. ”
I came here prepared to say this. I regret how I described Ben in our last session. I cast a bad light on him. I want her to know he wasn’t a terrible guy.
“I appreciate you sharing these positive memories of him with me,” she says. “It’s clear your relationship had moments of kindness and warmth.”
I feel out of breath for some reason. “Yes. It did. And Ben himself was kind. He was very generous. And he loved animals. He talked about wanting to move somewhere with a lawn someday so we could get a dog.”
She’s nodding. “I understand it’s important to you that I know positive things about Ben.”
That sounds like she still thinks he’s a bad person but wants to validate that I don’t.
“He called his grandma weekly,” I add quickly. “And he regularly woke up in the night crying about missing his mom.”
I remember his wet, sobbing face in my neck. His shoulders shaking.
I feel tears form in my eyes. “And he had this infectious laugh. It was really loud. He was generally quiet, so it startled people sometimes. It was this big, booming laugh.”
She hands me tissues. “I’m sorry, Darcy.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” I say as a reflex, immediately realizing it’s strange of me to deflect my therapist’s condolences during our grief consoling session. Muscle memory often makes me deflect people’s apologies.
“Sorry. I mean, thank you,” I correct myself.
I think I’m bad at therapy.
I came home the day I found out Ben had died, and Joy told me my face looked strange. I said, “I know. It’s because I’m dreaming. My face always looks strange in dreams.”
She looked worried. “No, honey, you’re not dreaming.”
I said, “Yes, I am. I read Ben died.”
She said, “What? Are you serious?”
I stood stiff and still like a scarecrow while she wrapped her arms around my torso, engulfed me like a swarm of crows, and said, “I’m so sorry.”
She made us pumpkin soup for dinner that night, but I couldn’t eat it. I kept pinching my arms, trying to wake myself up. When I accepted that I was awake, I thought I must be sick. I felt off. I sat on the tile in front of our toilet, waiting to throw up, but I couldn’t.
I had my fingers down my throat when she knocked on the door to check on me.
I took them out and told her to come in.
When I looked up, she jumped back slightly, like she was startled by my face.
In the moment, I interpreted her alarm as her seeing me differently.
I thought some light had shifted, and she’d realized I was wearing the skin of the person she thought I was, but beneath it I was really monstrous.
Joy’s since told me I looked disturbed. Wide-eyed, tense, and drained, like an abandoned baby tottering out of the wilderness.
Ben weighed on me like this anchor I couldn’t lift.
I blew his life up when I broke up with him.
He’d made plans with me, and I’d jilted him.
Once in a while, I’d look him up on social media, and it never seemed like he was doing well.
I wanted to see a picture of him laughing.
I wanted him to have a new girlfriend, to travel, make new friends, get a job he liked, be happy.
Since then, I’d never heard of him having another girlfriend.
He looked unhealthy. He seemed to drink more.
He had the same friends he had when we were together, and they were grim, smarmy men.
When we were dating, they made constant offhand derogatory comments and smoked weed in excess every day.
A few of them had kids they’d abandoned.
They constantly complained about their child support payments, and their ex-wives, or ex-girlfriends.
After Ben and I ended things, I got messages from some of them.
One asked me to hang out, one called me a bitch, and another asked to borrow twenty dollars.
I felt like I’d abandoned Ben, propelled him into a deep depression, and left him to live a miserable life among miserable men. I’d prioritized my own happiness over his and pushed him into this dark pit, where he ultimately died.
While I was heaving into the toilet, Joy said, “I’m so sorry Ben died.”
I felt this heavy brick in my chest. I put both my hands over my heart and winced. I said, “Oh my God, don’t say that.”
I didn’t want to hear anyone say Ben died.
She was crying. She said, “What can I do? How can I help you?”
I said, “Please double-check that it’s true.”
She found his obituary.
“Did he kill himself?” I asked. I was still on the bathroom floor. I was leaning against our bathtub. My face felt swollen. I couldn’t breathe in through my nose.
I hadn’t read his obituary in full at the library. I just saw his picture and his birthday. He was born July 13.
“It doesn’t say,” she said. “But normally when that happens, they ask for donations for something related to mental health, right? His doesn’t mention anything like that.”